"I am sure you ought to be obliged to me, then," Clare said, flushing

and laughing. "Assuredly I could not have furnished you with a topic

of conversation for a whole week if I had been present."

"Opinion has been divided concerning the mystery of your fate," she

went on. "One party has maintained that, rushing away in desperation

when you heard of Mr. Brent's arrival, you started the next day for

Suez; the other, that you were hanging about the grounds, armed to the

teeth, and only waiting an opportunity to dare your rival to deadly

combat."

"How kind one's friends are, to be sure, especially when they are

in the country, and have nothing in particular with which to amuse

themselves!"

"But what _have_ you been doing? I should like to know, if you do not

object to telling me."

"I have been very busy making my final arrangements for leaving the

country," answered he, stretching a point, it must be owned.

"You are really going, then?" she asked after a minute's silence--a

minute during which she was horribly conscious that her changing

countenance might readily have betrayed to any looker-on how deeply

she felt this unexpected blow.

"I wrote to General ---- on the night I saw you last, accepting his

offer," Clare answered. "Of course I am in duty bound, therefore, to

report in Cairo as soon as possible."

"And you will sell Claremont?"

"I have no alternative."

She said nothing more, but he saw her hand--the same white jeweled

hand that had gleamed on his arm in the starlight--go to her throat

with a quick, convulsive movement. Instead of the thrill of repulsion

which he had felt before, a sudden sense of pity and regret came over

him now. He was not enough of a puppy to feel a certain keen enjoyment

and gratified vanity in the realization of this woman's folly. He

appreciated, on the contrary, how entirely she had been a spoiled

child of fortune all her life--a queen-regnant, to whom all things

must submit themselves--and he felt how bitter must be this first

sharp proof of her own impotence to secure the toy on which she had

set her heart. It was these thoughts which made his voice almost

gentle when he spoke again: "You must not think that I am ungrateful

for your kind interest in my behalf. You can imagine, perhaps, how

much I hate to part with Claremont, which has been the seat of my

family for generations; but when a thing must be done there is no use

in making a moan over it. I cannot sacrifice my life to a tradition

of the past; and that would be what I should do if I clung to the old

place, instead of cutting loose with one sharp stroke and swimming

boldly out to sea."

"But you might stay if you would," said she with that tremulous accent

which the French call "tears in the voice."

"No, I could _not_ stay," said Clare resolutely. "I have no money, nor

any means of making any in America."

This ended the discussion. Even Mrs. Lancaster, fast and daring and

willful as she was, could not say, "_I_ have money--more than I know

what to do with: take it." Her eyes said as much, but Clare did not

look at her eyes. A minute longer passed in embarrassed silence. Then

somebody came up, and Victor was able to walk away. As he crossed the

room he saw Eleanor Milbourne for the first time since his arrival.

He had not even inquired if she was still at The Willows, and her

unexpected appearance, for he had begun to fear that she was gone,

filled him with a rush of feelings of which the first and most

prominent was delight. After all, did it matter whether or not she was

engaged to Marston Brent? Simply to look at her was enough to fill a

man's soul with pleasure, to steep him in that "dewlight of repose"

which only a few rare things on this earth of ours are capable of

inspiring. Did any sane person ever fly from the sight of Venus when

she held her court all alone in the lovely summer heaven, because he

could not possess her magic lustre for his own? The comparison was not

at all highflown to Clare, whatever it may seem to anybody else. He

had always entertained as much hope of winning the star as of winning

the woman; and as for an abstract question of beauty, he would have

held that Venus herself could not have surpassed Eleanor Milbourne.

She was an adorable goddess whom any man might be content to worship

from a distance, he thought; and he was preparing to go and sun

himself in the glance of her eyes, which seemed like bits of heaven in

their blueness and their fairness, when Mrs. Brantley touched his arm

and bade him take a newly-arrived piece of white muslin in to dinner.

Clare looked a little crestfallen, but against the decision of his

hostess on this important subject what civilized man was ever known

to revolt? He took the white muslin in to dinner, and had the

satisfaction of finding himself separated by the length of the table

from Miss Milbourne.

After dinner Mrs. Brantley claimed his attention. It seemed that

there was a plan under discussion for showing the sole lion of the

neighborhood--a hill of considerable eminence known as Farley's

Mount--to the guests of The Willows. But it was distant twelve miles,

What did Major Clare think of their starting early, breaking the ride

by rest and luncheon at Claremont, then going on to the mountain,

making the ascent, and returning by moonlight?

"It will not do at all," said Victor. "Twenty-four miles is too much

to be undertaken on a July day by a mere party of pleasure. You would

break yourselves down and see nothing. I propose an amendment: Take

two days instead of one, and spend a night on the mountain. If

you have never camped on a mountain, the novelty is well worth

experiencing, and these midsummer nights have scarcely any length,

you know. Then the sunrise is magnificent."

"That is exactly what we will do," cried Mrs. Brantley, clapping her

hands with childish glee. And the proposal, being submitted to the

company, was unanimously carried.

Meanwhile, Eleanor Milbourne was walking with Mr. Brent in the soft

summer twilight on the lawn.

"You should not press me so hard," she said as they paced slowly to

and fro. "I fear I can never give you what you desire, but I cannot

tell yet. Grant me a little time."

"A little time! But think how much time you have had!" the gentleman

urged, not without reason. "You said when I went abroad that you were

not sure enough of your heart to accept me then, but that you would

give me a final answer when I returned. You had all the months of my

absence to consider what this answer should be, and when I came for

it, spending not so much as an hour in tarrying on the road, I found

that it was not ready for me--that I had yet longer to wait. Eleanor,

is this kind? is it even just?"

"It is neither," said Eleanor, turning to him with a strange

deprecation on her fair proud face. "I know that you have been

everything that is patient and generous, and I am sorry--oh I am more

than sorry--to have seemed to trifle with you; but what can I do?

Remember that when I decide, it is for my whole life. You cannot doubt

that I will hold fast to my promise when it is once given."

"I do not doubt it, and therefore I desire that promise above all

things."

"But you would not desire the letter without the spirit?" said she

eagerly. "I dare not bind myself--I _dare_ not--until I am certain of

myself."

"But, good Heavens!" said Marston Brent, who, although usually the

most quiet and dignified of human beings, was now fairly driven to

vehemence, "when do you mean to be certain of yourself? Surely you

have had time enough. Can you not love me, Eleanor?" he asked a

little wistfully. "If that is it--if that is the doubt that holds you

back--say so, and let me go. Anything is better than suspense like

this."

But Eleanor was plainly not ready to say that. She stood still for

a moment, then turned to him with a sudden light of resolve in her

eyes. "You are right," she said. "This must end. I may be weak and

foolish, but I have no right to make you suffer for my weakness and

my folly. I pledge myself to tell you to-morrow night whether or not I

can be your wife. You will give me till then, will you not? It is the

last delay I shall ask."

"I wish you would understand that you could not ask anything which I

should not be glad to grant," said he, a little sadly. "For Heaven's

sake, do not think of me as your persecutor--do not force yourself to

answer me at any given time. I can wait."

"You _have_ waited," said she gratefully--"waited too long already.

Do not encourage me in my weakness. Believe that I will tell you

to-morrow night my final decision."

Later in the evening, Victor Clare was leaving the drawing-room as

Miss Milbourne entered it. They came face to face rather unexpectedly,

and while the gentleman fell back, the lady extended her hand.

"Have you stayed away so long that you have forgotten your friends,

Major Clare?" she said with a smile which was bright but rather

tremulous, like a gleam of sunshine on rippling water. "You have not

even said good-evening to me, and yet you have an air as if you had

said good-night to the rest of the company."

"So I have," answered Victor, smiling in turn, partly from the

pleasure of meeting her, partly from the sheer magnetism of her

glance, "but it is no fault of mine that I have not been able to speak

to you: I have found no opportunity."

"But I thought you always said that; people made opportunities when

they desired to do so?"

"Then the time has come for me to retract my assertion. As a general

rule, a man cannot make opportunities: he can only take advantage of

them when they come, as I hope to take advantage of the present," he

added smiling.

"But I thought you were going home?"

"I _was_ going home a minute ago, but so long as you will let me talk

to you I shall stay."

"It is a very small favor to grant," said Eleanor, blushing a little.

"But why were you leaving so early?"

"Partly because I had no hope of seeing you; partly because I am not

a 'young duke' to pencil a line to my steward and know that a princely

collation will be served at noon to-morrow for half a hundred, or even

for a dozen or two people."

"What do you mean?" she asked, for though she caught the allusion to

Disraeli's rose-colored romance, the application puzzled her.

"I see you have not heard of our gypsy plan," he answered, and at once

proceeded to detail it.

She was not so much delighted as he expected, but a pretty, lucid

gleam came into her eyes at the mention of Claremont.

"I shall be glad to see your home," she said quietly. "I have heard so

much of its beauty and its antiquity."

"It is pretty, and it is old," said he, "but it will not be mine much

longer. I am negotiating its sale now."

She started: "What! you were in earnest, then? You are really going to

Egypt?"

"Yes, I am going to Egypt. Why should I stay? What has life to offer

me here save vegetation? There, at least, I can find action."

She looked at him with a strange, wistful expression which struck and

startled him. He felt as if a prisoned soul suddenly sprang up and

gazed at him out of the clear blue depths of her eyes. "Oh what a good

thing it is to be a man!" she said. "How free you are! how able to do

what you please and go where you please--to seek action and to find

it! Oh, Major Clare, you ought to thank God night and day that He did

not make you a woman!"

"I am glad, certainly, that I am a man," said Victor honestly. "But

you are the last woman in the world from whom I should have expected

to hear such rebellious sentiments."

"I am not rebellious," said Eleanor more quietly. "What is the good of

it? All the rebellion in the world could not make me a man; and I have

no fancy to be an unsexed woman. But nobody was ever more weary of

conventional routine, nobody ever longed more for freedom and action

than I do."

It was on the end of Victor's tongue to say, "Then come with me to

Egypt," but he caught himself in time. Was he mad to imagine that "the

beautiful Miss Milbourne"--a woman at whose feet the most desirable

matches of "society" had been laid--would end her brilliant career

by marrying a soldier of fortune, and expatriating herself from her

country and her kindred? He gave a grim sort of smile which Eleanor

did not quite understand, as he said: "Where is your lotos? It ought

to make you more content with the things that be."

"I have it," Eleanor said with child-like simplicity. "Mr. Brent

remembered and brought it to me. I have not forgotten my promise to

share it with you."

"Take it to the mountain to-morrow night, then," said he quickly. "Let

us eat it together there. I should like to link _you_ even with my

farewell to the past."

And, since an interruption came just then, they parted with this

understanding.

The next day Major Clare was standing on the terrace of Claremont--a

stately, solidly-built old house, bearing itself with an air of

conscious pride and disdain of modern frippery, despite certain

significant signs of decay--when his guests arrived in formidable

procession. There was something of the "old school" in his manner of

welcoming them--a grace and courtesy which struck more than one of

them as at once very perfect and very charming.

"The man suits the house, does he not?" said Mrs. Brantley to Mrs.

Lancaster. "It is like a vintage of rare old wine in an old bottle.

We fancy that it has an aroma which it would lose in a new cut-glass

decanter."

"I always thought Major Clare had delightful manners," said Mrs.

Lancaster, who could not trust herself to say anything more. She

felt with a pang how much she would have liked to bring wealth and

prosperity and elegant hospitality back again to the old house, if its

owner had not been so madly blind to his own interest, so absurdly

in love with Eleanor Milbourne's statue-like face, so insanely intent

upon periling life and limb in the service of the viceroy of Egypt.

The pretty widow gave a sigh as she arranged her hair before the

quaint, old-fashioned mirror in the chamber to which the ladies had

been conducted. If he had only been reasonable, how different things

might be! She walked to a window which overlooked the garden with its

formal walks and terraces, its borders of box and summer-houses of

cedar. "He will change his mind before the month is out," she thought.

"A man cannot surrender all the associations of his past and the home

of his fathers without a struggle."

This consideration lost some of its consoling force, however, when,

a few minutes later, two people, walking slowly and evidently talking

earnestly, passed down the vista of one of the garden alleys, and

were lost to sight behind a tall, clipped hedge. Even at that distance

there was no mistaking the figure and bearing of Clare; neither was

there another woman who walked with that free, stately grace in a

riding-habit which Eleanor Milbourne possessed. "If she is engaged to

Marston Brent, he might certainly put an end to such open flirtation

as this," Mrs. Lancaster said between her teeth. "If he were not blind

or mad, he might see that she is so much in love with Victor that she

would go with him to Egypt to-morrow if he asked her to do so."

An old and sensible proverb with which we are all acquainted says that

it is never well to judge others by ourselves; and if Mrs. Lancaster

had possessed the invisible cap of the prince in the fairy-tale, and

had followed the pair who had just passed out of sight, she would have

received an immediate proof of the truth of this aphorism. They had

paused in a square near the heart of the garden--a green, shaded

spot, in the centre of which an empty basin bore witness to a departed

fountain, though no pleasant murmur of water had broken the stillness

for many a long day. Round the margin of this still ran a seat on

which Eleanor sat down. Victor remained standing before her. A lime

tree near by cast a soft, flickering shadow over them, and the tall

hedges of evergreen which enclosed the square made a sombre but

effective background.

"You see that ruin and decay are all that I have to offer you here,"

Victor was saying with a cadence of bitterness in his voice. "But if

you had courage enough to end the life which you despise, to cut loose

from all the ties which bind you in America, and go with me to Egypt,

_there_ I might have a future and a career for you to share--_there_

at least, you would find freedom and action and life."

A flush came to Eleanor's cheek, and a light gleamed suddenly in her

eyes, as if the very wildness of this proposal lent it fascination;

but she shook her head, smiling a little sadly. "You are of my world,"

she said: "you ought to know better than that. I am not so brave as

you think. I must do what is expected of me, and I am expected to

marry Marston Brent."

"Forget the world and come with me."

"That is impossible. If I had only myself to care for, I would; but

there are others of whom I must think." She was silent for a moment,

then looked up at him piteously. "They have sacrificed so much for me

at home," she said, "and they are so proud of me. They hope, desire,

count on this marriage: I cannot disappoint them. Mr. Brent himself

has been most kind and patient, and he does not expect very much. I am

a coward, perhaps, but what can I do?"

Again he said, "You can come with me."

Again she answered, "It is impossible. Do you not see that it is

impossible? Starting forth on a new career, it would be insane for you

to burden yourself with a wife. As for me, I am no more fit to marry a

poor man than to be a housemaid. Victor, it is hopeless. For Heaven's

sake, let us talk of it no longer! The only thing we can do is to

forget that we have ever talked of it at all."

"Will that be easy for you? I confess that nothing on earth could be

harder for me."

"No, it will not be easy, but I shall try with all my strength to do

it. God only knows," putting her hand suddenly to her face, "how I

shall live if I am _not_ able to do it." Then passionately, "Why did

you speak? Why did you make the misery greater by dragging it to the

light, so that we could face it, talk of it, discuss it? Oh why did

you do it?"

"Because I wanted to see if you were not made of braver stuff than

other women," said he almost sternly. "In my maddest hours I never

dreamed of speaking, until--what you said last night. Thinking of that

after I came home, I resolved to give you one opportunity to break

through the artificial trammels of your life, and find the freedom you

professed to desire. It was better to do this, I thought, than to be

tormented all my life by a regret, a doubt, lest I had lost happiness

where one bold stroke might have gained it."

"And now that you have found that I am _not_ brave, that I am like all

the other conventional women of my class, are you not sorry that you

have inflicted useless pain upon yourself?"

"Of myself I do not think at all, and even when I think of you I

cannot regret having spoken. Let the misery be what it will, it is

something to have faced it together--it is everything to know that you

love me, though you refuse to share my life."

"You must not say that," said she, starting and shrinking as if from

a blow. "How can I venture to acknowledge that I love you when I am

going to marry Marston Brent?"

"_Are_ you going to marry him?"

"Have I not told you so?"

He turned from her and took one short, quick turn across the square.

Like every man in his position, he felt outraged and indignant,

without pausing to consider how infinitely more inexorable the laws

of society are with regard to women than to men. _He_ could put

Mrs. Lancaster's fortune aside and go his way--to Egypt or to the

dogs--without anybody crying out against his criminal folly, his

criminal disregard of the duties and traditions of his class. But

if Eleanor Milbourne put Marston Brent's princely fortune aside and

disappointed all her friends, what remained to her but the bitter

condemnation of those friends in particular and of society in general?

When he came back she rose to meet him, making a picture worth

remembering as she stood in her graceful youth and picturesque habit

by the broken fountain, with the sombre cedar hedge behind and the

intense azure of the summer sky above.

"Let us go," she said. "By prolonging this we only give ourselves

useless pain. All is said that can be said. Nothing remains now but to

forget; and that can best be done in silence. Victor, let us go."

There was a tone of pathos, a tone as if she was not quite sure of

herself, in those last words, which made Clare refrain from answering

her. He turned silently, and they entered a green alley which led to

the foot of the terrace surrounding the house. As they walked along,

Marston Brent's figure appeared at the end of the vista, advancing

toward them, and it was this apparition which first made Clare speak:

"If you will not think me fanciful--I am sure you will not think me

presumptuous--promise me that before you give that man his answer

you will share the lotos with me of which you have spoken. I may be

superstitious, but I feel as if we shall gain new strength with which

to face the future after we have together renounced the past."

She shook her head. "I am not superstitious enough to think that it

will enable us to forget one pang," she said. "But if you desire it, I

promise."

When the afternoon shadows were lengthening the party from The Willows

set forth again, and reached the foot of the mountain a little before

sunset, making the ascent in time to see the day-god's last radiance

streaming over the fair, broad expanse of country beneath them. There

was a small cabin on the summit which was to be devoted to the

ladies, and round the camp-fire which was soon sparkling brightly the

gentlemen proposed to spend the night on the blankets with which they

were all plentifully provided. Meanwhile, the party, dividing into

groups and pairs, were soon scattered here and there, perched on the

highest points of rock, enjoying the cool, fresh air which came as a

message of love from the glowing west, and chattering like a chorus of

magpies.

When the evening collation was over--a gypsy-like repast for which

every one seemed to have an excellent appetite--Mr. Brent asked

Eleanor if she would not accompany him to the eastern side of the

mountain to see the moon rise. While she hesitated, uncertain what to

say, Clare's voice spoke quietly at her side. "Miss Milbourne has an

engagement with _me_," he said. "I fear you must defer the pleasure of

admiring the moon in her society for a little while, Mr. Brent." Then

to Eleanor, "Shall we go now?"

She assented, and they walked away. Mr. Brent, thus left behind,

naturally felt aggrieved, and turned to Mrs. Brantley with some slight

irritation stirring his usually courteous repose.

"It strikes me that Major Clare's manners decidedly lack polish," he

said with an air of grave reprehension. "Is it true, as I am told,

that he is going to sell that fine old place where we spent the day,

and emigrate to Egypt?"

"He is quite ready for a lunatic asylum," said Mrs. Lancaster, who

was standing near. "But, whatever his folly may be, I certainly do

not agree with you, Mr. Brent, in thinking that his manners need any

improvement."

Meanwhile, Eleanor was saying, "You should not have spoken so curtly

to Mr. Brent."

"If I can avoid it, I shall never speak to him again," Clare answered.

"Don't let us talk of him. I did not bring you away to discuss anybody

we have left behind, or anything of which we have talked before. We

are to be like immortals--to forget the past and live only in the

present."

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"Round to a point from whence we can overlook Claremont."

She said nothing more, and he led her to the eastern side of the

mountain, where, near the verge of an almost precipitous descent, they

sat down together under the shadow of a great gray rock. From this

point the view was more extensive than any they had commanded before.

The rolling country, with the sunset glory fading from it, lay like

a panorama at their feet--shadowy woods melting into blue distance,

streams glancing here and there into sight, fields rich with

cultivation bounded by fences that looked like a spider's thread.

To the left Claremont, seated above its terraces, made an imposing

landmark. Behind it the moon was rising majestically in a cloudless

sky. After they had been silent for some time, Clare turned and looked

at his companion. "How beautiful you are!" he said abruptly. "I wish

I had a picture of you as you sit there now. It would be worth

everything else in the world to me. But perhaps, after all, the best

pictures are those which are taken on the heart."

"You have forgotten," said Eleanor, trying to smile, "that we are

going to eat the lotos in order to efface all pictures."

"Nay," said he. "I thought it was to enable us to forget everything

but the present, and this _is_ the present."

"But it will be the past in a little while," said she, "and we must

forget it, like all the rest. Victor, we _must_ forget! They say that

all things are possible to resolution: let us resolve to do that."

For some time longer they sat silent. Then Clare said, with something

like a groan, "Would to God I could die here and now, or else that

there _was_ some spell by which one could make memory a blank!"

"Let us try the lotos," said Eleanor. "See, I brought it as you told

me."

From her pocket she drew a paper which, being opened, proved to

contain the dried petals of a flower, evidently an aquatic plant.

Yellow and lifeless as it was, Eleanor looked at it with wistful

reverence. "It came from Egypt," she said: then she added, "where you

are going."

"We will see if there is any magic in it," said Clare.

So, together they took the dried petals and began to eat them, smiling

a little sadly at each other as they did so.

"Herodotus says that when the Nile is full, 'and all the grounds round

it are a perfect sea, there grows a vast quantity of lilies which the

Egyptians call lotos, in the water,'" said Clare. "He adds that this

flower, especially the root of it, is very sweet. If this is the same,

it has certainly changed its flavor since that time."

"It is not disagreeable," said Eleanor. "But I fear we shall not find

the effect for which we have hoped. It is of the lotos fruit that

Homer and Tennyson have written."

"And the lotos flower of mythology is an East Indian, not an Egyptian,

aquatic; but since we desire to link _our_ fancy with the flower of

the Nile, we will ignore the poets and the Brahmins. After all, we

only desire it as a symbol of the renunciation of the past on which

we have agreed. Eleanor, what if we should indeed resolve to leave the

past behind us from this hour, and face our future together?"

He looked at her imploringly and passionately, but instead of replying

she put her hand to her head. "How strangely dizzy I am!" she said.

"Can it--do you think it can be the lotos?"

"Dizzy!" he repeated. "Then I must take you from the edge of this

precipice. Perhaps it is that which affects you. It could not have

been the lotos, or I should feel it too. Come, let me lead you round

the rock."

But when he attempted to rise he found that to him, too, a sudden

strange dizziness came. A constriction seemed gathering about his

heart, a mist seemed rising before his eyes. Before he had half risen

he sank back against the rock.

"Do you feel it too?" she asked quickly.

"Yes," he said slowly, putting his hand also to his head. "What can

it mean? Could there have been anything wrong in that plant? The lotos

itself is harmless, either flower or fruit. Eleanor, my darling!" he

cried with sudden alarm. "Good Heavens! what is the matter? How pale

you look!"

"I--I do not think it could have been the lotos. It must have been

some poisonous plant," said she faintly. "This giddiness and numbness

increase." Then she held out her hands tremulously. "Hold me," she

said. "The earth seems slipping away from me. Oh, Victor, what if it

should be fatal?"

"Do not imagine such a thing," he said. "It is impossible! The plant

has probably some narcotic property which affects you temporarily.

Lean on me until it is over. My God! how mad I was to have suffered

you to eat it!"

"Do not blame yourself," she said, clinging to him, her fair head

drooping heavily on his breast. "It was I who spoke of it--who sent

for it--"

She stopped, gasping a little, and pressing her hand to her heart,

where an iron clutch seemed arresting the circulation. A glance at her

face filled Clare with a terror which he had not felt before. Partly

this, partly his own sensations, told him that the poison of the plant

which they had shared between them _was_ fatal--one of the swift and

terrible agents of death which abound in the East--and a sense too

horrible to be dwelt upon came to him, warning him that aid, to avail

at all, must be summoned quickly.

But how? The summit of the mountain was large, the rest of the party

were far from them. He had purposely led his companion to this remote

spot, where, even if he had been able to raise his voice, there was

none to hear. As for leaving her, he doubted his own ability to walk

ten steps. He felt sure that if he succeeded in gaining his feet he

should reel and fall like a drunken man.

Still, the attempt must be made, and that instantly. Every second

lessened the hope of its success--with every pulse-beat he felt the

awful, reeling numbness increase. How much longer he could retain

his consciousness he could not tell. He saw plainly that Eleanor was

losing hers.

"My darling," he said, striving vainly to unclasp the arms that clung

to him, "I must go--I must call assistance: this may be more serious

than I thought. Try to rouse yourself, Eleanor: I must go!"

Alas! it was easy to say--it was awfully impossible to do. Even when

Eleanor relaxed her already half-unconscious embrace, and he strove

to rise, he found that not even desperation could give the requisite

power. He literally could not gain his feet. Every effort failed: he

sank back hopelessly.

Then he tried to raise his voice in a cry for help, but it refused

to obey his bidding. He was not able to speak above a broken whisper.

Finding this to be the case, he turned in an agony of despair to the

girl beside him--the girl whom, with a last effort, he drew to his

breast.

"Eleanor," he said, "it is hopeless. If this _is_ poison we must die!

Oh, my darling, can you forgive me? O my God, send us help! Eleanor,

can you hear me? Eleanor, will you not speak to me?"

For a minute all was silence. Then the fair head raised itself, and

the lids slowly and heavily lifted from the blue, flower-like eyes.

The moon, which had now risen high in the cloudless July heaven, shone

full on her face as she said, "Kiss me."

For the first time their lips met: when they parted both were cold.

* * * * *

Still clinging together, they were found. At their feet lay a fragment

of the deadly-poisonous Egyptian river-plant which Marston Brent had

ignorantly plucked for a lotos.

CHRISTIAN REID.

ECHO.

FROM THE RUSSIAN OF PUSCHKTN.

Roars there ever a beast in his forest den,

Hear we thunder in heaven, a horn among men,

On the hill sings a maiden now and then,--

Sound what may,

Answer through space thou mak'st again

With small delay.

Aware of the thunder's rattling roll,

Of the winds and the waves when without control,

Of the cries where the village shepherds stroll,

Reply thou giv'st;

Yet thou thyself, without one answering soul,

A poet liv'st.

A.J.

OUR HOME IN THE TYROL.

CHAPTER IX.

Sometimes it was our simple hosts who led the conversation, which

then, especially as they became at ease with us, always drifted more

or less into the supernatural. Nor was this surprising, as the tales,

legends, old manners and customs amongst the Tyrolese are thoroughly

interwoven with threads of heathen mythology and with the occult

belief of the Middle Ages.

[Illustration: VALLEY AND BEEHIVES.]

Franz had a wonderful credence in lucky and unlucky days. Tuesday and

Thursday were witches' days, and Wednesday was also evil, seeing Judas

hanged himself on a Wednesday; therefore never drive cattle to the

Olm on that day. Moreover, he believed that when two persons sneezed

together a soul was loosed from purgatory. As for witches and ghosts,

he knew enough about them too. Did not the witches still dance every

night at eight o'clock on their meeting-place by Bad Scharst? His

brother Jörgel could have told us about that if he would. The pächter

Josef had likewise experiences which he might relate were he not so

shy. "Josef was returning through the Reinwald one Thursday night, and

had just crossed over the Giessbach when he met a black figure, whom

he greeted in God's name; but the figure moved on, making no answer as

a Christian would have done. He had not gone much farther up the wood

when he met a second black form. Crossing himself, Josef spoke out

boldly a 'God greet you!' but again silence. The figure had vanished.

Josef crossed himself and prayed. Nevertheless, he met a third, and,

waxing bold, not only greeted him, but turning round looked fixedly

at the black figure to see whether it were sorcerer, gypsy, ghost or

witch. And there, behold! it stood, grown as tall as a tree, grinning

at Josef until he thought it best to escape. Next day the black cow

went dry: otherwise you might say that Josef's hobgoblins were fir

trees."

Whilst Jakob laughed at Josef's phantoms, he could not help telling

us in his turn a tale which he considered much more noteworthy: "There

was no denying that one winter's night a huntsman, losing himself in

the deep snow, took refuge in a forsaken senner-hut. Content to suffer

hunger if only thus sheltered for the night, he was shortly surprised

by the entrance of a black man, who not only welcomed him to the

hut, but proposed cooking him some supper; an offer most thankfully

accepted. Upon this, the black man lighted a fire, suddenly produced

a frying-pan, which had been invisible before, and began cooking

strauben and cream pancakes from equally hidden stores. When supper

was ready the huntsman begged the good-natured black cook to sit down

and eat with him; and a very hearty meal he seemed to make, although,

to the surprise of the huntsman, the food turned as black as a cinder

before it entered his mouth. Both men lay down to rest; and after a

comfortable sleep the hunter, rising up to go, thanked the black man

for his kind hospitality, adding, 'May God reward you!' 'Oh,' replied

the other, uttering a great sigh of relief, 'may God in His mercy

equally reward you for those words! When I walked on the earth I

laughed at religion: I was therefore sent back in the spirit to toil

until some mortal should thank me in God's name for what I had done

for him. This you have done, and now I am free;' and so saying he

vanished."

"Yes," said Moidel, "these tales are as true as the gospel. You know

Nanni, the maid who sings so sweetly? Her father some years since went

on a pilgrimage with two other peasants to Maria Zell. Arriving

late one night at a solitary farm-house, they rapped at the door,

requesting a lodging. The bauer, however, excused himself: it was from

no evil intention, he said, but he could not take strangers in. The

three wanderers pleaded how ill would be their condition if left in

the fields all night. Still the bauer made no other reply, until, on

their pressing him, he finally declared, half in anger, that they must

themselves be responsible for their night's rest. He wished to treat

them well, but could offer them no better bed than the top of the oven

in the stube. This offer they willingly accepted, but hardly had

they lain down when a peasant-woman entered with a pail of water and

brushes. In spite of their entreaties, she scrubbed and scrubbed away

all night, and hardly had she finished when, the work not pleasing

her, she began scrubbing the floor and woodwork over again. Thus the

cleaning lasted the livelong night, until in the early morning the

maid-servant entered and the woman disappeared; the floor and walls

being, to their astonishment, as dry and dusty as the evening before.

Whereupon they spoke to the bauer of their troublesome visitor.

'Do not accuse me,' he replied 'of inhospitality: this is a strange

matter, from which I would fain have kept you. Intolerable as it has

been to you, it is still worse for me, knowing that the woman who thus

scrubs, and with so much din, is my poor dead wife. Her brain, when

she was alive, was quite turned about cleaning. She could not even go

to church with me and the neighbors, but must stay at home and clean.

So, being a bad manager, and not washing her soul white, she seems

unfit for heaven, and must needs come here every night to continue her

work. Even masses don't seem to help her.'"

Such tales were either related by the hut-fire on airy mountain or in

the fir woods. Moidel might have told us ghost-stories in the barn at

night, but there, in the solitary darkness, they appeared to her too

horribly real, especially with sleepy auditors, who might any moment

drop into unconsciousness, leaving her in a dismal fright over her own

tale.

One afternoon, accompanied by this faithful companion, we determined

to attack the summit of the mountain, which in a mantle of fir wood

rose immediately behind the huts. We were anxious to see what lay on

the other side, but after a hard though exhilarating climb we learned

that the mountain was but a huge overhanging shoulder, the rocky head

of the giant rising up in the midst of wide sweeping moors some six

miles distant. We changed, therefore, the object of our excursion,

determining to visit the highest Olm of the district, Ober Kofel.

Turning to the left, we pursued the moorland plateau until in half

an hour we had reached a solitary white cabin. The door was firmly

closed, but a pile of fire-wood and a rake, evidently flung recently

down, were sufficient signs of habitation. A more lonely scene could

not well be conceived. No trees nor flowers, only some yellow thistles

growing by the side of a murmuring brook, which had persistently gone

rushing on until it had worn the pebbles in its bed flat and thin.

Tawny, dun-colored mountains rose behind, but before the hut the

_trät_ or open space, covered with the greenest turf, extended to

a platform of rocks, where the glossy shrubs of the mountain

rhododendron grew, presenting a scene well worth the climb. The view

outward embraced the deep wooded gorge of the Giessbach, revealing far

beyond the black, sinuous lines of distant mountains, cutting across

the evening horizon. Black-brown crags some eight thousand feet high,

peaked with snow, rose to the right; but the great snow spectacle was

to the left. There the proud crests of the Hoch Gall, Wild Gall and

Schnebige Nock rose out of a vast white glittering amphitheatre, a

peculiar, bare, conical rock standing like an Alpine sphinx strangely

forth from this desert of snow.

We sat on our verdant patch enjoying the wild, grand scenery, the wind

playing around us in concert with a little calf which had just been

promoted to a bell. At length the figure of a tall young man flitted

in front of a distant cross, and advancing toward us proved to be the

solitary senner of Ober Kofel. As he was the lord of the domain, and

moreover acquainted with Moidel, it was not many minutes ere he sat

on the grass before us. After giving us a welcome, he began talking

to Moidel about the military exercises which were to begin again this

week.

"The Ausserkofers," he said, "went down for the drilling immediately

after their ascent of the Wild Gall: I am glad I was not drawn."

Then Moidel communicated to him that Jakob must leave on the morrow

for drill, and that Tilemaker Martin, Carpenter Barthel's son, would

arrive in the morning to take his place as herdsman.

The party now dropped into a dignified silence, which might have

lasted as long as we had remained had it not appeared pleasanter to

keep the senner intent on a story, rather than on each feature of our

several faces.

Speaking proper German, also proving to be understood by him, one

of the group began: "Of course you have heard of the clever Tyrolese

peasant, still living, Hans Jakob Fetz?"

Neither he nor Moidel had ever heard of him, and as they both pricked

up their ears, they learned the following: Fetz possesses a little

farm called the Pines. It has, however, the disadvantage of lying

on both sides of a wild rushing torrent, the Ache, a river given to

inundations in the spring, and over which there is no bridge in his

neighborhood. Thus, though Hans Jakob could sit at his door, and

almost count the ears of corn in his fields across the river, he must

make a circuit of five miles to reach them. Such an immense loss of

time and labor troubled him no little, and, as he had no desire to

sell his property, he determined by hook or by crook to remedy the

evil. Day and night he turned the perplexing problem over in his mind.

He might, to be sure, swim across, but then there were his tools to be

carried. At last it flashed upon him: Why not make an aërial car? He

bought for this purpose some very thick iron wire, stretched it in two

parallel lines across the river, fastening the four ends very firmly;

constructed a bench on iron rollers, which, sustained by the wire, ran

across the river in a trice, and his aërial car was a reality. Here,

indeed, was a triumph. It worked admirably, and the whole neighborhood

became excited and astonished about the air-railway, as they called

it. The news spreading, it brought finally some gentlemen from the

town of Dornbirn, who were wild to have a ride across the river. Hans

Jakob refused it: he doubted the strength being sufficient for more

than one passenger; but they persisting in their urgent demand, he at

last reluctantly consented. They would not, or else they could not,

go without him. So, the party being seated on the bench, he unfastened

the hook, when they should have been instantly whirled across. But,

alas! his fears proved true: the wire gave way, and down they

all went, plump into the wild rushing river. A great fright and

wetting--that was all, for the time being, until the gentlemen,

although they had promised not to say a word on the subject, having

whispered it to this friend and that, leaving no part uncolored, the

town of Dornbirn grew scandalized at a mad peasant's audacity. The

authorities took it in hand, and a solemn gendarme visited Hans Jakob

with strict orders from government to desist from such perilous,

hairbreadth inventions for the future. Poor Hans! he now regarded

himself not only as the laughing-stock of the whole country, but as

a ruined man. He had spent all his savings on his first venture; but

neither official reprimand nor loss of his money could keep his

busy, active brain from puzzling out an improved plan, which, having

perfected it in his mind, he boldly carried out. Instead of two simple

iron wires, he employed two double coils, with a single wire in the

centre and six feet higher. He stretched across two other strong

parallel wires. He then contrived a little car with two seats and a

cover against sun and rain. To the benches and the awning he fastened

rollers, so that the car was propelled across both above and below.

The weight which it would bear he proved to be fifteen hundredweight,

and unfastened from the iron hooks which kept it to the bank, the car

ran across in a few seconds with an easy, agreeable motion. Practice

and a close investigation proved it now a perfect success. All the

censures and ridicule were forgotten, and it proves at the present

time both convenient and amusing to the gentlemen, ladies and children

of the neighborhood. Hans Jakob willingly conveys them across the

river in his flying car. He will, however, receive no fixed payment.

He constructed it simply for his own use: were he to make a trade of

it, he must either take out a patent, or else make some concessions to

government, neither of which he has any inclination to do.

The senner and Moidel listened in astonishment. They had understood

every word. Although they had never heard of Hans Jakob before, there

was a full account of him in the Brixen calendar, an almanac which the

senner owned to having had by him for the last eight months--another

noticeable instance how tales and good advice in print are lost upon

a people who, hitherto quietly slumbering, find for their hearts and

minds enough to do in carrying on their slow agriculture and pattering

their prayers. I believe that popular lecturers conversant with the

dialect would be of infinite service in the rural districts of the

Tyrol.

The senner, after this entertainment, offered us the hospitality of

his hut. A lordly bowl of intensely rich cream was placed before us

in the sleeping-room, with the sole option of lapping like the men of

Gideon, seeing we were not sufficiently naturalized for each to carry

a horn spoon in her pocket, had not a little tin drinking mug been

fortunately remembered.

The next day the young tilemaker Martin, carrying his bundle, arrived

at about nine. He had left the Hof at three that morning, making

the whole journey of twenty-four miles on foot without a stop. Franz

therefore seized hold of the frying-pan, and we dined an hour earlier

than the usual time of ten. After coffee, Jakob had to initiate his

successor into the various advantages of the several Alpine pastures,

to point out the cattle and goat paths, and to introduce Martin to

Kohli, Kraunsi, Blasi, Zottel, Nageli and all the other cows, as well

as to Tiger, Schweiz and their fellow-oxen. We set out to accompany

them, but the cattle were too far away on distant heights for us to

continue long in the scramble. We therefore sat on a breezy mountain

platform watching the athletic young men grow ever smaller, more

indistinct, whilst Jakob's voice was borne to us on the rarefied air

as he called lovingly, "Krudeli, Krudeli" to the calves, and "Köss,

Köss" to the cows.

"It is a miracle," said Moidel, "how Martin, who was so weak and

consumed away by his accident, should thus have recovered."

"What accident?" asked we.

"Why, does not the Herrschaft know how last November, on his very

name-day, Martin was nearly killed? Young Niederberg--he who wears

the finest carnations on his hat, but who then, it being cold weather,

wore three cock's feathers gained in wrestling-matches--strutted

down the Edelsheim street, arm in arm with his great friend, the

fair-haired Hansel of Heinwiese, a rude young churl, praising each

other for their strength of limb and good looks. Martin at the time

was leaning against his father's door. 'The devil!' said Niederberg:

'why do you stay at your father's, when there is better wine and

company at the Blauen Bock?' Martin, however, replied that he was a

hard-working man, who could only spare time to see his old father and

sick sister on a festival. 'No,' said Heinwiese in anger, 'thou art

nothing but a miserable milk-sop, never at a wrestling-match, never

at a dance.' 'But,' put in Niederberg, 'we'll teach thee to dance

and sing;' and so saying, he suddenly plunged the blade of his big

pocket-knife below Martin's ribs.

"Why he had become their prey none could tell, unless they were lost

in drink. Great was the clamor in the usually quiet village. A doctor

was sent for, who at first declared Martin's wound to be mortal. Then

his young wife and little children were fetched with many tears from

the tileyard, and the priest came with the Holy Death Sacrament. But

the prayers and viaticum saved Martin. Still, for many months he had

a frightful illness, and even in March he was so weak you could have

knocked him down with a feather. Niederberg was immediately taken into

custody, and was sentenced to sit in Bruneck Castle till St. John the

Baptist's Day, fully six months, to pay the doctor's bill, and two

hundred gulden to Martin; but the latter sum, being an evil-minded

youth, though rich, he has never paid. He will leave that to

Heinwiese, he says, who put him up to the deed: besides, why pay a man

who had recovered? He would have stood the funeral and settled with

the widow. However, father talks of dealing with Niederberg, for he

must not thus despoil patient Martin."

Here, indeed, was a stabbing worthy of hot Italy, rather than cooler,

quieter Tyrol. It proved, too, that the serpent and old Adam still

moved in that garden of Eden, Edelsheim.

Jakob and the hero of the tragedy now returned, bright and brisk,

bearing armfuls of edelweiss, long sprays of stag-horn's moss, and

showing us with genuine pleasure roots of the edelraute, which they

had gathered on the high ledges for us. This is a little insignificant

plant, but called by the Tyrolese the noble rue, and prized by them

far more than the edelweiss; perhaps one reason being that when dried

it is said to emit a delicious scent, for which reason the housewives

place it amongst linen. Jakob looked like a mountain dryad, his

broad-brimmed beaver being completely covered with purple Michaelmas

daisies, glowing amongst sheaves of silvery edelweiss, falling round

in a soft gray woolen fringe. Aided by Jakob and Martin, we had the

gratification of gathering edelweiss ourselves, always a notable feat.

Martin really had most miraculously recovered. After those twenty-four

miles of hard walking, followed by a climb of several thousand feet,

we left him felling a pine tree as we bade Jakob adieu, for he was to

leave very early in the morning.

A comical scene ensued after our return to the barn. Visitors of

course we had none: Martin's arrival had been an immense event. Thus,

as we sat in the barn partaking of hot wine and cake, great masses

of shadow all around, with light breaking in only from the lantern,

forming altogether a perfect Rembrandt effect, we heard a cheerful

voice wishing us "Good-night and sweet repose" through the door.

Immediately, believing it to be the pächter's moidel, a young lady

usually engaged in cutting hay, one of the party rashly invited the

voice to enter--an invitation instantly accepted in the most perfect

good faith by either a mad woman or a tramp in a big, flapping straw

hat, who seated herself in the golden light of the lantern, adding

perhaps to the breadth and freedom of this Rembrandt picture, but

certainly not to its ease. Ravenously consuming some cake, she

attacked us with a continuous battery of God bless yous! Moidel,

however, was up to the occasion, and it was not long ere she managed

to get the unacceptable visitor outside the door, we begging her

to bolt and bar it well, for after this call we were afraid of more

lurking intruders. Moidel, however, bade us have no fears. The

woman was neither cracked nor a Welscher: she was only a very poor

_Bachernthalerin_, whose hut was generally under water. It was

accessible now, however, and the poor soul had been round begging milk

at the senner-huts.

CHAPTER X.

Life in the mountains was not half so ideal as we once foolishly

might have imagined. Still, the visit thither had surpassed our

expectations, and it was with no little regret that we bade farewell

to the familiar barn the following morning. We settled a bill with the

pächter at parting, including the dinner given to the knowing Ignaz.

It amounted to the sum of one gulden. Who would not stay up at an Olm?

Again we gave the day to the ten-mile walk, now a steep but pleasant

descent, choosing the village of Rein as our first halting-place. It

was still early, a lovely autumn morning, the mountains rising in all

their impressive majesty, but for a time all our powers of admiration

and enjoyment were suddenly marred by the sight of meek sheep led to

the shambles at the very window.

We would have hurried on, if we could, without stopping, but we had

rashly promised to write our names in the important visitors' book,

besides paying a small bill for wine. The landlord could not at all

perceive why, as meat had to be eaten, any one could object to a

preliminary exhibition, especially when the butcher could only make

his rounds at stated times, and it was so convenient by the kitchen

door. Indeed, so deadened in delicate perceptions were these people

that the landlord observing a rare plant in one of our hands, he

actually called the butcher in to tell us its name. The man, having

at that moment ended his first stroke of business, came in red-handed,

and proved a botanist. It was a _Woodsia hyperborea_--that was the

Latin name--and was rare in those parts, he said; but the Herrschaft

should come earlier for flowers. July was the month. Then there was

geum, and pale blue-fringed campanulas, and rich lilac asters, yellow

violets, the white scented wax-flower, arnica and yellow aconite, both

excellent medicines; there were thunder-flowers, and blood-drops, and

grass of Parnassus, and hundreds more, all cut down by the scythes.

There were four thousand plants and upward in the Tyrol; only, alas!

like the gentians, many species were being perfectly exterminated.

His energy interested us, and his hands were under the table. Frau

Anna expressed great disappointment at the various beautiful gentians,

common in Switzerland, being rare in the Tyrol.

"Ladies," replied the botanist with emphasis, "you know not the

reason? Why, there is hardly a species of gentian which is not torn

up by the roots for the making of schnapps. Schnapps is good when

rheumatism works in the bones: there is then no better lotion; and

a thimbleful of cheerfulness in the morning, and another of sleep at

night, are what I wish for our wirth, myself and every peasant daily;

but why need they pull up all the gentians, which were bits of heaven

scattered over the mountain-sides? I know that their roots are better

for schnapps distilling than those of other plants, or even than

bilberries or cranberries; but oh for a little moderation, cutting the

roots gently! for whilst a bit is left in the ground the plant springs

up again. 'Poor as a root-grubber' is the proverb. I'm glad it is.

For if they were not so wanton, they would not be so poor. They mostly

come from the Zillerthal. It's a special trade. The men climb the

mountains as soon as the snow melts. They build themselves rude huts,

and spend the summer searching for and digging up roots. Now, however,

as they have cut their own throats, so to speak, they must climb often

to high mountain-ledges, letting themselves down by ropes, to gather

fine roots, which they still sometimes find of the thickness of my

wrist. In the late autumn they collect their bundles of dried gentian

roots, which they carry to the distilling vats, where the _Enzian_, so

dear to the Tyroler, is made."

[Illustration: COWS COMING DOWN THE HILLSIDE BY A MOUNTAIN STREAM.]

And the butcher, who had grown quite pathetic over the gentians, rose

to return to his occupation. It was curious to observe the honorable

position which he held with landlord, landlady and Moidel. What a

surgeon or soldier would be in a higher class, that the butcher was

to them. In this case, too, we joined in respect--a feeling we might

entertain for many more of his trade, perhaps, had we the opportunity

of judging. But we must onward.

Ere long a young woman wearing a pointed black felt hat, ornamented

with yellow everlastings, overtook us and joined company with Moidel,

giving us, however, equally the benefit of her conversation, whilst

she insisted upon carrying a bag. She lived in Rein, she told us, and

had now to consult the doctor in Taufers a second time about perpetual

stitching pains in her throat. The doctor said it was quinsy, and

arose from cold. Perhaps, she said, if she could bring herself to

smoke a meerschaum, like other women in Rein, she might keep the

mischief out; but it struck her as a disgrace to a female, and it made

a great hole in the pocket. Those who were born in such a village

as Rein were in an evil plight. The cottages were badly built, the

kitchens reeked with smoke, and were so bitterly cold in winter,

though the fowls had to roost there, that water froze in them. In

fact, no one could stay in the kitchen in winter. Then all the family

must crowd into the stube, living and sleeping there. When Nanni

Muckhaus had the typhus she and her children and grandchildren must

lie down together; and then all the neighbors had to visit her, unless

they chose to pass as brutes; and so that was how the typhus spread.

Fortunately, her husband and she were alone: they had no burdens.

Still, life was hard--a vale of tears or a vale of snow. If the gentry

could see the Reinthal in the winter, choked up with avalanches, they

would say so. Her man had, however, enough to keep them. He had a

license for the shooting of gemsen and other game, which he might use

from holy Jakobi's Day to Candlemas. He had this year killed only

five gemsen so far. The Post at Taufers was greedy for gemsen now,

and bought up every ounce of the flesh at nineteen kreuzers the

pound--bought snow-hens, too, at forty kreuzers each, and would never

let her husband's gun be idle. When Candlemas came, and he could no

longer shoot, then he worked in their fields; for we might not think

it, but he, being a thrifty soul, had saved fifty gulden and bought

some land. But oh the labors, the toils to which a Reinthaler was

subjected! If his land lay on the mountain-side, he and his woman must

slave and toil like beasts of burden, for what would be the help of

horse or cow for riding, driving or ploughing on such steep, upright

land? "The holy watch-angels help us!" she said. "Look up there and

you will see, ladies, the truth of what I tell you."

Pointing with her finger, she drew our attention to the small figure

of a man working upon a dizzy height some three thousand feet above

us, his legs, like a pair of compasses, comically revealing a triangle

of blue sky between them, whilst we with difficulty made out the

figures of two women helping him.

"That's Seppl Mahlgruben and his daughters cutting down their green

oats, too tardy to ripen. Some years since Moidel, the eldest girl,

working on that precise point, knelt one inch too far over the

precipice and was hurled into eternity, where a better fortune, I pray

God, awaited her than the cruel trials of Reinthal."

Moidel told us afterward that she thought our informant took too

gloomy a view, probably occasioned by "her stitching pains." Still,

she owned to its being a toilsome, perilous life in every season of

the year save summer.

In a broad sylvan meadow at the end of the narrow defile, within sound

of the chief waterfall, we had the joy of seeing again the rest of our

party, who had made an afternoon excursion thither to meet us. At a

quiet, rural little inn just below, with an outside gallery possessing

a view of the still, deep gorge in front and softer meadows beyond,

kind hearts had already ordered coffee and rolls for nine. All were

unanimous, however, that the ample supply was sufficient for ten,

and the good woman of Rein was pressed to enter and partake. This she

gratefully declined, adding, however, that it would be friendly and

helpful of us to allow her to drink a cup of coffee there at six in

morning on her return journey to Rein. Not that she had expected the

least attention to be offered her, and hoped that it was not intended

as a different mode of payment for her carrying a lady's handbag.

Although we had felt that one good turn deserved another, we made her

mind easy on that score, and she went tripping forward.

For us there was still no hurry. The evening sky was brilliantly

clear, the mountain-summits and dark fir woods shone forth a burnished

gold, so that it seemed almost a sin to dive into the deep shadows of

the valley below. Besides, the inn possessed some beehive sheds, and

a view beyond which must not escape the pencil of the artists, who

busily sketched whilst the others rested, enjoying the great crimson

bars of sunset drawn across the dewy valley to the rippling sound of a

mad, merry little mill-brook.

How much sympathy and respect has been afforded in all ages and climes

to those serviceable creatures, bees!

The little citizens create,

And waxen cities build.

Unlike Virgil, the good Tyrolese, however, would call them monks

and nuns dwelling in cells, rather than "citizens." Formerly they

delighted in erecting the most ornamental dwellings which they could

devise for them, helping them in their constant toil by planting balmy

thyme and other sweet honey-yielding flowers around the hives. These

were constructed of wood, gayly painted with holy monograms and

devices to add a blessing and security to the provident labors of the

little inmates. They were, in fact, _beatified bees_, who had to be

solemnly invited to attend the death mass when the owner died, else

they would fly away, refusing to stay. If a swarm of bees hung to a

house, it was simply as a warning that fire would break out there.

The beehives at this little inn still stood fresh, compact, with

flowers blooming around them, the kindly woman evidently taking great

pride in her bees. This, however, is not always the case. The grand

beehives, like the grand old halls and castles of the Tyrol, are

falling into decay: in both instances the paintings on the walls are

peeling off or growing indistinct; the present generation has either

lost its love for honey or much of its reverence for the bees--a fact

difficult to define amongst a people with almost credulous veneration

and intense belief in old customs. Still, much of the freshness and

simplicity of the peasants is passing away with the discarding of

their picturesque costumes.

As a certain endurable routine had been arrived at within the walls

of the Elephant, we agreed, before retiring to rest, to remain still

several days there, availing ourselves of the splendid weather to

explore more thoroughly the beautiful, varied neighborhood of Taufers.

But, alas! the clear brilliant air and the deep rosy sunset had

deceived us. The next morning mists and clouds obstructed the

view, finally dissolving into a pitiless downfall, that detained us

prisoners in the house, which was silent as the grave but for the rain

steadily pattering against the casements.

Weary of the wet and without occupation, our disengaged minds,

wandering out into the mist and rain, dreamily contemplated a slow

band of pilgrims defiling along the distant hillside. Had the day

been bright and clear, we should have seen them as sheaves of corn or

clover stuck to dry upon light stakes with branching arms, the upper

bundle being placed aslant to act as shelter to the rest. As it was,

however, in the plashing rain it required no effort to believe them

tired, defenceless pilgrims ever wandering on. Some despondingly beat

their arms upon their breasts, others, heavy and exhausted, fell upon

their knees; here a woman defended her infant from the biting blast,

there an old man with rugged hair looked mournfully backward; but

these were only a few amongst the endless figures of the tragic band,

on a long, unceasing march.

Everywhere in the Tyrol, especially in the gloaming, whether in Alpine

meadow or arable land of the valley, such weird companies may be seen.

Bands of Indians, societies of cowled monks, ancient Italians fleeing

from a buried city, wandering Israelites,--such and many others are

the shapes which these drying sheaves of corn, hay or clover assume,

all combining to act as one vast funeral procession of the summer that

is no more.

[Illustration: A PROCESSION.]

In the afternoon a different company from these natural objects in the

distance came to occupy our minds for the time being. Gradually the up

stairs sitting-room, which we had foolishly perhaps imagined reserved

for our party of nine, became invaded by priests in long coats down

to their heels and muddy top-boots. We, the new-comers from the

mountains, now learnt that this was the daily occurrence, and really

the most unpleasant feature of the house, where the landlord and

landlady remained as sleepy and unimpressionable as ever. We were

soon, in fact, obliged to vacate the room, driven out not only by

the fumes of bad tobacco, but by the unsatisfactory stare which

was leveled at each intruder. The kellnerin, generally a slow,

incommunicative mortal, now passed, from cellar to sitting-room in a

flutter of excitement, her tongue, otherwise dormant, moving like a

mill-clapper in the enlivening society of her spiritual fathers. These

were the shepherds of the different adjoining parishes, whose custom

it was to derive mental and corporeal comfort in sipping their acid

wine and smoking their cheap tobacco in company. There might not have

been any great harm in it, but nevertheless it seemed an apparent

falling away from the singularly bright example which a good man, born

only ten minutes from the Elephant, in the village of Mühlen, had once

set them.

The priest Michael Feichter, at his death in 1832 the head of the

clerical seminary at Brixen, became for a time, through his extreme

goodness and grace, the unseen regenerator of the Church in the Tyrol.

A simple, guileless man, with intense love and cheerfulness, he acted

as if God his friend were ever by his side. The entire Bible, which he

had chiefly studied on his knees, he knew literally by heart. Birds,

flowers and stones gave him subjects for stirring sermons, and his

evening conversations with his pupils were fraught with the most

beneficent consequences through his intense sympathy and the power he

unwittingly possessed of diving deep into the conscience. Sorrows were

met invariably by him with a cheerful "Dominus providebit" or "parcat

Deus." Cheating and deceit pained him greatly, and he therefore

rejoiced to become acquainted with honest Jews, conscientious

officials and religious soldiers. Thoughts of wealth and station never

troubled him. He walked like a child through the world. When unable to

wear his scholastic gown he moved about, his serene face beaming with

cheerful urbanity from under the shadow of a broad-brimmed cocked hat,

his pride and delight, as it spared him both sunshade and umbrella.

His old coat of an antique cut still bore on the under side of a flap

the dyer's mark. His waistcoat and stockings were of black knitted

wool. On festive occasions, however, he fastened to the back of

his coat collar a fluttering band denoting his doctorate. There was

something humorous in his appearance: he knew it and laughed at it,

and yet, says one of his pupils, "though we joined in the laugh, his

whole person and demeanor touched us deeply: we knew that he was not

of this world."

Was it strange that we felt a great discrepancy between the memory of

this guileless man and some of the self-indulgent priests, once his

pupils, in the upper stube?

The next day, the rain promising still to detain us prisoners, Moidel,

fearing that her important services must be missed at the Hof, bravely

defied wet and mud and tramped resolutely home. In the afternoon,

utterly tired out, we too determined to shift our quarters to

Edelsheim, and, engaging a large jolting vehicle, were borne through

mire, rain and mist from the Elephant to the Hof.

Long before we reached the door we saw cheerful lights gleaming from

the long rows of windows. Anton, Moidel, the aunt, Uncle Johann were

at the door to receive us and our belongings. They felt sure, somehow,

that we should come.

The floors of our rooms had been scrubbed white as snow in our

absence, but we must not hesitate to enter with our damp shoes. Were

not the rooms our own? Letters and newspapers were carefully laid

according to their various directions, and with flowers and dainty

dishes covered the supper-table. Moro, the good house-dog, stood by

our chairs or caressed the hand of his favorite, E----. We felt that

we had come home--to our home in the Tyrol.

MARGARET HOWITT.

[TO BE CONTINUED]

COLORADO AND THE SOUTH PARK.

On the 15th of August, 1871, two brothers and a sister--Sepia, an

artist, Levell, an engineer, and Scribe, who is the narrator--left

Chicago by the North-western Railroad, bound for Denver in Colorado,

about eleven hundred miles west. The first day we were climbing the

gradual ascent from the Lakes to the Mississippi, which we crossed

at 4.30 P.M., at Clinton. The thirty years which had elapsed since I

first traversed this region had changed it from wild, unbroken

prairie to a well-cultivated country, full of corn-fields, cattle and

flourishing towns. Then I traveled in a wagon four miles an hour,

and had to find my own meat in the shape of a deer from the grove, a

grouse from the prairie or a duck from the river. Now we rushed across

the State in six hours, stopping fifteen minutes for dinner in a fine

brick hotel, metropolitan in charges, if not in fare. In 1840, when

we arrived at the great river, we waited two or three hours for the

ferry-boat, and finally had to cross in a "dug-out," which seemed but

a frail vessel to stem the rapid currents and whirling eddies of the

Mississippi. Now we crossed upon a railroad bridge of iron, which cost

more money than all Iowa contained in 1840. Still, I fancy that the

first method of traveling was the more interesting.

Through the still summer afternoon we rushed on over the rolling

prairies of Iowa, dotted with towns and villages and covered with

great corn- and wheat-farms. Here in 1840 was absolute wilderness:

we made our hunting-camp seventy-five miles west of the river, and

we were twenty miles away from any white settler. Wolves howled and

panthers screamed around our camp, we lived upon elk and deer meat,

and our only visitors in two weeks were some Sac and Fox Indians, who

disapproved of our intrusion upon their hunting-grounds.

At 9 A.M. on the 16th we arrived at Council Bluffs, and crossed

the turbid and furious Missouri in a steam ferry-boat to Omaha in

Nebraska. For many years Council Bluffs was one of the remotest

military posts: to go there was to be banished from the world. Now

it is a town of ten thousand inhabitants, struggling to overtake its

rival on the other bank, Omaha, which has sixteen thousand.

Here our baggage was rechecked for Denver, for at Omaha begins the

Union Pacific Railroad. A great road it is, and great are its charges.

On the North-western, as on most others, the charge is about four

cents per mile, but the Union Pacific, to which corporation Congress

gave the usual land-grant, and more than enough money to build the

road, cannot afford to carry you for less than ten. This may arise

from the custom which has prevailed of giving free passes to all

Congressmen, governors, editors and other privileged classes, so that,

half the passengers paying nothing, the others have to pay double. Not

only are the fares high, but you are charged for extra baggage. Like

the elephant, who can drag a cannon or pick up a pin, this great

corporation is able to give free passes to a whole legislature or to

charge me twenty-five cents for five pounds of extra baggage.

From Nebraska into Wyoming, and we are nearly out of the United

States, though the old flag still flies over us. The people here

talk about going to the "States." All the region hereabouts, from the

middle of Nebraska, lies in what used to be called by the French _Les

Mauvaises Terres_, or "Bad Lands," and was eloquently described by

Irving in _Astoria_ as the Great American Desert. "This region,"

he writes, "resembles one of the immeasurable steppes of Asia, and

spreads forth into undulating and treeless plains and desolate sandy

wastes, which are supposed by geologists to have formed the ancient

floor of the ocean countless ages ago, when its primeval waves beat

against the granite bases of the Rocky Mountains. It is a land where

no man permanently abides, for in certain seasons of the year there is

no food either for the hunter or his steed. The herbage is parched and

withered, the streams are dried up, the buffalo, the elk and the

deer have wandered to distant parts, leaving behind them a vast,

uninhabited solitude."

But this "land where no man permanently abides" is rapidly being

settled, and is found to be rendered very fertile by the simple

process of irrigation, which costs less than the manuring of Eastern

farms. So the Great American Desert recedes before the immigrant, and,

like the noble savage, is found to be a myth.

On the railroad midway between Cheyenne and Denver lies the new town

of Greeley. Although not on the maps in 1870, it now contains fifteen

hundred inhabitants, forty or fifty stores, six hotels, churches,

schools, and all the apparatus of civilization. This aspiring town,

4779 feet above the sea-level, is an example of those colony towns

so successful in the West, and on which we must depend for rebuilding

society in the South. Greeley is surrounded by fertile farms,

and every city lot looks fresh and green: all this is effected by

irrigation. Two canals have been dug from the head-waters of the

Platte--one twenty-six miles long, which will water fifty thousand

acres; the other ten miles long, to furnish water for the town and

five thousand acres. The prairie where it is not irrigated now, in

midsummer, looks burned up and covered with a parched herbage, which,

however unpromising to the eye, is really good sweet hay, dried and

preserved by the hand of Nature for the buffalo and antelope, and now

cropped by the flocks and herds of the white man.

Denver, the capital of the Territory, contains about eight thousand

inhabitants. It is a true specimen of a Western town which fully

believes in itself, and blows a loud trumpet from its elevation of

five thousand feet. It was said of old "that the meek shall inherit

the earth," but it was not by _that_ quality that the Denverites

obtained their location. Here are plenty of hotels, three banks and

a mint: five railroads centre here, bringing in ten thousand tons of

freight per month. Denver has schools and churches in satisfactory

numbers, and her merchants sell ten millions of dollars' worth of

goods per annum. Considering that the place was only settled in 1858,

and has in these fifteen years been destroyed both by fire and water,

and almost starved by an Indian blockade, it must be admitted to be a

pretty smart specimen of a Western city.

We ride in a 'bus, city fashion, to the Broadwell House, a

fatigued-looking structure of the earlier period, but probably no

worse than the others. Directly we begin to plan an excursion to the

South Park, seventy-five miles distant, and going out to look for

wagon and horses, we catch our first sight of the Rocky Mountains, a

line of dim, misty heights, with the more pronounced outline of the

foot-hills beneath. We engage a strong covered wagon, with a good pair

of horses and a driver, the latter only seventeen years old, but owner

of the team, and carrying himself man-fashion, with the precocity of

the Western youth. The wagon is brought to the hotel and loaded, so

as to be ready for an early start in the morning: we have a tent and

camp-equipage, with gun and fishing-rods for Levell and Scribe, and

the sketching-gear belonging to Sepia.

So on the 18th, at 8 A.M., we drive over the bridge which crosses

Cherry Creek, and then cross six miles of uninhabited prairie, seamed

with gulches, and brown with withered herbage and cactus--no verdure

except along the canals, where several species of _Artemisia_ and a

prickly poppy with a large white flower grow profusely. We then begin

to mount the bare foot-hills, among which are curious masses of red

rock as large as city churches, and washed by the storms of ages into

various fantastic forms. We then enter a ravine or cañon through which

flows Bear Creek, a tributary of the Platte.

Along Bear Creek are ranches where good crops of wheat are raised, and

butter and milk made for the Denver market. The grass in this region

makes the most delicious butter; indeed, I may say that I never tasted

poor butter in Colorado. In the month of August it is as sweet and

fragrant as the very best of our June butter in the States. The time

will come when the butter of Colorado will be sent to the Atlantic

cities: at present there is no surplus made.

We now began to ascend Bear Mountain by a road cut along its side: it

was smooth and easy of ascent, but only wide enough for one carriage,

with a precipice of several hundred feet on either side, so that

we shuddered to think of the consequences of our meeting a wagon.

Happily, we met with none, although we overtook one, and had to keep

behind it till we reached the summit. Then down the other side to a

strip of bottom-land on a creek, where we camped for the night, having

come twenty miles from Denver.

_August_ 19. Rose at five and breakfasted on fried pork, corn bread

and coffee. Started at ten, and drove fourteen miles to Omaha Ranch;

then to St. Louis Ranch, six miles, Roland's Ranch, five miles, and

Bailey's, five miles, on the North Fork of the South Fork of the

Platte. The weather was fine, and the air beautifully clear and

bracing. The road wound among the mountains, up a rocky ravine, down a

wooded cañon, then through little parks, surrounded by high hills and

set with magnificent sugar pines, and carpeted with fresh grass and

abundant flowers. In the ravines and on the mountain-sides the road

was narrow, but we were lucky and met nothing, although we frequently

overtook the immense wagons drawn by five or six yoke of oxen, and

driven by the most ferocious-looking teamsters whom I have ever seen,

brandishing enormous whips, which crack like rifle-shots in the woods.

We found, however, that, being civilly entreated, they would always

turn out of the road to let us pass. We were now at an elevation of

probably six thousand feet, having been constantly ascending since we

left Denver; and this evening we rose still higher, having climbed a

long mountain which overlooked the head-waters of the Platte.

Our last descent of fifteen hundred feet in three miles brought us to

the neat log tavern kept by W.L. Bailey, where we found a supper of

trout just from the river, together with mountain-raspberries and

delicious cream, and clean, comfortable beds. When we looked out next

morning everything appeared so pleasant in this sheltered valley, and

the house was so comfortable, that we determined to stay here a day

and enjoy some sketching and fishing. Sepia took her pencils and

ascended the hill behind the house, and we others got out our rods and

followed the example set us by Simon Peter.

The Platte, which ran through the meadow about a quarter of a mile

away, was a brown, shallow stream, twenty feet wide, fretting over a

rocky bed, with little pools and rapids which had a promising look; so

we looped on a red and a brown hackle and began to cast. Levell walked

down stream about a quarter of a mile before he began, so as to leave

a piece of water for the Scribe. The sun shone very bright and hot,

and only a few small trout answered my invitations. They were darker

and less brilliant in color than our _Salmo fontinalis_, and were, I

think, _Salmo Lewisii_, which inhabits these waters. The valley was

about half a mile wide, and shut in on each side by mountains of red

granite, crowned with pines. Bailey's people were making hay in the

valley, and I sat down on a fragrant haycock to await the return of

my companion. Presently I observed a horseman coming up the valley:

he was a hunter, followed by a couple of hounds, with the carcass of a

mountain-sheep, or bighorn (_Ovis montana_), on the saddle in front

of him. He told me he had killed it on the mountain behind us, and was

taking it to Bailey's for sale. It was an animal something in color

like a deer, and about as heavy, though shorter in the leg, with very

large curved horns, like those of a ram. He said they were numerous

in these mountains, and he had killed six of them in a day, but had to

lower them down the precipices with a lariat, which was hard work.

I asked if the story was true that these creatures would throw

themselves from high rocks, and, turning over in the air, pitch upon

their horns with safety. He said he had hunted them many years, but

never saw that performance. Being asked if he thought they could do

it, he replied that he reckoned they _could_, but would be smashed

if they did. Being interrogated on the subject of grizzly bears, he

replied that there _were_ grizzlies hereabouts, but that he never

hunted them: he had no use for grizzlies.

In a couple of hours Levell returned, having fished the stream for a

mile or more: he had got about twenty small trout. We found that

Sepia had been more successful than ourselves, for she had made some

effective water-color sketches of the scenery.

_Aug_. 21. We started this morning at seven, and drove up the Platte

Valley five miles to Slaight's, through a very picturesque region.

Passed some heavy wagons bound to the mines, and met the mail-stage

coming down the valley from Fairplay, with four horses at a gallop: we

were luckily able to draw off and let them pass, which they did in

a cloud of dust, through which could be dimly seen the long-bearded,

red-shirted miners. A saw-mill at Slaight's, with two houses and some

fields of oats. Then eight miles to Heffron's, at the forks of the

river, where there are a post-office and one house. Two miles beyond

we stopped to feed our horses in a lovely park-like bit of open forest

of sugar pines. This species resembles the yellow pine of the Southern

States, with the same rich purple trunk and widespreading branches.

Many of them had been girdled by the Indians to obtain the sweet inner

bark, which is a favorite luxury of the Utes. We see very few birds in

these mountains, which are too wild for the warblers and insect-eating

birds. We met with the mountain-grouse, a bird of about the size and

color of _Tetrao cupido_, and one or two hawks. We also saw in the

bushes at the roadside the mountain-rabbit (_Lepus artemisia_), which

from its large size we at first mistook for a fawn. From Heffron's we

continue to ascend for six miles, till just beyond a small lake we got

the first view of the Park: it lay before us like a vast basin, some

hundreds of feet below, surrounded with a rim of high mountains.

The Park itself is 9842 feet above the sea-level, or half as high

again as Mount Washington. The surrounding rim is some two thousand

feet higher, while in the distance, north, south and west, may be seen

the snowy summits, fourteen thousand feet high, of Gray's Peak, Pike's

Peak, Mount Lincoln, and

Other Titans, without muse or name.

The South Park is sixty miles long and thirty wide, with a surface

like a rolling prairie, and contains hills, groves, lakes and streams

in beautiful variety. It formerly abounded with buffalo and other

game, and was a favorite winter hunting-ground of the Indians and the

white trappers, but since the great influx of miners the buffaloes

have mostly disappeared. Such, however, is the excellence of the

pasture that great herds of cattle are driven up here to feed during

the summer. Several towns and villages have sprung up around the mines

in this vicinity, such as Hamilton, Fairplay and Tarryall, to which a

stage-coach runs three times a week from Denver.

In our old atlases, forty years ago, we used to see the Rocky

Mountains laid down as a great central chain or back-bone of the

continent; but they are rather a congeries of groups scattered over

an area of six hundred miles in width and a thousand miles long: among

them are hundreds of these parks, from a few acres in extent to the

size of the State of Massachusetts. These mountains differ so entirely

from those usually visited and described by travelers, the Alps, the

Scottish Highlands and the White Mountains, that one can scarcely

believe that this warm air and rich vegetation exist ten thousand feet

above the sea. In climate the Colorado mountains approach more nearly

to the Andes, where the snow-line varies from fourteen thousand to

seventeen thousand feet. Here snow begins at twelve thousand feet,

and increases in quantity to the extreme height of the tallest peaks,

about fourteen thousand two hundred and fifty feet, though even these

are often bare in August. In these parks the cattle live without

shelter in winter, and the timber is large and plentiful at eleven

thousand feet elevation. Glaciers are wanting, but instead we have the

rich vegetation, the wide range of mountains, the pure, dry and balmy

atmosphere, and a variety, a depth and a softness of color which can

hardly be equaled on earth.

Having stopped an hour to enjoy the view from the brow of the mountain

which forms the rim of the Park, we were overtaken by one of the

sudden rains which occur here, and had to drive six miles along the

level bottom, till, crossing a brook, we found ourselves at sunset

near a large log cabin, where we were glad to be allowed to lie down

on the floor under shelter.

It was occupied by some young people named McLaughlin, two sisters and

a brother, who had come up from the Plains, where their family lived,

with a herd of cattle, from the milk of which the girls made one

hundred pounds of butter per week, for which they got fifty cents a

pound in the mines. In the fall they returned home, leaving the cattle

for the winter in certain sheltered regions called "the range." They

were stout, healthy young women, who did not fear to stay here all

alone for days at a time while their brother was galloping about the

Park on his broncho after his cattle. They did not keep tavern, but

were often obliged to take in benighted travelers like ourselves, to

whom they gave the shelter of their roof and the privilege of cooking

at their stove. The house was about forty by twenty feet, all in one

room, though one end was parted off by blankets, behind which they

admitted the lady of our party. Sometimes they were visited by Utes,

who are not unfriendly, though, like most Indians, they are audacious

beggars. "They try to scare us sometimes," said Jane: "they tell us,

'Bimeby Utes get all this country--then you my squaw,' but we don't

scare worth a cent." Their nearest neighbor is a sister four miles

away, who is the wife of Squire Lechner, innkeeper and justice of the

peace.

_Aug_. 23. Started this morning at eleven for Lechner's. Passed some

deserted mining-camps, where the surface had been seamed and scarred

by the diggers; then across a creek, where we saw ducks and a

red-tailed hawk. Squire Lechner has a large log tavern on the brow of

a hill: he was absent, but his wife took us in. Sepia went on the hill

to sketch, and we others drove off in search of a trout-brook of which

we heard flattering accounts. It was a very pretty stream, winding

through the prairie with the gentle murmur so loved by the angler and

poet, and lacked nothing but fish to make it perfect. It was rendered

somewhat turbid by the late rains, so that if the trout were there

they could not see our flies. We are told that trout are plenty on the

other side of the mountains. "Go to the Arkansas," they say, "and you

will find big ones."

Man never is, but always to be, blest.

We found Mrs. Lechner a friendly person, like her sisters. She told us

that before her marriage her father kept this tavern. In 1864, most of

the men being away in the Union army, they found the house one morning

surrounded by a band of mounted rebels, who had come up from

Texas through New Mexico to make a raid on the mines. They were a

savage-looking band, about fifty in number, and were led by a man who

had formerly worked for her father, and whom she recognized. They took

what money and gold-dust was in the house, and seized all the

best horses about the place; but when she saw them taking away her

saddle-pony, she cried out, "Oh, Tom Smith! I didn't think you was

that mean, to rob me of my pony! Wasn't you always well treated here?"

He seemed to relent at this appeal, and not only restored her horse,

but two of her father's also. The people collected and pursued the

robbers, most of whom were captured or killed, but the leader escaped.

Mrs. Lechner said she was glad he got away. "Tom must have had some

good in him or he wouldn't have given me back my pony."

_Aug_. 24. Rose this morning at daybreak, and enjoyed the sight of

a sunrise among these snowy peaks. Nothing can surpass the delicate

tints of rose-color, silver gray, gold and purple which suffuse these

summits in early morning. I called Sepia to sketch them, but what

human colors can reproduce such glories? We left at seven, and drove

to Bailey's, thirty-five miles, before sunset, stopping an hour at

noon. On the top of a mountain, about 4 P.M., we were caught in a

furious squall, attended with rain, snow and hail, with terrific

thunder and lightning, which struck a tree close by. And here I must

pay my tribute to the admirable qualities of our horses--steady,

prompt and courageous; no mountain too steep for them to climb, no

precipice too abrupt to descend; and they stood the pelting of that

pitiless storm like four-legged philosophers. We found Bailey's house

apparently full, but they made room for us. A handsome buggy and pair

arrived soon after, from which descended a well-dressed gentleman

and lady, whom we found to be the superintendent of a silver-mine

at Hamilton and his wife. They told us that there was a very good

boarding-house at that place, with fine scenery all around, which we

ought to have seen. But in truth we had as much fine scenery as we

could contain: we were saturated with it, and a few mountains more

would have been wasted.

_Aug_. 25. A fine clear morning, and we started early, hoping to drive

through to Denver, forty-five miles, but in about fifteen miles one of

the horses lost a shoe, which it was thought necessary to replace,

the road being rocky; so we went slowly to the junction, where was

a blacksmith. He proved to be a mixture of tavern-keeper, farmer and

blacksmith, and it was considered a favor to be shod by a man of such

various talents. Deliberately he searched for a shoe: that found, he

looked for the hammer. Who had seen the hammer? It was remembered that

little Johnny had been playing with it. Johnny was looked for, and

finally brought, but was unable or unwilling to find the tool so

essential to our progress. "Look for it, Johnny," said the blacksmith;

and he looked, but to no purpose. After waiting an hour for reason to

dawn upon the mind of this infant, the blacksmith put on the shoe with

the help of a hatchet, and we proceeded; but so much time had been

lost night overtook us twelve miles from Denver. We tried at two

taverns, which were full of teamsters, and we were obliged to diverge

three miles down Bear's Creek Cañon to the house of Strauss. The

good woman, after a mild protest, admitted us and gave us a supper

of venison, with good beds. Strauss has a fine ranch along the creek,

where he raises forty bushels of wheat to the acre, and his wife milks

thirty-six cows and makes two hundred pounds of butter at a churning.

Besides this, she cultivates a flower-garden, with many varieties of

bloom, irrigated by a ditch from the creek.

Arrived at Denver at noon of the 26th, and found the mercury at 90°,

and were glad to leave the crowded hotel next morning for Chicago.

I have only described what we actually saw, which was but a small part

of the wonders and delights of Colorado. We were humble travelers,

unattached to any party of Congressmen or of railroad potentates: we

were not ushered into the Garden of the Gods, assisted up Gray's Park,

or introduced to the Petrified Forest; but we saw enough of the new

and beautiful to give us lasting recollections of Colorado and the

South Park.

S.C. CLARKE.

THE PATRONS OF HUSBANDRY.

"Do you know anything about this 'grange' business?" asked a lady

from the city the other day; and she added, "I can hardly take up a

magazine or newspaper without falling on the words 'grange,' 'Patrons

of Husbandry,' 'farmers' movement,' and all that."

"Why, I am a Patron myself," I replied.

"What! you have a _grange_ here in this little New Jersey sandbank?"

she exclaimed incredulously, and plied me with a storm of questions.

It was a quiet, rainy evening, and I devoted the whole of it to

answering her queries, reading documents from our head-quarters,

and quoting Mr. Adams's treatise on the _Railroad Systems_ and other

authorities to explain the present war between producers and carriers;

and, believing that there are many others who, like my friend, are

disposed to look into this "grange business," I will give them the

substance of our conversation. A great deal of that which has found

its way into the press touching our order is more characterized by

confidence than correctness of statement. In a late magazine article

it is stated that the organization known as the _Patrons of Husbandry_

"was originally borrowed from an association which for many years

had maintained a feeble existence in a community of Scotch farmers in

North Carolina." This statement has no foundation in fact. The

order is not the out-growth directly, or even indirectly, of any

pre-existing organization. It is the result, so far as it is possible

to trace impulses to their source, of the suggestion of a lady,

communicated some years ago to Mr. O.H. Kelley, the present secretary

of the National Grange, and the person who has done more than any

other to establish the order as it exists to-day. The suggestion was

in substance this: Why cannot the farmers protect themselves by a

national organization, as do other trades and professions? Mr. Kelley

seized the idea with enthusiasm, worked out the plan of a secret

society, and traveled over the country seeking to arouse the

farmers to organize for their mutual advantage. He met with constant

disappointment at first, and his family and friends implored him to

abandon a project which threatened to absorb every cent he possessed,

as it did all his time and energy. But he persevered against every

discouragement, and to-day he may well be proud of the results of his

devotion.

The first grange was organized in St. Paul, Minnesota, and called the

"North Star Grange," and it is one of the most efficient subordinate

granges in the country to this day. Another was organized in

Washington, one in Fredonia, New York, one in Ohio, another in

Illinois, and a few others during the same year in different places.

This was very nearly six years ago. Since that time they have been

constantly increasing--at first slowly, then with a rapidity unheard

of in the history of secret or any other organizations in this country

or the world. We can hardly count three years since the order fairly

began to grow, and now the granges are numbered by the thousand. Ten

States on the twenty-fifth of June last had over a hundred granges,

and seven of these between two and five hundred. Iowa to-day has

seventeen hundred and ten, and others in process of organization.

Thirty-one of the States and Territories had subordinate or both

subordinate and State granges, according to the June returns. There

were eight at that date in Canada, twenty-three in Vermont, five in

New York State, three in New Jersey, two in Pennsylvania, and one in

Massachusetts. Up to this time there has been little effort made to

extend the organization into the Eastern and Middle States, but at

present deputies from the National Grange are being sent to these

"benighted regions," and the leaven is working finely. To show how

rapidly the order is extending it will be only necessary to add that

seven hundred and one charters for new granges were issued during the

single month of May.

The discussion of party politics is excluded from the order by common

consent, as well as by the terms of its constitution. How much this

one wise provision tends to preserve harmony among those of different

sects and political parties needs no comment. We know that on one

or both of these rocks most great popular organizations have been

wrecked. So far, the Patrons of Husbandry have worked together with

great harmony, and the slight discords have been nothing more than the

surface ripples on a great onward-setting current. Men and women

are received on terms of absolute equality throughout all the seven

degrees. Four are degrees conferred in subordinate granges, and the

higher in the State granges or in the National Grange--the seventh

in the latter only, constituting a national senate and court of

impeachment, and having charge also of the secret work of the order.

All officers are chosen by ballot--those of the National Grange

for three years, of State granges for two years, and of subordinate

granges for one year. The names of the first four degrees are

respectively, for men and women, Laborer and Maid, Cultivator and

Shepherdess, Harvester and Gleaner, Husbandman and Matron; and the

initiations are not only exceedingly impressive and beautiful, but

really instructive. It may also be added that they are never tedious,

which will be agreeable information to those who, in entering secret

societies, have been dragged through long, meaningless rigmaroles,

conscious of being made a spectacle of, and preserving their temper

only by the most strenuous efforts.

Into the initiations of the order of the Patrons there enter as

machinery or symbols music and song, the expression of exalted

sentiments, ceremonies replete, without exception, with significance

and instruction, together with fruits and grains and flowers and

simple feasts. Two fundamental objects of the organization are social

and intellectual culture. The widespread realization of the importance

of these among the people is the first great step toward securing

them, and the first unmistakable sign that such step has already been

taken is the rebelling against pure drudgery. Said the Master of the

National Grange, Mr. Dudley W. Adams, in a late address: "It will

doubtless be a matter of surprise to them" (editors, lawyers,

politicians, etc.) "to learn that farmers may possibly entertain

some wish to enjoy life, and have some other object in living besides

everlasting hard work and accumulating a few paltry dollars by coining

them from their own life-blood and stamping them with the sighs of

weary children and worn wives. What we want in agriculture is a

new Declaration of Independence. We must do something to dispel old

prejudices and beat down old notions. That the farmer is a mere animal

to labor from morning till eve, and into the night, is an ancient but

abominable heresy."... "We have heard enough, ten times enough, about

the 'hardened hand of honest toil,' the supreme glory of 'the sweating

brow,' and how magnificent the suit of coarse homespun which covers

a form bent with overwork."... "I tell you, my brother-workers of the

soil, there is something worth living for besides hard work. We have

heard enough of this professional blarney. Toil in itself is not

necessarily glorious. To toil like slaves, raise fat steers, cultivate

broad acres, pile up treasures of bonds and lands and herds, and at

the same time bow and starve the god-like form, harden the hands,

dwarf the immortal mind and alienate the children from the homestead,

is a damning disgrace to any man, and should stamp him as worse than a

brute."

Thus the farmers have joined the great strike of labor against

drudgery, and it will never end until it is fully recognized that,

while every unproductive life is a dishonorable life, drudgery is no

less degrading than pure idleness. To be sure, the sages in all times

have taught that there was a time to sing and dance as well as a time

to labor, but it is not fifty years since it was generally accepted

by the masses that a person might spend every day of his adult life

in monotonous manual labor, and yet, other things being favorable,

be just as intelligent, just as polished in manner, and graceful

in bearing as if his occupation was varied and the more laborious

portions of it never continued long at a time. To-day this fallacy is

beginning to be generally recognized. Go into any farming district,

and you will find that the farmer's sons who are regularly engaged in

one kind of labor all day, as ploughing, planting, mowing, are

great, awkward, heavy-mannered youths, while his daughters are, in

comparison, easy in their movements and agreeable in their address;

and simply because, though their labor has been as unremitting, it has

been far less monotonous. As a general rule, they go from one thing to

another, and through a great variety of muscular exercises from hour

to hour.

It is no wonder, then, that the farmers' sons, to get rid of the

terrible monotony of farm-labor as now organized, find peddling

tin kettles an acceptable substitute, or turning somersets in a

third-class circus a fortunate escape. The reason why our country

youths are so impatient of farm-labor is not that they are less

virtuous than formerly, but that they are wiser; and the railroad has

opened a thousand fields for their ambitious daring undreamed of

as possibilities in the olden time. Not even the combination of

attractions afforded by the granges, with their libraries and

reading-rooms, their processions and picnics, the decoration of grange

halls in company with the ladies of the order, the working of degrees,

the music, social reunions, balls and concerts, can keep young men on

the farm unless something is done to render the labor less monotonous

and disagreeable.

One of the Patrons during a late discussion of these questions

predicted, from the growing intelligence of the people, and their

better understanding of the possibilities of organization, that within

a few years we shall see magnificent social palaces, something like

the famous one at Guise, in many places in this country; and he went

on to show how social and industrial life might be organized so as

to secure the most complete liberty of the individual or family,

magnificent educational advantanges, remunerative occupation and

varied amusements for all, with perfect insurance against want for

orphans, for the sick and the aged. Each palace was to be the centre

of a great agricultural district exploited in the most scientific

manner, and through the varied economies resulting from combination

all the luxuries of industry and all the conditions for high culture

were to be secured to all who were willing to labor even one-half

the hours that the farmer now does. It was a glowing picture, and

certainly very entertaining, whether a possibility of this, or, as one

of the company suggested, of some happier planet than ours.

But whatever dreams for the future may be entertained by some of the

Patrons, it is certain that they have work directly at hand, and that

they are grappling it with a will. The Iowa granges, through agents

appointed from among their members, now purchase their machinery and

farming implements direct from the manufacturer and by wholesale.

That State saved half a million during 1872 in this way, and Missouri,

through the executive committee of her State grange, has just

completed a contract in St. Louis for the same purpose. All members

of the granges are thus enabled to secure these articles at greatly

reduced prices; and as there are over three hundred and fifty granges,

with a larger membership than in many other States, this is a very

important item.

Now, in regard to the railroads, with which it is generally supposed

the Patrons of Husbandry are in fierce conflict. Certainly, to the

outside observer, the agriculturists of the South and West seem

to have most grievous burdens to bear. It costs the price of three

bushels of corn to carry one to the grain-marts by rail, and the whole

world knows that they have been burning their three-year old crops as

fuel in nearly all the Western States. Meanwhile, it seems clear that

there is not too much corn raised, since a great famine has just swept

over Persia, and others are threatening in different parts of the

world.

The present high rates of transportation were never anticipated by the

farmer. If in the beginning some great route charged high rates for

carrying, his dissatisfaction was soothed by the assurance that the

road had cost an enormous outlay of capital, and that as soon as

the company was partially reimbursed the rates would be lowered. The

sequel generally proved that the rates went up instead of down, and

the still angrier mood of the farmer was again quieted by a new hope:

a great competing railroad line was projected, and finally finished.

Competition would certainly bring down the prices. This was the

reasonable way to expect relief. Competition always had that effect.

Alas for the simple producer! He had borne his burdens long and

patiently only to learn the truth of George Stevenson's pithy

apothegm, that "where combination is possible competition is

impossible." The two great companies combined, became consolidated

into one, and, having their victim completely in their power, swindled

him without pity and divided the spoils between them.

The characteristic of the day is the tendency to consolidation. But

nothing can prevent the people from fearing the results of great

monopolies and "rings," or from organizing to circumvent their

schemes. Those who make no calculation for the growing intelligence

of industry are walking blindly. Never were the people so conscious of

their power--never so fully aware that in this country the machinery

for correcting abuses lies in the degree of concentration with which

public opinion can be brought to bear in a given direction. Once let

the people become fully aroused to the existence of an evil or abuse,

and there is no interest nor combination of interests that can

long hold out against them. The trouble heretofore has been the

multiplicity of conflicting opinions everywhere disseminated, and the

consequent difficulty of agreeing upon measures, and uniting a great

number of people in their adoption for the accomplishment of certain

ends. If we may rely upon the promise of the order of the Patrons of

Husbandry, now slowly and surely sweeping toward the eastern shores of

the country, and yet still widening and extending in the West, where

it rose, we may hope that this is the great moving army of the people

so long waited for, which is to work out the vexed problems of labor

and capital by a sudden but peaceful revolution.

The record of the vast work that the order of the Patrons has

accomplished for its members exists at present in a detached and

scattered form among the different granges, and in piles of yet unused

documents at the national head-quarters. The full history of the

movement is promised, and in good time will doubtless appear.

Since the first part of this paper was written the Iowa granges have

increased to over one thousand seven hundred and fifty. Twenty-nine

new ones were organized during the week ending July 24. Over one-third

of all the grain-elevators of the State are owned or controlled by

the granges, which had, up to December last, shipped over five

million bushels of grain to Chicago, besides cattle and hogs in vast

quantities; and the reports received from these shipments show an

increased profit to the producers of from ten to forty per cent.

over that of the old "middlemen" system; and by the complete buying

arrangements which the Western granges have effected it is calculated

that the members save on an average one hundred dollars a year each.

Large families find their expenses reduced by three or four hundred

dollars annually, aside from amounts saved on sewing-machines, pianos,

organs, reapers, mowers, corn-shellers and a hundred other costly

articles; all of which any member of any grange can obtain to-day at

a saving of from twenty-five to forty per cent. They are ordered in

quantity from the manufacturers by the agents of the State granges of

the West, and a single order even from a member of a new-formed

grange in Vermont will be incorporated in the general State order. The

granges of the Eastern and Middle States are as yet mostly engaged

in the work of organizing, and have not yet realized the pecuniary

advantages accruing to older granges. By this vast co-operative and

entirely cash system all parties are well satisfied except certain

unfortunate middlemen, who find their "occupation gone," and

themselves obliged to become producers or to enter into the sale of

the numerous small and low-priced articles not yet affected by the

movement.

MARIE ROWLAND.

[It is desirable that an organization which is assuming such

proportions and promising such results should be examined from every

point of view, and the foregoing article, written from that of

an enthusiastic member of the order, will, we may hope, assist in

throwing light upon the subject. If there is some degree of vagueness

in its statement of the aims and purposes with which the movement

has been set on foot, it is probable that this exactly represents the

state of mind of the great majority of those who are engaged in it.

The one tangible thing which it would seem to be accomplishing, a

combination of the farmers for the purchase of pianos and agricultural

implements at wholesale prices, is not of a very startling character;

and if this can be attained at no greater cost or trouble to the

individual "Patrons" than that of "decorating the granges" and taking

part in the singing and the symbolical rites, a considerable advantage

will no doubt have been gained. How the cost of transportation is

to be reduced, or why the railroads, by facilitating the exchange of

productions, should have become the _bête noire_ of the producers, are

points on which more definite information would seem to be required.

But "the people" being now "aroused," and the revolution in progress,

we have only to await events in that hopeful state of mind which such

announcements are calculated to inspire.--ED.]

ON THE CHURCH STEPS.

CHAPTER VI.

I had a busy week of it in New York--copying out instructions, taking

notes of marriages and intermarriages in 1690, and writing each day

a long, pleading letter to Bessie. There was a double strain upon me:

all the arrangements for my client's claims, and in an undercurrent

the arguments to overcome Bessie's decision, went on in my brain side

by side.

I could not, I wrote to her, make the voyage without her. It would be

the shipwreck of all my new hopes. It was cruel in her to have

raised such hopes unless she was willing to fulfill them: it made the

separation all the harder. I could not and would not give up the plan.

"I have engaged our passage in the Wednesday's steamer: say yes, dear

child, and I will write to Dr. Wilder from here."

I could not leave for Lenox before Saturday morning, and I hoped to be

married on the evening of that day. But to all my pleading came "No,"

simply written across a sheet of note-paper in my darling's graceful

hand.

Well, I would go up on the Saturday, nevertheless. She would surely

yield when she saw me faithful to my word.

"I shall be a sorry-looking bride-groom," I thought as I surveyed

myself in the little mirror at the office. It was Friday night, and we

were shutting up. We had worked late by gaslight, all the clerks had

gone home long ago, and only the porter remained, half asleep on a

chair in the hall.