In Chambers’ _Book of Days_, a collection of curious information, we read

that a still more liberal dispensation from the ordinary rules of morality

was in the last century accorded by the Calvinistic clergy of Prussia to

the reigning King, Frederick William, successor of Frederick the Great, to

have three wives at the same time, the Princess of Hesse, the Countess

Euhoff, and Elizabeth of Brunswick. The progenitor of the Prussian dynasty

had already given a similar example of licentiousness. In Luther’s time,

Albert of Brandenburg, Grand Master of the religious order of chivalry,

the Knights of S. Mary, otherwise called the Teutonic Order, broke his

vows and took a wife, having already abjured his faith. Prussia, then only

a province dependent on the Order, he seized as his own, Protestantizing

it, and making moral disorder the rule there rather than the exception.

But we must glance at England, though the story of its defection is so

well known that we will not do more than pencil the outlines of the

conflict on this occasion. After twenty years of married life, without a

scruple to mar his domestic peace, without a breath of scandal to sully

the fair fame of the queen, Henry VIII. suddenly strives to obtain a

divorce from his wife, Catharine of Aragon, that he may marry one who is

already his mistress and the acknowledged head of his court. A faithful

son of the church until a personal test of fidelity is demanded from him,

he had already refuted Luther’s errors, and gained the title of “Defender

of the Faith.” But passion blinds him, and everywhere he seeks a sanction

for his unrestrained license. He applies to Rome and to Wittenberg: the

latter answers in a deprecatory tone, “Rather than divorce your wife marry

_two_ queens”; the former, in the person of Clement VII., urges him to

desist from his unlawful courses. Repulsed the first time, the pope sends

Cardinal Campeggio, his legate, to treat of the matter with Cardinal

Wolsey; they summon the queen to their presence; she refuses point‐blank,

and appeals directly to Rome.

In 1531, Cromwell, the astute and traitorous _protégé_ of Wolsey, suggests

schism to the king as a means to the desired end. Henry, knowing the

corrupt and venal state of the clergy in England, eagerly accepts the

proposals, and instantly attempts to enforce a declaration of his supreme

headship of the English Church by putting in force, against the clergy,

several obsolete statutes of Norman origin, named “præmunire”; the whole

ecclesiastical body is threatened with the punishment of attainder due to

high treason, and to save the rest they offer the king a ransom of

£100,000 (equal at that period to at least four times that sum according

to modern computation). The king only accepts this amount with the

supplementary condition of the “oath of supremacy.” At one stroke the

episcopate is gagged, and schism practically effected. Meanwhile, Cranmer

is sent to Rome to apply anew for the divorce.

His mission proved unsuccessful, and on his return a final council was

held at Dunstable, Bedfordshire, where, however, the queen refused again

to appear, and was therefore condemned as _contumacious_. Shortly after,

at Lambeth, her marriage was annulled, and her daughter, the Princess

Mary, declared illegitimate. Pope Clement VII. threatened to excommunicate

the king; Henry never heeded him. A public consistory, held at Rome in

1534, reversed the Lambeth decision, but the die was already cast, and the

complaisant parliament was ready to confirm Henry in all his desires.

More’s and Fisher’s were the only dissentient voices heard throughout the

kingdom; we know at what cost their courageous protest was raised. A reign

of blood was inaugurated; confiscations enriched the royal treasury, and

the servile episcopate bent to the shameful yoke like one man. Of the

Franciscan friars, Peyto and Elston, who dared to preach to the king’s

face against his adulterous union, the Protestant historian Cobbett says:

“They were not fanatics, as some have said; they were the defenders of

morality and order, and I know of no instance in ancient or modern history

of a greater and nobler heroism than this.”(218)

In 1536, Queen Catharine died, and the same year was performed the

marriage of Henry with Anne Boleyn by a Catholic chaplain, who was ordered

to say Mass early one morning by the king, Henry falsely alleging that he

had in his possession the newly arrived permission from Rome. But passion

is no foundation whereon to build a permanent and happy domestic life.

Anne’s immorality matched Henry’s, and ere long she was accused, vaguely,

it is true, of treason, adultery, and incest. Her supposed accomplices and

lovers were all executed, and she herself, in cruel derision, condemned on

the 15th of May, 1536, to be executed on the 19th, while, on the

intermediate 17th, the Archbishop of Canterbury, according to his royal

master’s orders, declared her marriage annulled, and her daughter

Elizabeth illegitimate. Thus she was first proved to have never been the

king’s lawful wife, and then beheaded for _infidelity_ to the man who had

never been her husband. Of Henry’s subsequent wives and his methods of

disposing of them we need say nothing; the separation from Rome had won

him a sad independence of the only tribunal once recognized by kings, and

divorce, adultery, and consequent murder had already begun the dark record

which has ever since steadily increased in England.

The church was the only bulwark adequate to resist that flood of violent

and powerful passions which kingly supremacy naturally incites and

fosters, and, in breaking with the church, the licentious sovereigns of

the XVIth century acted indeed with the _wisdom_ of the children of this

world. Still the church stood fast, sad but not conquered; the Mosaic law

stood fast, passing into the dicta of society even where it was exiled

from the legal courts—for who does not attach even now some idea of

obloquy to a divorced or impure person?—still history pointed to the

inevitable punishments that fall on the adulterer, and of which the

“churches” so‐called, born of royal adultery, have invariably been

palpable monuments.

In our days, who can doubt that that church alone which guarantees the

sanctity and indissolubility of marriage can hope to become the saviour

and regenerator of modern society; that that church alone which protects

and ennobles woman can remain triumphant in lands where woman’s influence

is slowly leavening the whole social mass; who can doubt that that church

alone which can trace its uncompromising laws back to Mount Sinai can hope

to retain the moral mastery over the unruly ages to come, even to that age

which shall witness the Last Judgment and the final condemnation?

Fleurange.

By Mrs. Craven, Author Of “A Sister’s Story.”

Translated From The French, With Permission.

Part IV.—The Immolation.

LV.

The clock had just struck two. Vera, according to her custom, was waiting

in the ante‐room of the empress’ audience‐chamber. The door was soon

opened by an usher, and the person she was waiting to introduce appeared.

There was an involuntary movement of surprise on the part of both.

Fleurange stopped as if in doubt. Vera’s appearance did not correspond

with the idea she had formed of the lady‐in‐waiting she expected to find

at her majesty’s door, and for an instant she thought she was in the

presence of the empress herself.

Vera, on her side, expected still less to see a petitioner like the one

who now appeared.

The Princess Catherine, with her usual forethought, had, in view of this

important occasion, carefully prepared a dress for her who was to be

regarded as her son’s _fiancée_, and, when the day came, the young girl

opened a coffer which had a special place among her luggage, and followed

with docility the instructions she there found in the princess’ own

handwriting, with the dress she was to wear. It was black, as etiquette

then required, but a court dress, and the princess took pleasure in having

it made as magnificent as possible. Fleurange thus arrayed was dazzling.

Nevertheless, her only ornaments were a gold chain from which was

suspended a cross concealed in her corsage (a precious gift from her

father which she never laid aside), and on her right arm a bracelet the

Princess Catherine had taken from her own wrist the eve of the young

girl’s departure, assuring her it would bring her good luck. She wore no

ornament on her head, but her beautiful hair was turned back and plaited

in a way not common at that time, though so becoming and striking as to

add another peculiar charm to that of her whole person, which was as noble

as if she was entitled to a place at court, but simple enough to show that

she now appeared there for the first time.

The two young girls looked at each other, and, as we have said, their

surprise was mutual. But it was only for an instant. Vera advanced.

“Mademoiselle Fleurange d’Yves, I suppose?”

Fleurange bowed.

“The empress awaits you: follow me.” She turned towards the door, but

before opening it she said: “Take off the glove on your right hand—that is

etiquette—and hold your petition in that.”

Fleurange mechanically ungloved her beautiful hand in which trembled the

paper she held. She stopped a moment, pale and agitated.

“Do not be afraid, mademoiselle,” said the maid of honor to her in an

encouraging tone. “Her majesty is kindness itself. You have nothing to

fear; she could not be better disposed to give you a favorable reception.”

There was not time to utter another word. The door then opened. Vera

entered first. She bowed, and made Fleurange advance; then retired herself

with another profound reverence, leaving the young girl alone with the

empress.

The audience lasted over half an hour, and Vera, though accustomed to

wait, was beginning to find the time long, when the door again opened, and

Fleurange came out. Her face was agitated, her eyes brilliant and tearful.

Perceiving Vera, she stopped, and took her by the hand.

“Oh! you were right,” she said. “Her majesty treated me with wonderful

kindness. But I know how much I am also indebted to you. It was owing to

you she was disposed to be gracious even before I was heard. May God

reward you, mademoiselle, and repay you for all you have done for me!”

Vera replied to this effusion with unusual cordiality, and accompanied

Fleurange to the door. As they took leave of each other, their eyes met; a

common impulse caused them both to make a slight movement: but a little

timidity on one side, and some haughtiness on the other, stopped them, and

the young girls parted without embracing each other.

Vera slowly retraced her steps, and entered the empress’ salon. As soon as

the latter perceived her, she said: “Well, Vera, what have you to say? Did

you ever see a more charming apparition?”

“The young lady was beautiful indeed,” said Vera, with a thoughtful air.

“I never saw such eyes.”

“That is true—eyes that look you directly in the face, with an expression

so innocent, so frank, and almost of assurance, were it not so sweet. I

was not reluctant, I assure you, to take charge of her petition, and

promise to favor it. Here, take it: I would not even read it. I am ready

to grant all this charming girl requests. It is sufficient to know she

loves one of those criminals, and wishes to marry him in order to share

his fate. Such a terrible favor will not be refused, I am sure.”

The empress seated herself in her large arm‐chair. “But what fools men

are,” she continued, after a moment’s silence, “to thus foolishly risk the

happiness of others as well as their own! Really, I admire these women

whom nothing daunts, nothing discourages, and who thus sacrifice

themselves for such selfish beings.”

“Yes,” replied Vera, “their devotedness is certainly admirable; but the

women who implore, who supplicate, and at length avert the punishment of

the guilty, have also a noble _rôle_, madame, and one which the

unfortunate have reason to bless.”

“I understand you, Vera. Your large beseeching eyes have nothing to remind

me of, or reproach me for. I have already told the emperor all I learned

from you yesterday. We must now leave it to his magnanimity, and importune

him no more.”

These words were uttered with a slight accent of authority, and some

moments of silence followed. Vera, with mingled sadness and displeasure,

stood motionless with her eyes cast down, awaiting her sovereign’s order.

In this attitude, she perceived a bracelet on the carpet, which she picked

up to give her mistress, who recognized it. “Ah!” said she, “it is the

talisman that charming creature, just gone, wore on her arm. Keep it,

Vera, you can return it to‐morrow with the reply I promised her.”

Vera examined the bracelet with curiosity. It was a massive gold chain

with a deep‐red cornelian clasp on which was graven some talismanic

figure. It looked natural. She had seen some one wear a similar bracelet,

she was sure; who could it be? For the moment, she could not remember.

While thus examining it, the empress continued: “Take a seat at that

table, and write Prince W—— in my name, without any further delay—in my

name, you understand. Send this petition with your letter, and say it is

my wish it should be granted, and that I beg him to send me an answer—a

favorable answer—to‐morrow morning at the latest. As soon as it arrives,

you will forward it in my name without any delay to that lovely girl. She

is staying at the Princess Catherine Lamianoft’s house on the Grand Quay.”

Vera could not resist a slight start: “The Princess Catherine’s?”

“Yes; but make haste, and do what should be done at once.”

Vera again looked at the bracelet; the princess’ name clearly recalled the

remembrance so vague a moment before. It was hers. She had seen the

Princess Catherine wear the bracelet.

“Come, Vera, what are you thinking of?”

“Nothing, madame; excuse me.”

“Then make haste and write what I tell you, and send the letter and the

petition without any delay.”

Vera obeyed without reply; she took the petition, and went to a table in

one of the deep embrasures of the windows, before which a gilt trellis

covered with a vine formed a genuine screen. As soon as she was seated in

this place where she could not be seen, she eagerly opened the petition,

and glanced over it before beginning the letter. This glance was

sufficient to justify the suspicion just excited. A deadly paleness came

over her face; her features, generally so calm, were suddenly transformed

by a violent explosion of anger and hatred. She crushed the paper, and

remained motionless on the chair into which she had fallen, incapable of

acting, thinking, or realizing where she was and what she had to do.

At length she returned to herself, and made an effort to collect her

thoughts. The moments were passing away; the empress would be astonished

at the time it took to accomplish her wishes. She therefore took up her

pen, but had scarcely written a few words with a trembling hand, when a

noise, unusual at that hour, was heard in the court—the sound of a drum,

and the guards shouldering arms. Vera rose with surprise, and looked out

of the window. The emperor had arrived in his sledge, alone and without

any escort, according to his custom, though this was not his usual time of

coming. Shortly after, the doors of the salon were thrown open—a signal

for Vera to leave the room. She tore up the note, put the petition in her

pocket, and, while the empress was advancing to meet her husband, the lady

of honor disappeared through a side door, and hurried to her room next the

empress’ apartment.

A whole hour passed away, she could not tell how. She had been able to

control and generally to effectually disguise the strong feelings which

pique had not suppressed—feelings which gave her assurance of some day

overcoming all obstacles. And then, what were these obstacles? It was not

long since George, her chosen husband from childhood, plainly testified

the attraction he felt for her, and seemed as much as she to regard the

union arranged in their infancy as the realization of his wishes. It is

true a cloud had since passed across that brilliant horizon, and, when she

met George again, he was not the same.—Why was it so?—She had often sought

the reason, but all she was able to ascertain was that a young girl, an

obscure _demoiselle de compagnie_ in his mother’s service, fascinated him

for a while, and some one had whispered the name of _Gabrielle_, but the

haughty Vera was not disturbed by so trifling an affair. The future was

hers, and she was awaiting it without any fear, when the news of George’s

crime and misfortune came like a thunderbolt, enabling her to estimate the

depth of her affection for him by the very liveliness of her grief. From

that time she had but one thought—to prevail over the emperor, obtain

George’s pardon, and win him back to herself. Her first repulse did not

destroy all hope of success. But while her influence, her passion, and her

efforts were still without any result, another—and what a rival! (for

Vera, in spite of her pride, was not so vain or so stupid as not to

recognize the redoubtable charm against which she had to

struggle)—another, young, as beautiful as herself, and even more so, had

eclipsed in an instant, by an heroic act, all her own devotedness had even

dreamed of, and gone beyond the limits which she dare not cross! How could

she doubt George’s feelings when the young lady she had just seen appeared

in his prison. How could she thwart her? What was to be done? Besides, who

was this girl who suddenly appeared in their midst—who had the air of an

angel, but whom she hated as if she were a demon? All at once an idea

flashed into her mind. “Can this be Gabrielle?” she exclaimed aloud. But

before Vera had time to dwell on this idea, and calm the fresh agitation

which it caused, the sound of the little bell interrupted her painful

reverie. She rose, but with some surprise, for she had not heard the usual

signal of the emperor’s departure, and she was very seldom admitted when

he was present. But her hesitation was only momentary, for the bell again

hastily repeated the summons. Vera hastened to answer it, but, confused at

the sight of the emperor, she stopped at the door, and bowed profoundly.

The empress, with mingled kindness and impatience, exclaimed:

“Why do you not come in, Vera? The emperor wishes to speak to you, and you

are making _him_ wait!”

LVI.

While all we have just related was occurring at the palace, the Marquis

Adelardi was on his way to the fortress, considering as he went what it

was advisable to say to George. After much reflection, he resolved not to

announce Fleurange’s arrival till he knew the result of her interview with

the empress. He must not torture George in his misfortunes with vague

hopes; above all, he must avoid arousing expectations that might prove

vain. This would delay the communication but little, for the young girl’s

audience was the same day, and on the morrow he could act with a complete

knowledge of the case.

Strong apprehensions were mingled with these thoughts as he reflected, on

the new position in which his friend now stood. His fate was decided, the

prolonged excitement of the trial was over, and the time come for him to

resign himself to his lot. In what disposition should he find him? With a

nature ardent and impetuous, but at the same time delicate, sensitive to

the least restraint, and excessively fond of the comforts of life, how

would he endure the horrors of this new prospect—he whose very object in

his studies, and in the gratification of his tastes and passions, was only

enjoyment? Pleasure by means of his intelligence, his affections, his

intellect, and his senses—such had been the sole motive of his actions,

even the best; and, in the dangerous risks that led to his destruction, he

had rather sought to satisfy a thirst for a new sensation than the

realization of a chimerical though generous scheme. How would he, for whom

the words duty, sacrifice, and restraint had no meaning, now bear up in

the presence not of danger, but of misfortune under so merciless a form?

The marquis asked himself these questions with an anxiety founded perhaps

on some resemblance between his own nature and that of him whom he

comprehended so thoroughly. Both were men of the world: one more refined

and cultivated, more captivating; the other with more acuteness, more

sagacity, and more judgment. Both were generous and noble, and, apart from

the political entanglements that had misled them one after the other,

incapable of a base action unworthy of their noble birth. But there exists

in the human soul a chord whose tone is the echo of the divine voice; this

chord gave out no sound in these men, otherwise accomplished; or, if not

voiceless with the elder of the two, at least, according to the expression

of the great poet of his country, inert and feeble from “silence too

prolonged.” This mysterious and hidden chord never resounds very loudly,

it is true, and the tumult of the world with its passions, pleasures, wit,

talent, and glory, often deadens its tone and prevents its being heard;

but when the silent hour of adversity comes, then it awakes to a sweet,

powerful harmony which sometimes transforms the soul it fills. At such a

time its want is felt, and excites a horror, the cause of which is not

comprehended by those who experience it.

George was not confined in a dungeon, but in a narrow cell lighted only by

a high grated window. There was nothing in it but a bed, a table, and two

straw‐bottomed chairs. In his former visits, the marquis had found his

friend sad, but always calm, courageous, and, as it were, contemptuous of

the danger of his position. Though grown pale and thin, his features

hitherto retained their lofty, noble character, and the disorder of his

hair and even of his garments did not at all detract from the aristocratic

appearance which, in the very best sense of the word, characterized his

whole person. But this was no longer the case. He could not have been more

changed by a long illness, or the inroads of time, than he was since they

last met. Seated beside his table in an attitude of deep dejection, he

hardly raised his head at his friend’s entrance. After pressing his hand,

the latter remained some moments too much affected himself to break the

mournful silence. George waited till the warden who ushered the visitor in

had left the cell.

“You have come at last, Adelardi,” said he at length, with an altered

voice. “I have been surprised not to see you since—since everything was

decided.”

“I could not obtain permission to enter any sooner; but, to make up for

it, I am allowed to come every day, till—” He stopped.

“Till I give up the enjoyments of this place for those that await me when

I leave it,” said George, with a bitter smile.—“Adelardi,” continued he,

changing his tone, and rising abruptly, “can a friend like you come to me

to‐day with empty hands? Is it possible you have not divined my wants, and

are here without bringing me the means of escaping my doom, and meeting

death, which they have had the cruelty to refuse me?” He strode up and

down his cell two or three times as if beside himself. “Answer me, then,

Adelardi!” exclaimed he, in a violent manner. “Why have you not rendered

me this, the greatest of services? In a similar position, you would have

expected it of me, and I assure you it would not have been in vain.”

The marquis was not ignorant of the religious principles that should have

inspired his reply, but he had long lost the habit of appealing to them.

He therefore simply replied: “You know well, George, what you ask would

have been impossible.”

“Ah! yes, I forgot.—It is just. They take precautions to prevent their

victims from finding another way out of these walls than that opened by

their murderers; but they do not consider all the resources of despair,”

continued he, with agitation. “When a man is determined to die, they must

be sharper than they are now to prevent him, and oblige him to accept the

odious life they would inflict upon him.”

Adelardi allowed him without any interruption to give vent for some time

to the despair that burdened his heart, but at last he turned to him with

sudden firmness: “George, I have always found you calm and courageous till

to‐day, but now your language is unworthy of you.”

A slight flush rose to the prisoner’s brow, and he resumed his seat. “You

are right, my friend, I acknowledge. I am no longer what I was. I must

indeed astonish you, for I no longer recognize myself.” He remained

thoughtful for some moments, and then continued: “It is strange! for,

after all, Adelardi, in saying that till now I never knew what fear was,

or shrunk in the presence of danger or death, saying I had courage, was

not laying claim to any extraordinary merit, for there are but few men who

lack it. Yes, if any virtue fell to my lot, it was certainly that, it

seems to me. Why, then, am I so weak to‐day?—Courage,” repeated he, after

a pause. “Is it true? Was it really courage, or was I merely brave, which

seems to be another thing? What is the difference between them?”

“I know not,” replied the marquis, as if in a dream; “but there is a

difference, certainly.”

Neither of them possessed the true key to the enigma; neither of them now

thought of searching for it. But Adelardi, glad to see his friend’s

excitement somewhat allayed, continued the subject to which the

conversation had led. Besides, he saw it would afford an opportunity of

touching on a point he did not wish to introduce directly.

“No,” he resumed, “bravery and courage are not the same thing. What proves

it is that the most timid woman can be as courageous as we when occasion

requires it, and often more so.”

“Yes, I acknowledge it.”

“For example,” continued Adelardi, looking at him attentively, “more than

one of your companions in misfortune have had a signal proof of such

courage to‐day.”

“How so?”

“Do you not know that their wives have fearlessly and unhesitatingly

requested and obtained the favor of sharing their lot? Some are to

accompany them in their sad journey; others will follow them.”

“And have their husbands accepted such a sacrifice?”

“They who inspire such great devotedness can generally comprehend and

accept it. It was only yesterday, one of them conversing with a friend

admitted to see him, as I to see you, said: ‘I can submit to anything now;

I can endure my fate without murmuring; I shall not be separated from her.

The only intolerable sorrow in life will be spared me. I am grateful to

the emperor, and will no longer complain!’ I must add that he was recently

married, and adores his wife.”

“The only sorrow,” repeated George slowly—“the only one!—that is really

something I cannot understand. To love a woman to such a degree as to feel

her presence could alleviate such a lot as ours, and that never to behold

her again, would be a misfortune surpassing that which awaits us! No, I do

not understand that, I frankly confess.”

“And yet,” said Adelardi, with some eagerness.—But he stopped and did not

continue his thought—that one can accept and admire heroic affection, but

not suggest it.

“And yet,” continued George, smiling, “how often you have seen me in love,

you were going to say. Yes, I acknowledge it, though perhaps I was

sincerely so but once, only once, and yet—shall I confess it, Adelardi?

Love even then was a holiday in my life; it added to its brightness; it

was an additional enjoyment, another charm. Her beauty; her rare, naïve

intelligence; even her virtue, which gave a mysterious attraction to the

passionate tenderness sometimes betrayed, in spite of herself, by her

eyes, so innocent and frank in their expression; Oh! yes, that time I was

in love and ready to commit a folly I am now glad to have avoided. Poor

Fleurange! If I had married her, what a fate I should have reserved for

her, as well as for myself.”

“For her! Yes, indeed; it was a very different lot your affection promised

her when you displayed it without any scruple; but if she—she, charming,

devoted, and courageous, were there with you, do you not imagine she could

sweeten yours?”

“Mine?—my lot?—the frightful lot that awaits me?” asked George, with a

bitter laugh. Then he resumed the previous tone of their conversation.

“No, no; I am not one of those men whom love alone can suffice—stripped of

all that outwardly adorns and adds to its value. In short, think of me as

you please, Adelardi, but I do not resemble in the least my companion in

misfortune you have just referred to. No human affection could make me

endure the life I lead here; judge how it would be elsewhere.”

He rose, and began again to walk around in an excited manner. Adelardi

remained silently absorbed in anxious, painful thoughts. George soon

resumed, in a kind of fury: “Here, Adelardi, speak to me only of one

thing; give me only one hope—death! death! that is all I desire.” And

touching, with a gesture of despair, the black cravat negligently fastened

around his neck, he said, in a hoarse voice: “This will be a last resort,

if in a week I do not succeed in finding some means more worthy of a

gentleman of escaping from their hands.”

His friend preserved a gloomy silence. What could he say? What reply could

he make at a time when every earthly hope failed, and there was none felt

in heaven? Adelardi was now fully conscious; he had a lively sense of what

was wanting. He was born in a land where the impressions of childhood are

always religious, and the longest period of indifference or forgetfulness

seldom effaces them completely from the soul in which they were profoundly

graven in early life.

“My dear friend,” said he, with a melancholy gravity not habitual to him,

“to be of service to you at such a time, I feel I should be different from

what I am. Yes, George; in the fearful temptation that now besets you, in

your despair in view of the frightful lot that awaits you, there is only

one resource, and but one. I feel unworthy of suggesting the only remedy.”

His voice faltered, as he continued, with emotion: “George, you must

believe—you must pray.”

George was for a moment surprised and affected. After a pause, which

neither seemed disposed to interrupt, he said, in a softened tone: “Well,

Adelardi, let it at least be permissible, in praying, to implore a favor

not refused to a man more guilty than I: Fabiano is dying.”

“I know he cannot recover from his wound.”

“But perhaps he would not be in immediate danger had he not been violently

attacked with typhus fever the day before yesterday. I hoped something

myself from the contagion; but, doubtless afraid of shortening our heavy

chain, they sent him last night to die at a hospital, I know not where.”

At that moment the bolt flew back, the hour had elapsed, and they were

obliged to separate, but with an effort scarcely lessened by the thought

that it was not a final farewell, and that this sad interview would be

repeated more than once before the last.

As the marquis was about to leave the prison, the warden said in a low

tone, as he was opening the last door:

“I do not think I am acting contrary to my duty in confiding this letter

to you, sir. The dying prisoner who was taken away last night gave it to

me one day, begging me to forward it to the address after his departure.

He has gone away, and I wish to fulfil the poor fellow’s request.”

“Give it to me,” said Adelardi, as he took it. “I will see that it is

forwarded.”

After leaving the fortress, he looked at the letter confided to him, and

was greatly surprised to find it addressed to _Mademoiselle Gabrielle

d’Yves, at Professor Dornthal’s, Heidelberg_.

LVII.

The Marquis Adelardi entered the sledge awaiting him at the gate of the

fortress, but gave no orders to his coachman, uncertain where he should

go. Fleurange by this time must have returned from the palace. Should he

go to see her, as was agreed upon the evening before, to learn the result

of the audience, and at the same time remit the letter confided to him?

This was the plainest course to pursue, and, if he hesitated, it was

because his interview with George had left a certain dissatisfaction or,

at least, uneasiness which he feared to betray. In the singular mission

confided to him, he began to feel that the love and courage of the two

parties were unequally divided, and he would have anxiously questioned

whether it was certain that the gratitude of one would finally correspond

to the devotedness of the other, had he not been reassured by several

reflections.

It was not, perhaps, very surprising that George depreciated a happiness

he considered beyond his reach. But if she whom he was by no means

expecting suddenly appeared in his prison, would he then complain that his

bride was too beautiful? The marquis thought not. He knew better than any

one else how Fleurange once charmed him. No woman had ever held such

empire over George’s mobile heart, and he was sure the very sight of her

again would suffice to revive the powerful attraction. As to this, his

perfect knowledge of his friend’s character prevented all doubt, and

therefore, though wounded by his coldness in speaking of Fleurange, he

came to the conclusion his indifference would vanish like snow before the

sun as soon as she appeared. She would never perceive it or suffer from

it. He regarded this as the most important point.

The interest Fleurange inspired him with was one of the best and purest

sentiments he had ever experienced in his life. Without suspecting it, and

without aiming at it, she exercised a beneficent influence over him. A

thousand early impressions, effaced and almost stifled by the world, awoke

in the pure atmosphere that surrounded this young girl, and he welcomed

them with a feeling that surprised himself. Therefore, from the time of

meeting her again, he seriously assumed, more for her sake than George’s,

the quasi‐paternal _rôle_ the Princess Catherine had entrusted to him with

respect to both.

The considerations referred to having, therefore, completely reassured him

respecting George’s probable if not actual dispositions, he returned to

his first intentions, and gave orders to be taken to the house on the

Grand Quay. He had scarcely descended and asked to see Mademoiselle

d’Yves, when he saw Clement crossing the hall. He bethought himself it

might be better to consult him first.

Clement was gloomy and preoccupied. He had just seen his cousin return

from the palace in all the brilliancy that dress and the joy resulting

from success added to her beauty. But the marquis had not time to notice

the young man’s physiognomy, nor the effort with which he replied to the

first questions addressed him as soon as they were alone together in a

room on the ground floor.

“I wish to speak to. you, Dornthal, about an unexpected incident. But

first, has your cousin returned from the palace?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know whether she is satisfied with the audience?”

“Yes; the empress promised to have her petition granted by to‐morrow.”

“I did not doubt it. The empress is always so kindly disposed to grant a

favor; and, were it otherwise, the sight of her who presented the petition

could not fail to ensure its success.”

Clement made no reply to this observation. “You said, Monsieur le Marquis,

that an unexpected incident—”

“Yes, I am coming to it. I must first tell you what perhaps you are

ignorant of.—That miserable Fabiano Dini, who so cruelly compromised

George, and was confined with him—”

Clement, surprised, interrupted him with emotion. “The unfortunate man is

actually dying, Monsieur le Marquis. He was removed from the fortress last

night, and—”

“_Parbleu!_ I know it; that was precisely what I was going to tell you.

But how did you find it out?”

“I made inquiries respecting him.”

“You knew this Fabiano, then?”

“Yes, a little, and was interested in knowing what had become of him.”

“And do you know now?”

“Yes, I know in what hospital he is, and that, thanks to his illness which

makes flight impossible, and the fear of contagion which keeps every one

away from him, he is only guarded by the infirmarians. I hope to get

admittance to him to‐day.”

“You know him?” repeated the marquis after a moment’s reflection. “Then

that explains what seemed so mysterious. Your cousin Gabrielle, in that

case, perhaps knows him also?”

“Yes, she knows him—the same. as I.”

“That explains everything; and, since it is so, here, Dornthal,” said the

marquis, giving him the letter of which he was the bearer, “have the

kindness to give her this.”

At the sight of his cousin’s writing, Clement was unable to conceal his

emotion, and, seeing the marquis’ observant eye fastened on him, it seemed

useless to conceal the truth. Without any hesitation, therefore, he

briefly related all the circumstances of the life of him who was now

expiating his faults by the final sufferings of a miserable death.

“I am not afraid, Monsieur le Marquis, to confide to you the secret of his

sad life. You will keep it, I am sure, and will never forget, I hope,”

added he in a faltering tone, “that it is _Fabiano Dini_, and not Felix

Dornthal, who will be delivered by death from an infamous punishment.”

The marquis pressed his hand. “Rely on my silence, Dornthal.” After a

moment, he continued: “This unfortunate man showed great courage during

his trial, and absolute contempt of danger for himself. He only seemed

preoccupied with the desire of saving him whose destruction he had caused.

God forgive him!”

“Yes, truly, God forgive him!” gravely repeated the young man.

Adelardi again extended his hand, and was about to leave the room when

Clement stopped him. “Monsieur le Marquis, will you allow me now to ask

you a question?”

“Certainly.”

“Well, may I ask if Count George has been informed of Gabrielle’s

arrival?”

“No, not yet.”

“But he is doubtless aware of her intentions?”

“No, my friend, he is likewise ignorant of them. Though I had no doubt as

to Gabrielle’s success in her interview with the empress to‐day,

nevertheless, before giving George such a surprise, I wished to be

absolutely sure there was no uncertainty to apprehend.”

“Oh! yes, I comprehend you. To lose such a hope, after once conceiving it,

would indeed be more frightful than death!” said Clement, with a vivacity

that struck the other. He soon continued in a calmer tone:

“One more question, Monsieur le Marquis—an absurd question, I acknowledge,

but one I cannot resist asking at such a time. You know my position with

regard to Gabrielle is that of a brother. Can you assure me that he whom

she loves, and is thus going to wholly immolate herself for—can you assure

me on your honor that he is worthy of her?—that he loves her?—that he

loves her as much as a man ever loved a woman? I certainly cannot doubt

it, but then I must see her happy in return for so much suffering—I must!”

repeated he almost passionately, “and I beg a sincere reply to my

question.”

The marquis hesitated a moment. Clement’s vehemence struck him, and under

the impression of his recent interview with George, he did not at first

know how to reply. Should he betray his friend? Ought he to deceive him

whose noble, upright look was fastened upon him? He remained uncertain for

some moments; at length, he decided to be frank, and reply as candidly as

he was questioned.

“You ask for the truth, Dornthal. Well, it is not in my power to affirm

that George’s love is at this moment all you desire. According to my

impression, Gabrielle is now only a sweet dream of the past. But be easy,

my dear friend; as soon as this dream becomes a reality, as soon as she

appears before him—is with him—his—oh! then there is no doubt but the

almost extinguished flame will revive and become as brilliant as it once

was, and this charming creature will have no cause to suspect a shadow of

forgetfulness had ever veiled her image. What do you expect, Dornthal? As

to love and constancy, women far surpass us, and they are not the less

happy for that. Adieu! my dear friend, till to‐morrow.”

Clement only replied by taking the hand the marquis again extended before

going out. He listened to him, pale and shuddering, but, as soon as he was

alone, he exclaimed, endeavoring with an effort to suppress the sobs that

stifled his breast:

“Ah! my God!—my God!—Is that love?”

LVIII.

Fleurange, to the great regret of Mademoiselle Josephine, laid aside the

rich dress which seemed to realize the old lady’s dreams of the previous

night, and had just reappeared clad in the simple high‐necked dress of

dark cloth which was her usual costume, when Clement, who had told her he

should not return till late in the evening, suddenly re‐entered the salon

he left only half an hour before. His intention was to consecrate the

remainder of the day to the sad duty he felt he owed his cousin, and

thought it useless to mention it to Gabrielle, from whom he concealed all

he had learned respecting Felix. But the letter just given him altered the

case, and made it indispensable to inform her at once.

He therefore explained to her without much preamble the actual situation

of their unhappy cousin; he informed her of the attempt he was about to

make to see him, and then related what he had learned from the Marquis

Adelardi, giving her the letter of which he was the bearer. It was not

without lively emotion Fleurange broke the seal and hurriedly read it

aloud:

“COUSIN GABRIELLE: I am condemned to the mines for life, but as,

at the same time, I am dangerously wounded, I shall probably have

long ceased to exist when this letter reaches you, if it ever

does. I regret the misfortunes I have brought on so many, and

especially on my last benefactor, and I particularly regret this

on your account, for it will perhaps be a source of suffering to

you. I should have thought of this sooner, but, seeing you

unexpectedly pass by in a calèche one evening at Florence, I

waited at the door of the hotel where I saw you stop, and yielded

to the irresistible desire of making you think of me by throwing

you some lines concealed in a bouquet. A few days after, my

patron, who was very far from suspecting my acquaintance with the

original, imprudently showed me his beautiful Cordelia. I confess

I was seized with a keen desire to tear him away from

contemplating it, which irritated me. Lasko opportunely arrived.

But I did not think that would go so far. As to the rest,

Gabrielle, believe me, my love which you rejected (and I confess

you acted wisely) was perhaps more worthy of you than his; for I

feel if I had met you sooner, and you could have loved me, you

would have made me better, whereas he!—But it is too late to speak

to you either of him or myself!—It is all over. It is to you—you

alone, dear cousin, I address these last words; you must repeat

them to all to whom they are due; uttered by you they will be

heard. _Forgive_ and _Farewell_.

F. D.”

Fleurange wiped away the tears that filled her eyes. The letter affected

her in more than one way, and Clement, it may be imagined, did not listen

to it with indifference. But now one thought overruled all others, and,

after a moment’s silence, he said: “This letter was written when he

expected to die from his wound. Illness is now hastening his end, and

perhaps he is no longer living while we are talking. This evening, at all

events, you will know whether I found him dead or alive.”

Fleurange interrupted him: “Clement, listen to me. If Felix is still

alive, as is by no means impossible, I should like to see him again, and

will go with you.”

“You!—no, that cannot be; the danger from contagion is too great. That

hospital! you cannot go there; it is a place provided for criminals and

miserable creatures of the lowest grade. I cannot expose you to so much

danger. I will not.”

“But, perchance,” said Fleurange, “this preference, this sort of sympathy

he has always expressed for me in his way, might give me the power of

consoling the last moments of his wretched life. Who knows but my voice

might utter some word to soothe the despair of his last agony? Clement,

Clement, do you dare tell me I should not attempt it? Can you

conscientiously venture to dissuade me from it, because thereby I shall

incur some danger?”

“Gabrielle,” said Clement, with a kind of irritation, “you are always the

same! Do you not understand that you are merciless towards those that love

you?”

“Come, reflect a moment,” persisted she, “and answer me, Clement.”

A moment of silent anguish followed these words. Then, with a troubled

voice, he said: “Be quick; lose no time. You may perhaps have an influence

over him no one else could have. Make haste, I will wait for you.”

Before he ended, Fleurange was gone from the room. In less time than it

takes to relate it, she returned wrapped in her cloak, her velvet hat on

her head, her face concealed by a veil, ready to go. They went down

without speaking a word. Clement’s sledge was waiting at the door. He took

a seat beside her, and they set off with the almost frightful rapidity

which is peculiar to that mode of conveyance. It was no longer light,

being after four o’clock, but the brilliant clearness of the night,

increased by the reflection of the snow, sufficiently lighted the way, and

the horses went as fast as in the daytime. The place of their destination

was on the opposite bank of the Neva, much lower down than the Princess

Catherine’s house. They therefore crossed the river diagonally, following

a road traced out by the pine branches which from time to time indicated

the path. They were thus transported in the twinkling of an eye from the

splendor of the city into the midst of what looked like a vast white

desert. In proportion as they descended the river, the palaces, the

numerous gilded spires of the churches, with the immense succession of

buildings whose effect was heightened by the obscurity, were lost in the

distance, and, when they at length stopped at the very extremity of a

faubourg on the right bank of the river, they found themselves surrounded

by wooden hovels, with here and there some larger buildings, but all

indicating poverty, and none more than a story high. Clement aided his

cousin in alighting, and looked around for the person he expected as his

guide. A man approached.

“M. Clement Dornthal?” said he in a low voice.

“It is I.”

“You are not alone.”

“What difference does that make?”

“I have no permission, and a woman—it is forbidden.”

“I suppose, however, more than one has entered the place?”

“Oh! yes, but they must have permission—or else—”

“Here,” said Clement in a low tone, “mine will answer for both.”

The guide seemed to find the reply satisfactory; he pocketed the gold

piece Clement slipped into his hand and made no further objection. They

walked swiftly after him towards one of the buildings just referred to

which was the best lighted. As they approached, they saw the light

proceeded from a large fire kindled in the open air, around which quite a

number were warming themselves, some squatting down, others standing, and

some asleep near enough to the fire not to freeze to death; all lit up

with the wild light which revealed their bearded faces, their angular fur

caps, and their sheep‐skin caftans. Here and there were some venders of

brandy, who furnished them with a more efficacious means of resisting the

cold even than the fire in the brazier.

Clement and his companion passed rapidly by this group, not, however,

without being assailed by some annoying words. A vigorous blow from

Clement sent a curious winebibber flying back who attempted to lift

Fleurange’s veil. This lesson was sufficient, and they arrived without any

further annoyance at the door of the building decorated with the name of

hospital, which was only a long, spacious wooden gallery.

They entered. Passing thus suddenly from the light of the great fire, and

the sharpness of the extreme cold, into the obscurity and warmth of the

ambulance, their first sensations were caused by the darkness and stifling

atmosphere. Fleurange hastily threw back her veil, then took off her hat

and unclasped her cloak, for she could not breathe; she felt nearly ready

to faint from the effects of this sudden transition, but she almost

immediately recovered. Clement was alarmed at first, but soon saw she was

able to continue their sad search. As soon as their eyes became accustomed

to the dim light around them, they saw the long row of pallets on which

lay, in all the frightful varieties of suffering, nearly two hundred human

beings whose mingled groanings rose on all sides like one sad cry of pain,

enough to chill the veins with horror, and excite the pity of the most

courageous and most hardened heart.

That of Fleurange beat painfully as they slowly advanced through the

obstructed space. Clement was remorsefully regretting his consent to bring

her to such a place, when all at once a moan, followed by some words

indicative of delirium, checked every other thought, and kept them

motionless where they stood. They listened—which of these unfortunate

beings had uttered those words? They looked around as well as the poor

light permitted, but on all these sick‐beds so close to each other they

did not perceive one whose features bore the least resemblance to those of

the unhappy man whose voice they thought they recognized.

“I beg you to lend me your light only for a moment,” said Fleurange, in a

low, supplicating tone to an infirmarian to whom she had just heard some

one speak in German, and who was rudely passing by her, lantern in hand.

The infirmarian stopped at hearing his language spoken, and looked at the

young girl with surprise, then, as if softened by her aspect, he gave her

the lantern, saying: “You can have it while I am gone to the other end of

the ward; I will take it when I return.” As Clement took it, the light

flashed across Fleurange’s face and uncovered head. Instantly there was a

cry, an almost convulsive movement, and Gabrielle’s name was pronounced by

the voice they had just heard. This indicated which of the miserable beds

contained him whom they sought. They both approached with full hearts. By

the aid of the lamp they gazed at the dying man. Was it really he?—was

that Felix? His voice and words left no doubt, and yet there was nothing

in that face, disfigured by agony and a horrible wound, to recall him whom

they saw last in all the fulness of strength and the pride of youth. After

his exclamation, he fell back almost lifeless, and Clement trembled as he

bent down to ascertain if he still breathed. His heart was beating, though

feebly and irregularly.

“Felix,” said he, “do you hear me? Do you know me?”

Felix opened his eyes. “What a strange dream!” murmured he. “It seems as

if they were all here. That vision a moment ago, and now this voice—O my

God, would I might never awake!”

Fleurange took the dying man’s hand, and bent over him to catch his words.

Her features thus became distinctly visible in the light, and his eyes

fastened with frightful tenacity on those of the young girl.

“It is impossible!” said he. “But what illusion is this which makes me see

and hear what cannot be?”

“Felix,” said Fleurange, with a penetrating accent of sweetness, “it is

not an illusion. We are here. God has sent us that you may not die alone

without a friend to pray for you, without begging and obtaining pardon and

peace.”

A ray of perfect clearness of comprehension now lit up his eyes, hitherto

fixed or wandering. He seemed to comprehend, but did not reply. Clement

and Fleurange were afraid to break the solemn silence. Felix’s eyes soon

wandered from one to the other, and, taking the young girl’s hand and that

of Clement, he pressed them together upon his heart, saying: “O my God!

what a miracle!” Then he added in a feeble voice: “What a comfort that it

is he, and not the other!”

They both understood his mistake, but were not equally affected. Fleurange

slightly blushed, and withdrew her hand with a faint smile, but Clement’s

face became almost as pale as that of the dying man. But graver thoughts

prevailed over both at such a time. After a short silence, Fleurange again

addressed Felix some words, but he made no reply, and his head, which she

tried to raise, fell on his shoulder. He continued faint for some moments,

then opened his eyes, and saw her beside him.

“God be praised!” said he. “The vision is still here!”

“Yes, I am here, Felix,” said Fleurange in a fervent tone: “I am here to

pray with you. Listen to me,” continued she, speaking softly and very

distinctly. “Say with me that you repent of all the sins of your life.”

“Of all the sins of my life!”—repeated the dying man.

“And if your strength were restored, you would make a complete and

satisfactory avowal of them, with a sincere repentance. Do you understand

me?”

The hand she held pressed hers. A tear ran down Felix’s cheek. A voice

which was a mere whisper repeated the words: “A sincere

repentance”—another faintness seemed to announce his end. “O my God!” said

Fleurange, fervently raising her eyes to heaven, “if the sacred absolving

words could only be pronounced over him!”

At that moment the infirmarian returned and abruptly took the lantern from

Clement’s hand. “Excuse me, I need it for some one who has come to visit a

patient.”

In the narrow space that separated the two rows of beds, there could be

indistinctly seen a person of majestic, imposing appearance, whose long

beard and floating hair, whose ample robes of silk and gold cross, clearly

indicated his character; he was, in fact, a priest of the Greek Church. He

had not, however, come to this sad place to exercise his ministry. One of

the poor men suffering from the contagious disease was the object of his

charity, and he had come to visit him. He was passing along without

looking around, even turning his eyes away as much as possible from the

sad spectacle that surrounded him, when Clement’s hand on his arm stopped

him as he was passing Felix’s bed.

“What do you wish of me, young man?” he asked, with surprise.

“I implore you,” said Clement, “to come to this dying man who is truly

contrite for his sins, with a sincere desire to confess them if he had the

strength. Have the kindness to give him sacramental absolution!”

In spite of the place, the hour, the awful solemnity of the moment, the

young Catholic girl started at hearing these words; her large eyes opened

with an expression of the keenest surprise, and turned towards Clement

with a mute glance of anxiety. He understood her, and, while the

infirmarian was interpreting his words which had been heard but not

understood, he replied: “This is a priest, Gabrielle, invested with all

the authority of Holy Orders. In the presence of death, we can avail

ourselves of it, without regard to anything else.”

He knelt down. Fleurange did the same. The dying man clasped his hands,

and, whilst the word “forgive” once more trembled on his lips, the Greek

priest raised his right hand with a majestic air, and pronounced over him

the merciful, divine words of holy absolution!

To Be Continued.

Cologne.

What is more familiar than the name of Cologne? What is more delicious

than the perfume of the veritable Jean Maria Farina? What is more

delightful than the receipt of a box, with the stereotyped picture on the

cover of the Rhine lazily flowing under the bridges, of the cathedral

looming up to the sky, of the houses clustering around it as though for

protection?

No one need be ashamed to avow his or her love of it; it is acknowledged

to be indispensable. Bishop or priest, sage or philosopher, can use it

without being thought undignified. Imagine a pope, or cardinal, or bishop,

or priest, or senator, or judge scented with “Mille Fleurs,” or “Jockey

Club,” or “Bouquet de Nilsson”! The bare thought is revolting! To be sure,

for some years, “Bouquet d’Afrique” has been the fashion among the

“potent, grave, and reverend seigniors” at Washington who make our laws

and amuse themselves by adding “Fifteenth Amendments” to the highly

respectable and ever‐to‐be‐respected Constitution of the United States.

But that will pass away with Time, the healer and destroyer; the

reconstructionist will make all right; the “Fifteenth” will be amended

with the “Sixteenth”; and, with the sway of lovely woman, Cologne, without

which no well‐bred, well‐dressed woman’s toilette is complete, will resume

its reign over heads and hearts; and “Bouquet d’Afrique” will perhaps

return to the hot and happy home where the indefatigable Stanley recently

discovered the wandering, long‐sought Livingstone—who did not care to be

found, as he certainly appeared perfectly content among dusky dark‐browed

brothers and sisters, hunting lions and tigers, and imagining each little

rivulet and lake the source of the Nile, or Congo, or Niger, or any other

meandering river taking its rise in the great water‐shed by the Mountains

of the Moon.

If mothers are to be judged by the character of their sons, the mother of

Nero, in whose honor Cologne was named, could not have been the mildest

and gentlest of her sex. Says Lacordaire, “The education of the child is

commenced in the womb of the mother, continued on her breast, completed at

her knees.” Sweet must have been the reveries, refreshing the

instructions, edifying the conduct of Julia Agrippina, who brought into

the world the finished despot that drenched the soil of Rome with the

blood of the Christian martyrs, who persecuted unto death the heroes of

the faith that now people heaven.

Cologne owes its origin to a Roman camp established by Marcus Agrippa. The

Emperor Claudius, at the request of his wife, Julia Agrippina, daughter of

Germanicus and mother of Nero, sent a colony of Roman veterans, A.D. 50,

named the town after her _Colonia Agrippina_, and it then became the

capital of the Province of Germania Secunda. Vitellius was here proclaimed

Emperor of Rome, A.D. 69; Trajan here received from Nerva the summons to

share his throne; the usurper Sylvanus was also proclaimed emperor here in

353; a few years later Cologne was taken by the Franks; Childeric made it

his residence in 464; and Clovis was here proclaimed king in 508.

During the reign of Pepin, it was the capital of the kingdoms of Neustria

and Austrasia. Bruno, Duke of Lorraine, was the first of its archbishops

who exercised the temporal power, with which he was invested by his

brother, Otho the Great. From that time the town increased rapidly in

wealth and splendor, and shortly after became one of the principal

emporiums of the Hanseatic League; the commerce of the East was here

concentrated, and direct communication with Italy constantly kept up. In

1259, the town acquired the privilege by which all vessels were compelled

to unload here and reship their cargoes in Cologne bottoms.

At this period it had a population of 150,000, and could furnish 30,000

fighting men in time of war. In the XIIIth century, there was a mutiny

among the weavers; 17,000 looms were destroyed; the rebellious workmen

were banished from the city; and that, together with the expulsion of the

Jews in 1349, did great injury to the town, the number of whose

inhabitants was reduced in 1790 to 42,000, of whom nearly one‐third were

paupers. Then came the devastating wars which succeeded the maelstrom of

the French Revolution, when in the general upheaval empires and kingdoms

disappeared, new political combinations were made which changed the map of

Europe, and the Rhine became the frontier of the French Empire.

Cologne was nominally French, but the hearts of the people were German—as

German as the most ardent worshipper of the “New God,” as Von Bolanden

calls the new Empire, the child of Bismarck and Von Moltke. After

Waterloo, the Holy Alliance made another partition of the kingdoms and

peoples, and Cologne shook off the French yoke, and returned to her

national ways and customs. One great cause of its decay had been the

closing of the navigation of the Rhine, which restriction was removed in

1837, and, since then, trade has greatly revived, and the town been much

improved.

Many of the old streets have been widened and paved, and a considerable

portion of waste ground covered with new buildings. The opening of the

railways to Paris, Antwerp, Ostend, Hamburg, and Berlin has greatly added

to its commercial prosperity, and Cologne bids fair to resume its former

position among the chief cities of Europe. Cologne was formerly called the

“Holy Cologne,” and the “Rome of the North”—titles which she owed to the

number of relics and churches she possessed.

At one time, the city contained 200 buildings devoted to religious uses.

These gradually diminished, until in 1790 their number was reduced to 137.

During the French Revolution, they were shamefully plundered, the convents

suppressed, and their property confiscated; so that at present there are

not more than twenty churches and seven or eight chapels; but many other

ecclesiastical buildings still remain, used as warehouses and chapels.

Maria im Capitol, so named from its having been built on the site of the

Roman capitol, stands on an eminence reached by a flight of steps. The

Frankish kings had a palace close by, to which Plectruda, the wife of

Pepin, retired in 696, having separated from her husband on account of his

attachment to Alpais, the mother of Charles Martel. In 700, she pulled

down the capitol, and erected a church on its site, to which she attached

a chapter of canonesses. Until 1794, the senate and consuls repaired

hither annually on S. John’s day to assist at Mass, when the outgoing

Burgomasters solemnly transferred the insignia of office to the newly

elected, who were each presented with a bouquet of flowers by the abbess.

The convent no longer exists, but there is a large cloister of the XIth

century at the west end of the church, which was restored a few years ago.

In this church, there are mural paintings of the early Cologne school,

representing the wise and foolish virgins, numberless saints, the raising

of Lazarus, and the founders of the church with their children. As in duty

bound, Plectruda is properly conspicuous; her effigy in basso‐rilievo

beneath the great east window is a very interesting work of the Xth

century, and, on one of the towers, her sculptured figure appears between

two angels, who are conducting her to her eternal home.

All the churches are more or less interesting, none more so than that of

S. Gereon, founded in the IVth century. S. Gereon was the commander of a

Roman legion, and he and his companions, 700 in number, were murdered by

order of Diocletian upon the spot where the church was built by the

Empress Helena, the mother of Constantine.

The style is Byzantine, and very singular. The body of the church,

preceded by a large portico, presents a vast decagonal shell, the pillars

of whose internal angles are prolonged in ribs, which, centring in a

summit, meet in one point and form a cupola, one of the latest examples

known. A high wide flight of steps, rising opposite to the entrance, leads

to an altar with an oblong choir behind it, from whence other steps again

ascend to the sanctuary, a semicircular apse, belted, like the cupola, by

an open gallery with small arches and pillars resting on a panelled

balustrade.

The rotunda is surrounded by ten chapels, in which are the tombs of the

martyrs. The walls are encrusted with their skulls, and, in the

subterranean church, the pavement and walls are formed by the tomb‐stones

covering the holy dust. In the lower church is the tomb of S. Gereon, and

in one of the chapels is a mosaic pavement laid in the time of the Empress

Helena. Behind the stalls of the clergy are hangings of Gobelin tapestry,

portraying the history of Joseph and his brethren.

The baptismal font of porphyry, immensely large, was a present from

Charlemagne; and, as the lid is too ponderous for any one to lift, there

is a little machine that takes it off when required. We remained a long

while in this very delightful church, and, by the time we left, what with

Helen and Constantine, Diocletian and Charlemagne, we felt quite like an

animated verd‐antique, so intensely Roman and Catholic had we become.

Afterwards we proceeded to S. Ursula’s, where the cruel Roman emperor was

exchanged for the barbarian Huns. S. Ursula’s history was done in English

by the old sexton, who finished every sentence by assuring us that S.

Ursula and her eleven thousand virgins met with their untimely fate from

the barbarian Huns, who massacred them in cold blood. We made a stride of

a few centuries, became Gothic, and extended our hatred to the barbarian

Huns. As in S. Gereon, the bones of the martyrs are built in the walls for

a space of two feet the whole extent.

In the Golden Chamber we saw the shrine of S. Ursula, the relics of S.

Margaret, a thorn from the crown of Our Lord, and one of the vases used at

the marriage feast of Cana, that witnessed the first miracle of the God‐

man. Link by link we were carried to the days when Our Lord was incarnate

on the earth; we do not need such testimony to assure us of the truth of

our holy faith, but, when we touch the vase that has been touched by Our

Lord, our senses are awed by the thought of the God‐like condescension of

him who became man, who lived like us, who mingled in our joys and

sorrows, that we might become greater than the angels.

The Cathedral of Cologne, the queen of pointed architecture, erected on

the site of a church founded in 814 by Archbishop Hildebold, and more

beautiful than even we could imagine it, familiar as we were with it by

picture and description, was commenced in August, 1248, by Archbishop

Conrad, of Hochstaden. The works were for some years pushed on with great

activity under the direction of Master Gerard von Rile, a builder of whom

nothing more is known than that he died before 1302.

In 1322, the choir was completed and consecrated; then the building went

slowly on until 1357, when the works were discontinued for a long time. In

1796, the cathedral was converted by the French into a warehouse, and it

had very nearly become a ruin in 1807, when the brothers Sulpice and

Melchior Boisserée drew attention to it by their illustrated work on its

history. In 1824, the work of restoration was commenced, but little

progress was made until, in 1842, the idea of completing the cathedral was

conceived, and an association was formed to collect subscriptions for this

purpose; and now the entire edifice will soon be finished if the works are

carried on as zealously as they have been of late.

The glorious roof, arching 150 feet in the air, is magnificent; every day

new beauties are added; four hundred men are daily at work, the stones are

all cut, and in ten years at least this triumph of genius will be ready to

receive the homage of all true lovers of art. The shrine of the Three

Kings is superb—gold adorned with precious stones. There are the heads of

the three men who came in faith, and bowed in all their pride and majesty

before the infant Jesus in the manger; their names, Gaspar, Melchior, and

Balthazar, are encrusted in rubies above the crowns that encircle their

brows. Their bodies were brought from S. Eustorgio, in Milan, by the

Emperor Frederick Barbarossa, after the taking of that city, and presented

by him to Archbishop Rainoldo, who deposited them in the ancient cathedral

July 23, 1164; from whence they were removed into the present chapel in

1337.

Among the treasures of the cathedral is a splendid ostensorium, one of the

finest in the world, presented by some sovereign; another, not so

handsome, sent by Pius IX.; and the cross and ring, given to the present

archbishop by Kaiser William; both are of diamonds and emeralds, the ring,

an immense emerald, surrounded by four circles of diamonds. The man who

showed the church prided himself upon his English; would call the

archbishops architects: “This is the statue of Engelbert, the first

_architect from_ Cologne.” And when we innocently inquired if the

architects wore mitres and copes, he impressively repeated his remark; so

we are still in doubt whether the archbishops built the cathedral or the

architects dressed like bishops!

Wandering one day through the aisles of the cathedral, we paused for a

while to gaze upon something beautiful that attracted our attention. It

was behind the high altar; we were standing between it and the Chapel of

the Magi, when, by chance, we looked down, and on the slab at our feet we

saw in large letters, “Marie de’ Medici”—no date, no epitaph. So much for

human greatness! Under that stone, trodden daily by hundreds, was the

heart of Marie de’ Medici, one of the powerful family that gave to the

church Leo X. and Clement VII., the descendant of Lorenzo the Magnificent,

the widow of Henri Quatre, the mother of Louis XIII., the ex‐Regent of

France. Banished from France, the inexorable hostility of Richelieu

pursued her wherever she sought refuge. No crowned head dared shelter her.

One heart was true, one man was found who remembered in her adversity that

she had favored him in the days of her prosperity. When, in the zenith of

her power, she built the Luxembourg, she sent for Rubens to adorn it with

the creations of his genius; she loaded him with favors, sent him on

diplomatic missions to restore peace between Philip IV. of Spain and

Charles I. of England. Both monarchs responded to her wishes, showered

honors upon the artist‐diplomat, and Charles I. knighted him, and then

presented him with the sword which had been used for the ceremony.

Genius is a power. Richelieu could command kings on their thrones, and the

refugee queen was abandoned by all—by those who should have been bound to

her by the ties of kindred, of position, by the claims of misfortune.

England, Spain, Holland, refused her entrance; only in the free city of

Cologne could she find sanctuary, and that sanctuary was the house of the

noble, chivalric artist, Pierre Paul Rubens, whose brave heart quailed not

before the wrath of the most powerful man of his age.

With loving care and respect he watched over her, soothed her in her dying

agony, and held her in his arms when she breathed her last sigh. The house

of Rubens still remains, and the room in which Marie de’ Medici died is

preserved with the greatest care. When we visited it, we felt as though we

were treading on holy ground, as in a shrine made sacred by a noble deed;

for what more royal, more heroic, more Christian, than the brave, grateful

heart that dared power to shelter misfortune?

Meanwhile that Marie de’ Medici lived and died in poverty in Cologne,

Richelieu was at the apogee of his glory. King, nobles, courts, cowered

beneath his glance. The conspiracy of Cinq‐Mars was quelled; his head had

paid the penalty of his youthful folly. Richelieu, satisfied and avenged,

left Lyons for Paris, carried on the shoulders of his attendants in a kind

of furnished room, for which the gates of the cities through which he

passed were demolished if they were too narrow to admit it. But the

triumph was short‐lived. A few months after the death of Marie de’ Medici,

her relentless persecutor followed her to the tomb, and her poor wearied

body was removed to France and buried in S. Denis; but the heart was left

in the Cathedral of Cologne—a mausoleum sufficiently splendid for any

mortal dust.

Soon after leaving the house of Rubens, we came to another famous in

Cologne; a large building, where, from one of the windows of the third

story, two stone horses were contemplating the busy scene in the Neumarkt

below; and then we heard the legend of the horses. Once upon a time this

house was the residence of the wealthy family d’Andocht. Richmodis, the

wife of Herr Mengis d’Andocht, died during the plague of 1357, and was

buried with great pomp in the Church of the Apostles on the Neumarkt.

Her dressing attracted the notice of the sexton. He fancied he would like

to have some of the gold and silver adornments; so the night after she was

put into the vault he descended into it, opened the coffin, and took off

some of the jewels. One of the rings would not move. To make the task

easier, he cut her finger; she was only in a trance, and this summary

process restored her; she sat up; the man rushed off affrighted. She

managed to get out of the coffin. In his haste he had left his lantern

behind; with it she made her way out of the church, and reached her home

near by.

She knocked at the door; a servant opened it, and scampered off half dead

with terror. She went to her husband’s room. He thought she was a ghost or

devil; she told him she was his wife, as surely as that their horses would

come up‐stairs and jump out of the window. As she spoke, the horses

galloped up‐stairs, threw themselves out of the window; whereupon the

husband acknowledged her to be his veritable wife. She soon recovered her

health, lived for many years, and, to commemorate the wonderful event, the

husband had the two horses done in stone and put in their respective panes

of glass, where they have ever since remained, looking out of the window.

Now the house is a hospital, and we hope the patients are as much amused

as we were at the effigies of the two well‐bred, obedient horses, who were

as good at vouching for identity as Dame Crump’s little dog. In the Church

of the Apostles, a faded Lent hanging is still preserved that was

presented by Richmodis in gratitude for her wonderful deliverance from a

living death.

The Rathhaus or Town Hall is a curious building, erected at different

periods; the Hansa‐Saal is a fine room on the first floor, in which the

meetings of that once powerful mercantile confederation were held; and at

one end of it are nine statues holding escutcheons emblazoned with the

arms of the Hanse Towns.

The _Musée_, a comparatively new creation, erected partly by the

government, and partly by private subscription, contains many works of

art. In the lower story are numerous Roman antiquities, found in or near

Cologne; amongst them are busts of Cæsar, Germanicus, Agrippina, a

statuette of Cleopatra, and a very fine head of Medusa, said to be larger

and more beautiful than the Medusa Rondinini in the Glyptotheca at Munich.

One gallery is filled with exquisite specimens of stained glass; the upper

rooms are devoted to statuary and paintings, many of which are of the

Düsseldorf school.

We were particularly struck with one, the “Triumph of S. Michael over

Lucifer.” S. Michael is radiant, his sword flaming; and Lucifer, who is

sinking into darkness, is terrible. There he is—no horned demon, but the

beautiful fallen archangel, majestic and powerful; profound despair and

gloom on his noble features, as the darkness overshadows him, and hell

opens to receive him.

The people of Cologne are gay and sociable; in the afternoons, the

Zoological Gardens are filled with children and nurses admiring the

giraffes, elephants, and every other kind of animal belonging to earth,

air, or water. An immense lion was a particular object of interest, as he

had distinguished himself the day before we had the pleasure of seeing him

by devouring his keeper. The Flora or Winter Garden is charming—a crystal

palace, filled with fragrant plants, green vines garlanding the sides and

roof, fountains playing, beautiful music well rendered by a good

orchestra, and hundreds of people drinking coffee and smoking, who don’t

bother themselves by receiving at home, but meet and gossip in the Flora,

or the Opera House, to which they generally adjourn.

The Opera House is very pretty but miserably lighted, only two feeble gas‐

lights by the door. Prussian officers, however, abounded, and the

glittering uniform shone in the _clair‐obscur_ like fire‐flies in Florida

on summer evenings. Perhaps it was to add to the effect of “La Dame

Blanche,” which was the opera we chanced to hear, that we were kept in

such gloomy darkness; but, as the music was well executed, the time passed

pleasantly.

One extraordinary event must be chronicled—we did not buy one bottle of

Cologne in Cologne; we left the city of Jean Maria Farina, and only saw

the outside of his shop. What with Gothic churches and relics, Roman

towers and antiquities, time flew, and we found ourselves also flying off

from Cologne on an express train, without one drop of the veritable _Eau‐

de‐Cologne_ in our possession. _Mirabile dictu!_

John.

In beauty, not above criticism; in courage, undaunted; in love, most

generous and most forgiving; in patience, rivalling Job; in constancy,

unswerving; in humility, without an equal.

After the above enumeration of qualities, it should be superfluous to add

that John is a dog. It would be ridiculous to expect so much of a man. He

is, moreover, a Skye‐terrier, well‐born and well‐bred.

To announce to John’s acquaintances that one was about to eulogize the dog

would be to incur and deserve some such reply as that made by the Spartan

to a rhetorician who announced his intention to pronounce an eulogium on

Hercules: “An eulogium on Hercules?” repeated the Spartan. “Who ever

thought of blaming Hercules?”

Our reply would be that we write, not for those who deny, but for those

who never heard.

There is no shifting of scenes in our little drama. The unities are

preserved with almost Grecian strictness; the writer, however, as chorus,

claiming the privilege of being occasionally discursive.

_Scene._—A suburban summer residence in that most magnificent of seasons,

autumn, “in that month of all months in the year,” October; furthermore,

the most perfect of Octobers. The stone‐colored house is the only neutral

bit in the landscape; all else is a glow of color. The fresh greensward

recedes under flower‐bosses of solid brilliancy. A flower carpet, gayer

than any loom of Turkey, Brussels, or France ever wove, lies under the

clump of evergreens in a far corner of the estate. Tapestries of woodbine

hang over balconies, and porches, and bay‐windows; and the noble trees

that stand, two and two, in stately pairs, all about the place, and up the

avenue, are a torchlight procession, which sunshine, instead of quenching,

fires to a still more dazzling blaze. It is that picturesque time when

ladies throw gay scarfs over the summer dresses they still wear; when the

sky shakes out her violet mists to veil the too divine beauty of earth;

that season of exquisite comfort when one has open windows and open fires;

that delicious season when fruit is brought to the table still warm with

the sunshine in which it finished ripening five minutes before. Above all,

it is that season when people who are at all sympathetic are inclined to

silence.

Mrs. Marcia Clay was not at all sympathetic. She was simply herself, a

frivolous woman, with a strong will, and a Chinese wall of selfishness and

self‐complacence built up on all sides of her. The soft “Hush!” on the

lips of the Indian summer, when the soul of Nature plumes her wings for

flight, she heard not. The suspense, the regret, the melancholy, the

fleeting rapture of the season she perceived not. To her it was surely the

fall of the year, when people get ready for the winter, lay in coal, buy

new clothes, and go back to town.

Flounced to the waist in rattling silk, her fair hair furbelowed all over

her head, and, apparently, pounds of gold hanging from her ears, thrust

through her cuffs, dangling at her belt, strung about her neck, and

fastened to the pin that held her collar, this lady sat in one of the

pleasant parlors of her house, and talked as fast as her tongue could run.

The woman who listened was of another kind, one who might have come to

something if she had been possessed of will and courage, but who, having a

small opinion of herself, was only somebody by little spurts, which did no

good, since they were always followed by unusual self‐abasement. She was

not without a despairing sense of this incongruity, and had more than once

bewailed in her own mind the fact that she was neither fish, flesh, nor

fowl, but inclined to each in turn; had little wings which, as she spread

them, changed to little fins, which, as she moved them, became little

feet, that, when she would have walked, collapsed utterly, and left her

floundering—a woman without moral vertebræ, who had been all her life the

prey of people in whom the moral vertebræ were in excess. She was nothing

in particular, physically, either, being gayish, oldish, tallish, weakish,

and dressed in that time‐honored, thin plain black silk gown which is the

infallible sign of genteel poverty, and which, at this instant, adorns the

form that owns the arm that moves the hand that holds the pen that writes

this history.

_Mrs. Marcia Clay._—“It is very provoking, my dear, but it can’t be

helped. If I should intimate to him that our trunks are all packed to go

in town, he would leave instantly. He is the most touchy of mortals. To be

sure, I have invited him here again and again, but I expected him in

summer‐time, not when we were on the point of moving, and had our very

beds half made in the city. There’s nothing for it but to unpack, and

pretend to be delighted. Fortunately, he amuses himself.”

The uncertain person in the black silk gown ventured to suggest that Mr.

Bently might accompany them to town, and was met by a little shriek which

made her jump.

“Fancy him in my blue satin or pink satin chamber! Why, my dear, he

smokes, and—_chews! chews_, dear! Between you and me, he is a bear in his

habits, a positive bear. If you will believe me, I have seen him wear

slipshod shoes and crumpled linen. You should see him at home, in his den.

An inky dressing‐gown that he wipes his pens on, old slippers with holes

in them, books piled all about, and dust that you could write your name

in! In that state he sits and writes hour after hour.”

Ah! Mrs. Clay & Co., who look at littleness through magnifying glasses,

and are blind to all true greatness, the sole of this man’s slipshod shoe

is cleaner than your tongue. There is no dust on his thoughts; there are

no holes in the fabrics his brain weaves; and when he writes, far‐away

lands that know you not, and kindred greatness nearer by, feel the

electric spark that slips from his pen’s point.

“What a shocking person he must be!” says Miss Uncertainty, meaning to

please. “I don’t wonder you won’t have him in town.”

“Goodness gracious, Miss Bird!” cried the lady, coloring up. “What can you

be thinking of! Why, Mr. Bently is famous. He can afford to be eccentric.

It is an honor to have him in one’s house. People have turned and looked

at me when they heard that I am his cousin; and his name opens to me

places that—well, everybody can’t enter. Then it is a very fine thing to

have a gentleman in one’s parlors who can talk to those lions whom one

doesn’t know what to say to, and who can tell what one’s pictures, and

bronzes, and marbles mean, and translate from every language under the

sun. I well remember a time when he won for me a perfect triumph over Mrs.

Everett Adams. It was delicious. Mrs. Everett Adams is always picking up

lions, especially learned and scientific ones, and, when Professor Porson

came here, she monopolized him at once. You cannot conceive how odiously

she behaved, nor what airs she assumed. One heard nothing but Porson,

Porson, till I was sick of the name; and it was impossible to go anywhere,

to theatre, opera, or concert, without seeing her sail down to the most

conspicuous place, after everybody was seated, with Prof. Porson in her

train. Well, one evening she brought him to our house, just to plague me,

and we had half a dozen or so persons to meet him. It was an evening of

torment, my dear. The professor was in the clouds, with Mrs. Everett Adams

fluttering behind him, like a tail after a kite, and all the rest were in

raptures, except me—I was extinguished. The professor knew what every

bronze and marble was, and who made it, and if it was an original or a

copy; and, in short, everything I had seemed as common as possible. As a

last desperate resort, I brought out some old books in foreign languages

that poor dear Clay had picked up. He was always collecting things of that

sort. The professor turned them over with the tips of his fingers, and

read a word here and there. Oh! he knew all about them. Yes; he had read

them when he was a boy. But I had begun to suspect him. My poor husband

used to say that, when a man will not own that there is anything he

doesn’t understand, root and branch, he was always sure that that man was

an impostor. So I took up two of the books that I saw he had passed over,

and asked him to translate a passage for me. They looked about as much

like a printed language as the figures on my carpet do. To my joy, he had

to own that he couldn’t. They were Chaldaic, he said, and he had made but

little study in that language. Mrs. Adams glanced angrily at me, and I

smiled. Just at that moment, as good luck would have it, the door opened,

and in came Cousin Bently. I flew at him with the books. Triumph, my dear!

Never did I have such a rapturous moment. Cousin took the books up in his

slow way, put up his eye‐glasses, and looked them over in such a superior

manner that really my hopes rose. They were Arabic, I’ve forgotten what

about, and he read out some passages, and translated them, all the company

looking on. My dear, the Porson and Adams stock sank to less than one per

cent. in an instant. The professor was red, and Mrs. Adams was pale. I

could have hugged Cousin Bently on the spot, though his boots were not

blacked, and his collar was in a positively shocking state.”

“How charming it must be to have him visit you!” says Miss Bird, wheeling

about as the wind veered.

Poor thing! She did not mean to be insincere. She merely wanted to say the

right thing, and didn’t care a fig about the matter, one way or the other.

“Charming!” repeated Mrs. Clay, with emphasis. “It gives a _tone_.

Besides, it draws some people one likes to know. You should see Madame de

Soi, the most exclusive of women, flutter round him like a butterfly round

a—round a—well, really, I am at a loss for the word. It is impossible to

call Cousin Bently a flower, unless one should make a pun about the seedy

contents of his valise. I studied botany once, and I know a pun can be

made of it. Madame knows no more and cares no more about his learning than

a cat does, but she has tact, and does contrive to smile at the right

time. I never could do that. When I smile, Cousin Bently is sure to push

out his under lip, and stop talking. But she will look and listen with

such rapture that you would positively think he were describing the dress

the empress wore at the last ball; and sometimes she even says something

that he will seem pleased with. That very evening of the Porson collapse

she talked with him half an hour of _molecules_, whatever they are. I

actually thought they were speaking of people. Fancy being called a

molecule! Yes, Cousin Bently is a great credit, and a great convenience to

me. Why, but for him, I couldn’t have gone to those stupid exclusive

lectures of Mr. Vertebrare’s, where I yawned myself to death among the

very cream of society.”

The lady paused for breath, and her companion, feeling obliged to say

something, faltered out that she always feared those very clever persons.

“I should think you would after the experience you had with that dragon,”

replied Mrs. Clay significantly.

Miss Bird colored, and was silent. “That dragon” was a rather difficult

old lady, a Miss Clinton, with whom she had lived and suffered many years,

and who had lately died.

“And so,” Mrs. Clay summed up, “I have Cousin Bently on my hands for a

week or ten days, and must make the best of it. And”—suddenly lowering her

voice—“speak of angels—ahem! Cousin Bently, allow me to make you

acquainted with Miss Bird, an old schoolmate of mine.”

Miss Bird rose with a frightened air, dropped her eyes, blushed deeply,

half extended her hand, and half withdrew it again, and stammered out,

“Good‐morning, sir!” which was not a very felicitous greeting, the time of

day being near sunset.

Mr. Bently acknowledged the introduction with rather a stately bow, gave

the person before him a calm and exhaustive glance, protruded his under

lip very slightly, without meaning to, and walked to the further end of

the room.

“Why need people be such fools?” he muttered, half philosophical, half

impatient. He had been, as all learned and even merely clever people must

be, too much looked on as an ogre by the simple. It was rather provoking

to see people shaking at his approach, as if he were going to compel them

to talk Greek and calculus, or have their lives.

As the gentleman seated himself in an arm‐chair before a delightful bay‐

window, and facing the window, there was another addition to the company,

and—enter our hero!

Reader, John!

A longish, curly‐haired quadruped with bright dark eyes full of merriment

and kindliness, and teeth so beautifully white and even that it would be a

privilege to be bitten by them. Of course he has undergone those

improvements which man finds it necessary to make in the old‐fashioned

plan of the Creator, and his clipped ears stand up pointed and pert, and

his clipped tail is indeed less a tail than an epigram. But the bounding

grace of his motions no scissors can curtail.

Do not imagine that John has entered the room properly, and stood still to

be presented and described. Far from it. He bounced in through the window,

as though shot from a mortar, and, while we have been writing this brief

sketch of his person, has flown into the learned gentleman’s arms, kissed

him enthusiastically a dozen times, pawed his hair into fearful disorder,

made believe bite his nose and hands, with the utmost care not to hurt him

in the least, pulled one end of his cravat out of knot, and threatened to

overturn him, chair and all, by drawing back and rushing at him again like

a little blue and yellow battering‐ram. His manner was, indeed, so

overpowering that Mr. Bently had half a mind to be vexed, and could not

help being disconcerted. His affection for dogs was entirely Platonic, and

he had a theory that bipeds and quadrupeds should have separate houses

built for them; but this creature had struck him as being the most honest

and sensible being in the house, and had, moreover, taken to him.

Miss Bird looked askance at the scene in the bay‐window, and Mrs. Clay

looked askance at Miss Bird, and wondered at her impudence and folly. Bird

had blushed and dropped her eyes when she was introduced to the gentleman,

and she was now watching him out of the corners of her eyes. Bird was an

old maid, with a moderate annuity; Mr. Bently was an old bachelor, with

next to nothing beside brains and a name. Bird must be set to rights. So

much the lady’s actions told of her thoughts.

“I wish I dared send for Marian Willis here,” she whispered

confidentially, watching the effect of her words. “Nothing would please me

better than to bring those two together again. But Cousin Bently would

suspect my drift, and, as likely as not, start off at once. Nothing annoys

him so much as to see that any one is trying to get him married. Marian is

in every way suitable, and between you and me, dear, I think they would

both be glad to have a mediator, only they are too proud to own it.

Everybody thought about ten years ago that they were engaged, and they

certainly were in a fair way to be, when some lovers’ quarrel occurred,

and they parted. You have never seen Miss Willis, have you?”

Yes; Bird had seen her at Miss Melicent Yorke’s wedding, and she was the

grandest looking lady there. She wore a black velvet dress, buttoned up

high with diamonds, and not another jewel about her. She had a pink half‐

open camellia in her bosom, and a wide‐open one in her hair. Clara Yorke

said that the beautiful plainness of Miss Willis’ toilet made everybody

else look all tags and ends. She gave the bride a rare engraving of some

picture of The Visitation, which Miss Melicent didn’t half like, because

the S. Elizabeth was on her knees, and because there was a crown carved in

the frame just over the Virgin’s head. But the bridegroom had reconciled

her to it, saying that motherhood is a crown to any woman. Mrs. Edith

Yorke, Carl’s wife, who is now abroad, was very fond of Miss Willis, and

used to call her “Your Highness.”

“Oh! their intimacy was because Mr. Carl Yorke was a Catholic,” interposed

Mrs. Clay rather abruptly.

When Bird got talking of the Yorkes, she never knew when to stop; and the

subject was not pleasant to her listener. Mrs. Clay had tried to be

intimate with the family, and had signally failed. Always kind and

courteous, there still seemed to be an invisible crystalline wall between

them and her.

“Marian’s religion is her one fault. It may be possible that she and

Cousin Bently disagreed about that, though it would be hard to find out

what he believes, or if he believes anything. He defends every religion

you attack, and attacks every religion you defend.”

“But do you think she would marry him?” asked Bird incredulously; and her

glance toward the window became depreciatory and critical, instead of

awful.

Mr. Bently, as a learned man, was to be regarded with fear and admiration;

but as a bridegroom—that was another thing.

“Why, she is handsome and rich.”

“What if she is?” asked the other tartly. “It only makes her more

suitable. But she is not rich, though she lives with a rich old uncle, who

may leave her something. She is in every way suited to Cousin Bently. He

would never marry an inferior woman.”

This last assertion Mrs. Clay made very positively, for the reason that

she was mortally afraid it was not true. Her private opinion was that Mr.

Bently must have been very lonely in his bachelor lodgings before he came

to visit her, and that he might easily be induced to marry even Bird,

rather than live alone any longer.

Meantime, the object of their conversation, having put the vociferous John

away, and induced him to lie at his feet, instead of pervading his neck

and face, sat gazing out through the window. He certainly was not an

eminently beautiful man, neither was he a pink of nicety in his dress,

though he abhorred untidiness in others, particularly in women. His form

was rather fine, but his features were too strong for grace, his hair was

growing gray, and his teeth were discolored by his odious beloved tobacco.

There was something a little neglected in his appearance. Evidently he

needed some one with authority to remind him, when occasion demanded, that

his cravat was horribly awry, that he had forgotten to smooth his hair

down since the last time he combed it up with his ten fingers, and that,

really, that collar must come off. In fine, he needed an indulgent wife,

who would look out for him constantly, but with discretion, never

intruding the cravat and collar question into his sublime moments.

Was he conscious of something lacking in his life, that his expression was

less the gravity of the man of thought than the sadness of the lonely man?

Something ailed him—physical sickness, no doubt, for his face was flushed,

and his eyes heavy—but some trouble of the mind also. He looked across the

lawn, that was bounded by a dense line of autumn‐colored trees, with a sky

of brilliant clearness arching over. Betwixt sapphire and jasper the low

purple dome of a mountain pushed up, making a background for a shining

cross that might be suspended in air for any support visible to him who

gazed on it. But he had seen that cross before, and his mind, leaping over

the few intervening miles, followed down from its sunlighted tip and

touched a slim gray tower and a vine‐covered church, and, looking through

the gay rose‐window over the chancel, saw a tiny lambent flame floating in

and fed by sacred oil of olives. Mentally he stood before the church door,

saw the grove of beeches that hid it from the road, saw through those

heavy boughs the green slope of a lawn near by and the mansion that

crowned its summit. But in one respect the eyes of the seer were less true

to the present than to the past, for they beheld roses, instead of autumn

colors, wreathing pillar, porch, and balcony.

In this house Marian Willis lived. He sat and recollected all his

intercourse with her, from the first pleasant dawn of friendly regard and

sympathy, growing up to something brighter and closer, yet scarcely

defined, to its sudden extinguishment. His acquaintance with her had been

like a day that breaks in silent and cloudless light, and is shut in by a

cold and smothering fog before its noon. What had been expressed to her of

all that sweetness he found in her society? What to him of the pleasure

she seemed to feel in his? Nothing that had other utterance than silent

looks and actions. What had separated them? A mist, a fog, an impalpable

yet irresistible power. Some tiny wedge had been inserted that gave a

chance for pride to rush in and thrust their lives apart. There had been a

slight reserve that grew to coldness and thence to alienation. Who does

not know how those many littles make a mickle? Possibly a certain gallant

officer, just home from the wars, with his arm in a sling, and a sabre‐

scar across his temple, had had something to do with the trouble.

Certainly the last mental picture Mr. Bently had carried away from his

last visit at Mr. Willis’ was of this same officer walking in the garden

with Marian Willis leaning on his sound arm, and listening to the tale of

his adventures as women always do and always will listen to soldiers who

bring their wounds to illustrate their stories.

On that occasion, Mr. Bently had returned to his cousin’s house and

behaved in what he considered a very reasonable manner. He locked himself

into his chamber, let in all the light possible, placed himself before the

mirror, and critically examined the reflection he saw there. There was no

glorious sabre‐wound across his temple, showing where he had once wrestled

with death, and come off conqueror; but, instead, there were long, faint,

horizontal lines beginning to show on his forehead—mementoes of the silent

combat with time, and of anxious quest in search of hidden truth. There

were no crisp, fair curls shining over his head; the brown hair was

straight and short, and here and there a white hair rewarded the search

for it. The soldier’s large violet eyes flashed like jewels; but these

eyes in the mirror were no brighter than wintry skies, a calm, steady blue

that a planet might look through, perhaps, but that were not used to

lightning. The soldier was clad in a trim uniform that set off well a form

of manly grace, the stripe that glimmered down the leg, the band, like a

lady’s bracelet, that bound the sleeve, the golden eagle outspread on

either shoulder, all helping to make a gallant picture; the raiment

reflected with pitiless fidelity by the mirror before him was decidedly

neutral. No one could call it picturesque nor even elegant of its kind. It

was simply calculated to escape censure.

Having made a full survey and, as he thought, a fair comparison, this

self‐elected judge then pronounced sentence on the person whose reflection

he gazed at.

“You are a fool!” he said, with a conviction too deep for bitterness.

“What is there in you that a fair and charming woman could prefer? Bah!

She prizes you as she does those vellum Platos and Homers that she admires

because others do, but cannot read a word of. When she sinks into her arm‐

chair for that hour of rest before dressing for dinner, does she take with

her a book of Greek or of logic? No; she reads the poet or the novelist.

You have nothing to do with her more intimate life.”

Thus had the scholar decided, gazing at his own reflection in the mirror,

seeing there only the shell of the man, and that not at its best, at its

worst rather. The kindling of intelligence, the scintillating of sharp

intellectual pursuit, the soft radiance which dawning love gave him when

he was shone upon by the beloved object—those he saw not. He saw only a

fool.

So far, so good. But he had not finished the work. A fool may be

miserable, may be ruined by his folly, even while owning it. He must not

only prove the vanity of hoping, but the vanity of loving. He must remove

the halo from his idol’s brow, not rudely, but with all the coolness and

gentleness of reason. What, after all, were beauty and grace, a sweet

voice and smile, and gracious speaking? He set himself to analyze them,

physiologically, chemically, and morally.

So the botanist analyzes a flower, and when he has destroyed its ravishing

perfume, and that exquisite combination which constituted its

individuality—a combination man can separate, but which only God can

form—he points to the fragments, and says, “That is a rose!”

But suppose that, even while he speaks, those withering atoms should stir

and brighten, the anthers should gather again their golden pollen, and

hang themselves once more on each slender filament, the petals blush anew,

and rustle into fragrant crowding circles, and a most rosy rose should

rise triumphantly before him!

Some such experience had Mr. Bently when he had finished his work of

demolition. Turning coldly away from the ruins of what had been so fair,

he walked to the window to take breath, and saw there before him the

living woman complete, her soul welding with immortal fire every

characteristic and mood into a being irresistibly lovely, baffling,

and—disdainful. She stood in the garden where Mrs. Clay had purposely

detained her beneath his window, and she stood there unwillingly. Only a

social necessity had brought her to the house, and she had determined that

she would not, if it could be helped, meet that gentleman who, from being

a daily visitor of her own, had suffered three days to pass during which

he had once or twice talked with her uncle over the gate, but had never

approached her.

Since that hour when, looking from his window, he had seen her sail past

without raising her eyes, Mr. Bently had been haunted at times by two

antagonistic visions—the rose dissected, which he viewed with

indifference, succeeded by the rose full‐blown, triumphant in unassailable

sweetness.

He thought it all over now as he sat looking out of Mrs. Clay’s eastern

bay‐window. And having thought it over once, it began to go through his

mind again, and still again. The various scenes passed, one by one,

slowly, like persons in a procession, and he gazed at them from first to

last; and there was the first again! He had had enough of it, but it would

not stop. His head was aching, and feeling somewhat light besides. He

pressed his forehead with his hands, and tried to think of something else,

even if it were no more pleasant subject than the cold he must have taken

to make him so sore from head to foot. But still that procession moved

with accelerating speed. He spoke to John, tired and annoyed himself a

little with the creature’s antics, then leaned back in his chair, and let

his brain whirl.

Certainly he was ill; but nothing else was certain. Whether to go or stay,

to speak or remain silent, he could scarcely decide. When dinner was

announced, instinct kept him conventional. He ate nothing, but he went

through all the proper forms, with no more abstraction than might be

attributed to his intellectual oddities. But dinner, with its inanities,

over, he made haste to escape to his own room.

“Going out for a walk, cousin?” asked Mrs. Clay, as he passed her.

How the trivial question irritated him! He bowed, afraid to utter a word,

lest it should be an offensive one. His nerves felt bare, his teeth on

edge.

Miss Bird looked more deeply than her friend had, and in the one timid

glance she gave the gentleman saw a painful trouble underneath his cool

exterior.

“I hope he didn’t hear what we were saying of him before dinner,” she

remarked apprehensively.

“No, indeed!” was the confident response. “He scarcely hears what you say

to him, still less what is said of him.”

“But he looked displeased,” persisted the anxious Bird.

Mrs. Clay cast a sarcastic glance on her subordinate. “My dear,” she said

with decision, “the less you occupy yourself with my cousin’s feelings,

the better for you. Your solicitude will be quite thrown away.”

Bird sighed faintly, and resigned herself to being snubbed.

Mr. Bently walked up‐stairs slowly, dreading to be alone, and shut himself

into his room; and, when there, desolation settled upon him. It is not

pleasant to be sick in one’s own home, with loving and solicitous friends

surrounding one with their cares, and taking every task from the weak

hands; it is still less pleasant when, though friends are near, they are

powerless to lift the burden which only those helpless hands can carry;

but how far more miserable, how far more cruel than any other desolation

on earth, is it when sickness falls upon one who must work, and the sick

one is not only oppressed by the burden of duties unperformed, but is

himself a burden, coldly and grudgingly tended, or tended not at all? Mr.

Bently knew well the extent of his cousin’s friendship, and the worth of

her Chinese compliments, and he would far rather have fallen in the

street, and been left to the tender mercies of strangers, than fall ill in

her house.

Morning came, and it was breakfast‐time, by no means an early hour. Mrs.

Clay had put off the meal half an hour on her cousin’s account. “He has at

least one polite habit—he does not rise early,” she said. “But then he is

as regular as a clock in his late hour.”

He was not prompt this morning, however, for they waited ten minutes after

breakfast was on the table, and rang a second bell, and still their

visitor did not appear.

Miss Bird suggested that he had looked unwell the evening before, and

might be unable to come down.

“Really, how thoughtful you are!” Mrs. Clay said with cutting emphasis. “I

had quite forgotten. Perhaps, my son, you will go up and see if Miss Bird

is right.”

“My son” objected to being made a messenger of. “If the old fellar wanted

to sleep, let him sleep. Don’t you say so, Clem?”

Clementina always agreed with her brother; the two prevailed, and the “old

fellar” was left to sleep, or toss and moan, or be consumed with fever and

thirst, or otherwise entertain himself as he or fate should choose, while

the family breakfasted at their leisure.

It is scarcely worth while to put Clementina and Arthur Clay in print.

They are insignificant and, in a small way, disagreeable objects, and

their like is often met with to the annoyance of many. The mental

ignorance and lack of capacity which we lose sight of when they are

overmantled by the loveliness of good‐will, in such as these become

contemptible by being placed on pedestals of presumption and ill‐nature,

and hateful when they are set as obstacles and stumbling‐blocks in the way

of souls who would fain walk and look upward.

Breakfast over, and no Mr. Bently appearing, Mrs. Clay felt called on to

make inquiries, and, accordingly, dispatched a servant to her cousin’s

door, while she herself listened at the foot of the stairs. She heard a

knock, but no reply, then a second knock, followed by the servant’s voice,

as if in answer to some one within.

“Paper under the door, sir? Yes, sir!”

She was half way up the stairs by this time, and snatched the slip of

paper which the man had found pushed out under Mr. Bently’s door. “What in

the world can be the matter? Where are my eye‐glasses? Cousin Bently is

such a frightful writer that, really—”

While the lady is adjusting her glasses, and her children and companion

are gathering about her, we will read this document, for there will be no

time afterward. It is short, and is strongly scented with camphor.

“I am ill, and, it is possible, may have small‐pox. It has been where I

was a fortnight ago. Keep away from me, and send for a doctor.”

Confusion ensued. Screams resounded from the parlor; orders and counter‐

orders were given, only one fixed idea penetrating that chaos—to get away

from the house as quickly as possible. Carriages were got out, silver and

valuables piled into them by Bird, who alone would go upstairs, and who

was made to do everything, and in less than half an hour the whole family

started for the city. The servants, all but the gardener, had already

fled.

“But who is to take care of Mr. Bently?” Bird asked, pausing at the

carriage door.

“I shall give the gardener orders to get a doctor and nurse,” Mrs. Clay

said impatiently, fuming with selfish terror.

“But I’m not afraid,” Bird hesitated. “I’ve been vaccinated. And it’s hard

to leave him alone.”

“Nonsense!” cried the lady. “I shall allow nothing of the sort. It is not

necessary, and, besides, it is not proper. Do get in, if you are going to

town. It really seems to me, Miss Bird, that you are altogether too much

interested in Mr. Bently.”

Then, at last, Bird perceived what was in the speaker’s mind, and, as most

women would in such circumstances, laid down her better impulses at the

feet of meanness. Crushed and ashamed, and, at the same time, weakly and

despairingly angry, she took her place in the carriage, and listened in

silence to the lamentations and complaints of her companions.

“How could Cousin Bently do such a thing? How could he come to me when he

knew he had been so exposed?”

That Mr. Bently had only learned from the paper of the evening before to

what he had been exposed, and had only thought during the night what might

be the meaning of his illness, the lady did not inquire into.

At the garden gate stood James, the gardener. Mrs. Clay stopped long

enough to give him hurried directions to get a doctor and nurse, and do

all that was necessary for the invalid, then ordered the coachman to drive

on.

“I hope John isn’t with us,” one of the young ones said presently. “He was

round Cousin Bently all day yesterday.”

No; Bird, recollecting that fact also, had shut John into one of the

chambers, and left him there. She ventured to hope that he would not be

left to starve, but no one responded to her merciful wish.

The cause of all this terror and confusion had seen the departure of the

family without being surprised at it. He had not undressed, but had lain

on a sofa all night, and, when morning came, had written the warning which

proved so effectual, and then sank into an arm‐chair near the window,

longing for air. He expected the family to keep away from him, and was

neither sorry nor indignant that they had removed themselves still

further. Of course a doctor would be sent, and of course there was some

one to take care of him. He sat and waited for that some one to enter.

Perhaps it was James. He saw the gardener shut and fasten the gate after

the carriage went out, and he heard the locking of the stable door. He

waited, but no one came. Well, the house must be attended to first, and he

would be patient, though thirst, and alternate fever and chills, and

racking pains were tormenting him. He was annoyed, too, by John’s efforts

to escape from the next room, and would have gone to release the creature

but for the fear of spreading contagion.

A distant door opened and shut; he heard a distant heavy step, and thanked

God that relief and companionship were at hand. But the sounds ceased, and

no one came near him. He saw James, the gardener, laden with packages,

hurry down the avenue, and disappear into the public road, and a thrill of

fear shot through him. The scene outside swam before his eyes, and grew

dark for a moment. Could it be that they had all gone away, and left him

to die alone? No; he could not believe it! James had perhaps gone to bring

the doctor. He would wait patiently, since wait he must.