Chapter 2

A FOUNTAIN.

That evening Mr. Churchill dined with his cousin and Mrs. Graham at their hotel, and afterward sat with his cousin in their balcony.

He found Edith wonderfully improved. She was either prettier, or her educated taste made her look so. She knew how to dress now, and her manner was better. She was cheerful, and she carried her head higher. The hair he once had thought red he knew now was the color the Venetian painters loved, and he looked admiringly at the rich coils that crowned her graceful head.

Besides, there was no sign of that too evident love which had driven him from her. She looked at him calmly, and spoke with a familiarity which had an undefined coolness in it.

While they sat there alone, talking pleasantly, a servant brought a note for Mr. Churchill. It had been taken to his house and forwarded to him. Excusing himself, he went into the room to read it by the shaded lamp.

His cousin turned her head, and watched him unseen. She saw his face grow crimson as he read, the veins standing out on his forehead, then grow pale again. She had thought while they sat at dinner that he was looking pale.

He stood bent down, with his eyes fixed on the page, and, without turning the leaf, gazing at what he had read as if he did not understand it.

"My dear friend," Mrs. Lindsay had written, "after a certain conversation which we had some time ago, I think I ought to tell you my news without delay. The Duke of Sassovivo is with us, and this evening he has presented Aurora to us as his future wife."

He stood so long gazing at the words that his cousin went to him.

"Excuse me, Edith, I must go out," he said, in a stifled voice.

"Good-night, Edward," she said, and asked no questions, but held out her hand.

The hand that took hers was cold, and her good-night received not a word of response.

He went out and called a gondola.

"Where to?" the gondolier asked.

"Anywhere!"

They went up and down, and across to the Giudecca, and down again, and turned the point of the Public Garden, and the gondolier was about returning, when for the first time his passenger spoke:

"Go round by San Pietro and inside by San Daniele. Go where it is dark."

"He is disappointed in love, or jealous," the man thought as they threaded the inner ways of the city, now by a lighted piazza, now under shadowing bridges, or along the gloomy, silent walls of palaces that shut them in.

"Where shall I go now?" he ventured to ask, when they had gone the whole length of the city. "We are in the Cannareggio."

The passenger raised himself. He had sat all the time with his head bowed down. "Let her drop down the canal," he said, his voice grown gentler. "Keep well to the left."

They went out into the canal and downward. Passing under the Rialto, there rose a deep sigh from the gondola, and the echoing arch whispered back a sigh.

The passenger was alert now, looking at all the palaces at the left, as though he had never seen them before. As they passed Palazzo Pesaro a gondola touched its steps, and a lady and gentleman got out and walked up to the portone. The moonlight sparkled on, the uniform of one and on the gilded fan of the other. They had been out together, and alone, drawing sweetness from the same air where he had breathed in bitterness.

"Well, it is fitting," he sighed. "Her head was made to wear a coronet. God bless her!--and him."

He looked at them standing in the archway of the palace saying good-night till distance hid them from him. He was in front of his cousin's hotel, and, looking up, he saw her still sitting in the balcony where he had left her.

Late as it was, he landed and went up to her again. She recognized him when he stepped out of the gondola, and was not too much surprised when he appeared. He seated himself beside her, and looked out over the water without saying a word.

"Are you not well?" she asked at length, timidly.

He started. "Why do you ask?"

"You look pale," she answered.

For a moment he did not speak. Then he said, "I have had a disappointment, Edith."

She leaned toward him with a sigh and a hand half extended, compassion in all her attitude.

He took the hand, and rose. "Let me tell you all, dear," he said. "I need comfort. Come and let me tell you,--if it will not be a bore,"

She went at once, pain and delight struggling together in her heart. He led her to the sofa, and sank down to the cushion at her feet, bowing his head to her knees. And there he poured out his whole story, sparing her nothing.

Perhaps an instinct of justice and mercy ran through his passion. Perhaps, guessing in the soft, tremulous, soothing hands that touched his hair and forehead the love that he had believed to be dead, and with an unconscious feeling that she was to be the consoler and companion of his future life, he felt also that all the pain she was to suffer for this love of his must be gone through with now.

He could not understand that her only pain was for him, and that for herself she was blest. For she had his confidence, and she could console him.

From that night he became her constant escort and companion. He wrote a brief note in answer to Mrs. Lindsay's, and then he seemed to forget that he knew any one in Palazzo Pesaro.

"For the present I am _de trop_" he wrote, "but I will see you before you go away. All happiness to Aurora and her chosen husband."

Impossibility is a wonderful extinguisher of desire; and what suffering was left to him was not so much a sickness as the languor of convalescence. He saw Aurora but seldom, and always at a distance; but he knew that Venetian society was rejoicing over the engagement, and that the duke was a devoted lover.

Once, in passing by, he glanced involuntarily at the windows, and saw a group inside, the sight of which gave him a momentary pang. D'Rubiera seemed to be placing something on Aurora's head, and Mrs. Lindsay clapped her hands.

The duke was, in fact, trying a coronet on his future wife. He had sent for the family jewels, and was to have them reset, and Mrs. Lindsay clapped her hands at seeing the diamonds on Aurora's hair.

D'Rubiera was an impatient and peremptory wooer, and he won the day. They were to be married in June; and the Lindsays would stay in Venice a month longer to witness the ceremony.

Fra Antonio came from Sassovivo and joined their hands in Saint Mark's, gold and rank smoothing away all obstacles. Then they went to England for the boy, and came back in time for a week at Bellmar. After Bellmar, they went to Sassovivo, unannounced, to break open the walled-up gate and carry jubilee into the castle, the duke said.

In fact, they spent a whole day long in the castle, tranquilly watching from its windows the visitors who went to the villa in vain to _ossequiare_ the master and his new duchess. It was the last time that they would enter the castle as master and mistress; for the Signora Paula and Martina were coming to live there,--forever, if they pleased.

The Signora Paula had found herself _de trop_ in her brother's house. The Count Clemente had offered himself to the younger of his two first lodgers, the girl of fifty, and been beamingly accepted; and, though months must elapse before all the necessary preparations could be made for their marriage, the Sposa was now mistress of the house. She smiled as before, but she had her way. The sacred dirt of centuries was being cleaned out, and immemorial grime was growing pale before the soap and sand of a civilization to which the Signora Paula was a stranger. Where duchesses had swept their silks in uncomplaining tranquillity, the smiling Americana walked on tiptoe with her skirts upheld, and pointed out her orders to the wondering scrubbers with the toe of her slipper, both hands being employed.

In all these innovations every care was taken that the count should not be disturbed. But he had his cross, and an unexpected one. When it became time to talk of settlements, and it had to be owned that the gentleman had nothing to settle on his wife but the shadow of a coronet, of which she would have to buy the substance if she ever wore it, the lady announced blandly that she would pay all their living-expenses and give her husband five hundred dollars a year spending-money if he would pay the rent to the duke,--this arrangement to hold as long as they should live together.

"But we shall always live together," said the count, with a contortion meant for a smile.

"If we should live," the lady said. "But life is uncertain."

"Oh, in case of death, one makes different arrangements," the count said, somewhat impatiently. "That is another question."

"But I want it so," persisted the lady coquettishly; "and I must have my way. I have always had my way."

And, ever smiling, never appearing to dream that he was in earnest or to suspect the rage that was gnawing his heart, she had her way. She smiled at his coarse and open grasping, smiled at his scarcely hidden anger, and smiled at the half-insulting consent he flung at her, as if it were all a jest. And he believed her the simpleton she seemed, and did not know that he had found a mistress who would rule him with a rod of iron.

On the second day of their stay in Sassovivo the duke and duchess drove down early in the morning to the campagna, and left another brewing of _ossequii_ to fizz itself out in unresponsive air.

Aurora was going to erect a memorial fountain to her mother in the midst of the long, hot, dusty road to the station. A wild spring of delicious water lay back in a rocky pasture. This was to be brought forward and run into marble basins for man and beast. Above should be a carved relief of Christ and the Samaritan woman at the well, with, underneath, "And the woman said, Lord, give me of this water to drink, that I may never thirst again."

An artist had come out from Rome to see the place and make suggestions; and they walked over the green grass, and visited the spring in its own home, and drank of its sparkling tide.

"Would you like to be a missionary, little spring?" Aurora asked, bending toward it. "Many will call you blessed, and the image of your Master will forever look down upon you."

The artist looked at her in surprise and smiling admiration. He had found her a very dignified lady, and this unexpected turn reminded him that she was a poetess as well as a duchess.

"What does it say?" D'Rubiera asked.

She took his arm, smiled into his face, but made no answer.

They went back to the carriage, took leave of their artist, and drove slowly to the town.

"I hope that mamma likes the idea of the fountain," the duchess said thoughtfully.

MARY AGNES TINCKER.

[THE END.]

* * * * *

EPITAPH WRITTEN IN THE SAND ON A BUTTERFLY DROWNED IN THE SEA.

Poor Psyche, to a Power supernal wed, How strong a fate on this thy frailness fell! What strange ironic word shall here be read? Dead sign of immortality, farewell!

I sigh not that the summer fields have lost One flying flower: who counts the butterflies? I sigh not that thy sunny hour was crossed: The self-same Shadow surely waits mine eyes,

Thy piteous terror of the appointed end, For this I sigh! The billow, poised above, Fell on thee like a beast that leaps to rend: Thou couldst not know thy bridegroom Death was Love!

How otherwise thy sister, yea, the Soul, Bent brooding o'er these broken wings of thine! Through all her house of mystery once she stole To the inmost room, and found a Face benign.

Now whirl her where ye must, ye waves of Law,-- Ay, tear her vans, her painted hopes, apart! She cannot fear, remembering what she saw: Dark bridegroom Death, she knows thee who thou art!

HELEN GRAY CONE.

* * * * *

THE PIONEERS OF THE SOUTHWEST.

TWO PAPERS.--I.

It is related of Daniel Boone that when (in 1764) he climbed to the summit of the Alleghanies and looked down upon the vast herds of deer and buffalo that were grazing at his feet, he said to his companion Callaway, "I am richer than the man in Scripture who owned the cattle on a thousand hills: I own the wild beasts in a thousand valleys."

It may be questioned if Boone had an adequate conception of the stupendous possessions of the "man in Scripture," but he was certainly justified in boasting of the wide magnificence of this domain which, by right of discovery, he claimed as his own. An Indian might have told him that it would require "three moons, two paddles, and two stout braves" to skirt its southern and western boundaries and reach its northern limit on the Ohio; but no phraseology known to the Red Man could have expressed the boundless wealth, animate and inanimate, that lay hidden in its unexplored recesses. By the leaves on the trees, or the stars in a cloudless night, he might have indicated the countless herds of wild animals that roamed upon it; but how would he picture the leafy magnificence of its forests, or the grassy luxuriance of the many "openings" that everywhere dotted its surface?

It was a tract of country larger than the combined kingdoms of England and Scotland, and, from the exceeding richness of its soil, it was capable of sustaining a far denser population than now inhabits the British Islands. And yet throughout its entire extent there was at this period not a single human habitation, not the solitary hut of a white settler nor the smoky wigwam of a roving Indian. It was the hunting-ground and battle-field of the Indians, claimed by hostile tribes, but occupied by none, and hence the more inviting as a field for civilized settlement.

It is difficult for us to conceive of the enthusiasm which this new country awoke in the mind of the primitive explorer. To him it was a new world, more genial in climate, more beautiful in scenery, and more magnificent in extent than any he had ever beheld; and it is not surprising that the glowing accounts he gave of it on his return were received with wondering incredulity by the simple farmers on the sterile banks of the Yadkin. Accustomed to a sandy soil a few inches in thickness and covered with a scanty growth of slender pines, how could they believe in a yellow loam four feet or more in depth, and supporting dense forests of oak and poplar ten feet in diameter and towering aloft a hundred feet before they broke into branches? The tale was incredible, and it was years before the wonderful story was believed among the rural population of North Carolina, and then not until it was confirmed by the report of one of their number,--a young farmer, selected by themselves to accompany Boone on his third exploration, in 1769.

This young man was James Robertson, of Wake County, North Carolina, and, as he was to become a principal agent in the settlement of the Southwest, he requires here a few words of description. He was at this time about twenty-seven years of age, a little above the medium height, and of a well-knit, robust, manly frame. He had prominent features, and thick dark hair falling loosely over a square, full forehead which rose in the coronal region into an almost abnormal development. His eyes were large, of a light blue, and shaded by heavy dark eyebrows; and they had an habitual look of introspection, showing a mind of more than common thoughtfulness. He was grave, earnest, self-contained, with the quiet consciousness of power which is natural to a born leader of men. And yet there was in his manner no self-assumption or arrogance. On the contrary, he was courteous and conciliatory, and had that rare blending of self-respect and deference for others which, while it repelled undue familiarity, put the rudest at his ease, and extracted from an old Cherokee chieftain, who all his life had been the enemy of the white race, the unwilling praise, "He has winning ways, and he makes no fuss."

Though clad in homespun, and too much absorbed in things of greater moment to be over-careful of his personal appearance, he was a man of so marked a character that he would have attracted attention in almost any assemblage. Cautious, careful of consequences, and watchful of danger, he was at the same time bold, fearless, and ever ready to undertake enterprises which would stagger men of fewer mental resources. So exactly was he fitted to the time and the circumstances in which he was placed, that the conclusion is irresistible that he was a providential man, especially appointed to his work by a Higher Power.

This was his own conviction, but he came to it at a later time, when experience had shown that he bore a charmed life, and he had realized what his single arm and brain might accomplish. But now, in his own eyes, as in those of others, he was a simple countryman, able to "read, write, and cipher" and to do small jobs of surveying, but with little knowledge of any book except the Bible, though in that so deeply versed that it moulded his speech and regulated his every action. His nature was deeply religious, but he had, as yet, no higher aim in life than to make a home for himself, his wife and child in some new region, where he might acquire a competence, and rise, perhaps, to a station of some little influence and consideration.

And now, merely stating that he was born in Brunswick County, Virginia, of Scotch-Irish parentage, on the 28th of June, 1742, and that at the age of twenty-five he had married Charlotte B. Reeves, a woman nine years younger than himself, but everyway worthy to be his wife, I will go on with him and Boone in his first journey over the Alleghanies.

His equipment was a horse, a blanket, a hatchet, and a hunting-knife. Over his shoulder were slung a long Deckard rifle, a powder-horn, and a bag of bullets; and on the horse behind him were balanced a sack well filled with parched corn, a package of salt, and a tin cup for drinking purposes. This was his entire outfit. On the parched corn and the game to be procured by his rifle he was to subsist on his journey.

There were half a dozen in the party, and they followed the trail hitherto taken by Boone, for there was no road, nor even a bridle-path. After leaving the settlements their way lay through an almost unbroken forest; but there was no difficulty in keeping the trail, for it had been carefully blazed by Boone on his previous journeys. At night they encamped under some spreading tree, and, tethering their horses among the timbers, lighted a fire with the extra flint which each one carried in his bullet-pouch. Their mode of lighting a fire is peculiar to the backwoodsman. A handful of dry grass or leaves is gathered, then twisted into a nest, in which is placed a piece of ignited punk; then the grass is closed over the punk, and the ball is waved, in the air till it breaks into a blaze, when it readily ignites the bundle of dry sticks with which the fire is kindled. Then the limbs of dead trees are heaped upon the blaze, and one of the travellers sets about preparing supper for the whole party. It is probably of venison, for there are plenty of deer in that region. As soon as the burning logs have deposited a good bed of ashes, a hole is scooped in them, and in it is deposited the haunch or other portion. When sufficiently done, it is taken out, the ashes are knocked away, and then--no civilized man, whose appetite has never been sharpened by open-air exposure in the woods, can understand the keen avidity with which the delicious viand is consumed.

Supper over, each traveller lights his pipe of fragrant "Honey-Dew," or still more fragrant "Kinnikinnick"; and the evening is most likely whiled away in pleasant talk and narrative of "moving accidents" by field and forest. Boone was a good narrator, and, though but five years the senior of Robertson, had already a large experience of thrilling adventure. At last, heaping fresh logs upon the fire, to keep up the blaze till morning and scare away the wolves and panthers that might be attracted by the scent of the venison, the travellers would spread their blankets upon the ground, turn their feet to the fire, and sink into slumber.

Thus they encamped by night and journeyed by day, till they reached the summit of the Stone Mountains, the northerly portion of the long range which is now the boundary between Tennessee and North Carolina. And here a view broke upon them such as Robertson, accustomed as he was to the comparatively tame scenery of Wake County, had never beheld. Spread out at their feet was a beautiful valley, some thirty miles in length by twenty in width, and covered by a luxuriant forest, broken here and there by grassy openings, one of which, larger than the rest, was the "Watauga Old Fields" of the Pioneers. Some twenty miles away, two small rivers united their currents and flowed together to the west through a gap in the encircling mountains. Tracing their courses up among the hills, the explorers would catch glimpses of numerous smaller streams, which feed the larger ones and water the whole of this enchanting region.

The valley, which is itself two thousand feet above the sea, is hemmed in by huge mountain-ranges,--the Holston on the north and west, and the Iron and Stone Mountains on the south and east,--which break into peaks--the White-Top, the Bald, and the Roan--the lowest of which towers more than a mile into the air. These mountains protect the valley from the chill winds of winter, and temper the summer breezes to a delicious coolness, making the atmosphere the most delightful that can be imagined. The bottoms along the rivers are wide and productive, bearing then a thick crop of tall grass, on which multitudes of deer, elk, and buffalo were browsing. The soil of the bottoms is a deep, dark loam, capable of yielding immense crops of wheat and Indian corn, while the higher and less fertile land along the base of the mountain will produce fruits of the most delicate flavor and in astonishing abundance.

Altogether, the scene is picturesque beyond description,--a charming valley, threaded by limpid streams, and dotted with dense forests of oak, pine, poplar, cherry, and walnut, the whole encircled by huge sandstone ridges, their loftier peaks capped by the clouds, and standing there grim, silent, and sublime, like giant sentinels guarding the gates of an earthly paradise. Years afterward, speaking of the scene as it then broke upon him, Robertson said, "It seemed to me the Promised Land."

As the explorers prepared to descend into the valley, they noticed a few miles away, at the north, a slight smoke curling up from among the trees near the banks of what is now known as Boone's Creek, a small tributary of the Watauga. Was it from the encampment of some Indian hunter, or the cabin of a white man who had settled there since the visit of Boone, five years before? With the caution of old hunters they descended the mountain and approached the spot whence the smoke issued. It was a log hut, newly built, and around it, in the stacked corn and the cattle browsing near, were evidences of a white inhabitant. He was a former comrade of Boone, his companion during his visit here in 1760, and he had returned during the previous summer and built a home for his family. His name was William Bean, and he was the first white settler west of the Alleghanies.

The explorers were hospitably entertained by Bean and his wife, but, after a few days spent in piloting Robertson about the valley, Boone set out on his first long tramp through Kentucky. Robertson remained behind, and was not long in deciding that he had happened upon the right spot for a settlement. This decided on, he set about making preparations for the incoming settlers. Selecting a spot of fertile soil, he broke it up and planted a crop of corn,--enough to carry the expected colonists through another season,--meanwhile making his home with Bean, the hospitable first settler.

It was autumn before his corn was gathered, and the rainy season had set in when he started to return to North Carolina. He had carefully husbanded his small stock of powder and lead, and with what remained, and enough parched corn and jerked venison to last, with what game he might kill, for ten or more days, he set out on his solitary journey homeward. There soon came on a heavy rain, which drenched him completely, and, worse than this, wet through and through every ounce of his powder. Wrapping his blanket closely about him, he tried to dry the powder with the warmth of his naked flesh; but all his efforts were unavailing: the precious grains had totally lost the power of ignition. Reduced now to his prepared food, he determined to push on with all speed, and, before his supply should be exhausted, reach the settlements on the other side of the mountains.

On the westerly part of the route the explorers had neglected to blaze the way, and now, day after day, the sun was hidden by thick clouds. Robertson had no difficulty so long as he could take his bearings by the course of the Watauga, but when he had passed the sources of that stream he was all at sea, with neither sun nor star nor compass to guide him. He scanned the heavens with anxious eye, but they disclosed no glimpse of the blessed sun: all was mist and rain by day, and by night the blackest of darkness. Tired, drenched, bewildered, he wandered aimlessly on, lost, completely lost, in an almost interminable forest. His food, too, was fast running low, and the scant herbage still left among the trees would no longer sustain his jaded animal. Then he turned the trusty beast adrift, to find its own way out of starvation.

He had eked out his scanty provisions with the nuts of the beech and chestnut, but now this resource was exhausted; the last handful of corn was consumed, and he was in a region of rocks and precipices (probably near the western base of the mountain), where nothing grew that would sustain life. Exhausted nature could hold out no longer. His strength was gone, he could not articulate above a whisper, and, sinking down at the foot of a cliff, he resigned himself to the inevitable.

How long he lay there he never told, and perhaps never knew; but at last, when his senses were nearly gone, he heard voices, and then approaching footsteps. They were two hunters, probably the only two human beings within a radius of a hundred miles. They came directly to the spot where he was lying, but did not see him till actually upon him. Dismounting from their horses, they lifted him in their arms, revived him with some spirits, and then, sparingly at first, ministered to him of the food in their knapsacks. Slowly his strength returned, but they stayed by him, and, when he was able to mount, seated him on one of their horses, and then guided him out of the mountain and for more than fifty miles on his way to the settlements. Then the good Samaritans went as they came, into the wide forest, leaving not even their names to a wondering tradition.

His friends and neighbors were enraptured with the description Robertson gave of the country he had discovered. To them the sterile plains and rocky uplands of Wake County lost their attractions when compared with the fertile valley which he pictured, and sixteen families prepared to go with him in the following spring to a new home west of the mountains.

When the April rains were over, they set out, about eighty souls, men, women, and children. They journeyed slowly, the men mostly on foot, the women on pack-horses, with the younger children in their arms or strapped upon the horses behind them, and the older ones trudging along by the side of their fathers, or aiding to drive the neat cattle, a score or more of which were the advance-guard of the cavalcade. The outfit of the party was simple. The men carried the usual equipment of the hunter, the women some light articles of clothing; and loaded on several led horses were such bedding and kitchen-utensils as would be needed at the end of the journey. They followed the route taken by the explorers, sleeping at night on the ground, beneath the open air, or sheltered by an improvised tent made of two forked poles thrust into the ground and supporting a longer pole, over which was stretched a heavy blanket. Should it rain, these tents were quickly pitched and all the travellers were soon under shelter. At the halting-place for the night a fire was built, the cows were milked, the journey-boards unpacked, and the delicious journey-cake (misnamed "Johnny-cake") was set before the fire or baked in the ashes. To this was added the deer or wild turkey shot by the men during the day, and they had a repast "fit to set before a king." The same was done before setting out in the morning; but at noon only a short halt was made for a cold lunch from the remains of the breakfast.

Thus they journeyed for about ten days, until they reached the base of Stone Mountain. Here they struck into a cove which breaks into the mountainside, and climbed by a winding route, but by easy stages, to the summit. Robertson rode by the side of his wife, and in front of her, astride of the pommel of the saddle, was their child, now a bright little fellow of two or three years. Later on he will appear again in our pages, and then disappear forever from human history.

As they wearily climbed the toilsome way, and paused to rest, as they probably did, at the summit, did not that young wife and mother look back, to gaze again upon the scenes she was leaving behind her? What girlhood associations she had I do not know, but she was leaving them all, and the old roof-tree beneath which she had spent her young days: all were about to pass out of her life forever. As she glanced forward into the tangled wilderness, would she not have turned back had a vision come to her of the hardships and dangers and death that lay before her?--her life at first buried amid the solitudes and dangers of Watauga, and then consigned to a frail boat which was to bear her a thousand miles, through untold perils, to a still more distant wilderness, where her home would be encircled with savage fire and the babe at her breast would be laid scalped and dying at her feet!

As they began the descent of the western slope of the mountain, an unexpected scene met the eyes of Robertson. When he left it in the previous autumn, the valley was an almost unbroken solitude; now the smoke was rising from a score of cabins, about which were many evidences of civilization. Nearly a hundred settlers were there, and the place was already a busy community.

There was not house-room for the large influx of strangers, but the spring weather was mild and genial, and they could encamp under the spreading trees until half-faced cabins were erected for their temporary shelter. These cabins were built of split saplings, one end resting on the ground, the other supported by a frame of forked poles about high enough for a man to enter standing upright. They were open at the front, but the sides and rear were covered with thick blankets, so as to afford shelter and privacy. Of no recognized order of civilized architecture, they would still serve to keep out the wind and the rain, and under them, on blankets, or now and then on the precious feather bed, spread on the ground, the tired immigrants might sleep as soundly as the renowned Sancho Panza of sleepy memory.

Their food was supplied from the corn planted and harvested by Robertson on his previous visit, and from the deer, buffalo, or wild turkey brought down by the unerring riflemen among them. On deer and wild turkey they had regaled before, but buffalo-meat was a delicacy with which they were not acquainted, and, its rich, juicy, tender steak once tasted, all other meat lost its flavor. None of them had ever even seen the animal, and we may imagine the wonder with which they first beheld the vast herds that almost darkened the valley. Lolling in the shade of the trees, or cropping leisurely the thick grass of the "openings," their coal-black beards sweeping the ground, and their long tails lashing their sleek dun sides, the noble beasts would gaze unconcernedly on the intruder, totally unconscious that this slender biped, with the slim smoke-breathing tube he bore in his hand, was ere long to wellnigh exterminate the lordly race and drive its scanty remnant far west of the Rocky Mountains. They were an easy prey to the early hunter, and thus the rude larders of the first settlers were filled to abundance.

Their wives and children provided with temporary shelter, the immigrants looked about for locations for more permanent dwellings, Virginia offered to every actual settler who should erect a log cabin and cultivate a small patch of ground four hundred acres so located as to include his improvements, together with the right to buy a thousand acres adjoining, at a price scarcely more than enough to cover the cost of surveying. The immigrants knew they were near the North Carolina boundary, but they supposed they were north of the line which starts "at a white stake on the Atlantic Ocean, at north 39° 20', and runs thence west to the South Seas," and thus were within the limits of Virginia and entitled to avail themselves of its cheap munificence,--cheap, because the whole territory had been bought by King George from the Six Nations for a few trinkets the total value of which did not exceed the cost of the wedding-outfit of a modern lady of fashion.

This line, "west to the South Seas," had not then been run farther west than the "Steep Rock," near the White-Top Mountain. When it was subsequently extended, the settlers found themselves within the limits of North Carolina and not entitled to the benefit of the Virginia law. But of this more hereafter. Now they were unconscious of encroaching on any rights of white man or red, and went on with their improvements, confident that they were acquiring an indefeasible title to their new possessions.

Nearly all the settlers whom Robertson found at Watauga were from Fairfax County, Virginia, and they had been attracted to the country by the report given of it by Dr. Thomas Walker, who with other gentlemen had made a hunting and exploring-tour through it as early as 1748. They were mostly from the farming population, somewhat uncouth in manner, and not much acquainted with books, but not illiterate, for in a document subscribed soon afterward by upward of a hundred of them only two names are signed with a cross. They had but little wealth; but they had what in a new community is far better,--frugal and industrious habits, enterprise, firm self-reliance, and the cool intrepidity which is fostered by frequent exposure to danger. No better material could have been selected to subdue the wilderness to the purposes of agriculture.

Among them, however, were some who had received the best education then afforded by the colonies. Prominent among these were the Seviers,--a father and four sons, who some time before had emigrated from Shenandoah County, Virginia, and settled about thirty miles farther north, near what is now Bristol, in Tennessee. There they were neighbors to the Shelbys, --another father and four sons,--who also have left an heroic record in the history of the Revolution.

Some of the younger Seviers, coming upon this valley on a hunting-expedition, had induced their father to remove to it; and here, "higher up the river, on its north side, and near the closing in of a ridge," he had built a roomy log mansion, a portion of which was still standing in 1844. The sons had erected dwellings lower down the river, and nearer the "Watauga Old Fields."

The Seviers were of French descent. The family name in France was Xavier, and they originally came from Xavier, a town at the foot of the Pyrenees, in Navarre, which was the birthplace of the famous ecclesiastic and missionary St. Francis Xavier. After the death of the saint the family became Huguenots, and on the revocation of the Edict of Nantes in 1685 the direct ancestor of the Seviers of whom I am writing fled from France and settled in London, where he is said to have engaged in trade and prospered. The grandson of this man, Valentine Sevier, emigrated to Shenandoah County, Virginia, shortly prior to 1740; and this is the gentleman who, with his four sons, had now settled in the valley of the Watauga.

Each of these young men displayed qualities in after-life that would have rendered him worthy of notice in the annals of any community; but the oldest, John, born in 1744, is the one whose life and exploits will demand much the larger space in the following pages. Though so young, he had already acquired some distinction in his native State, for he had been appointed a captain in the "Virginia line" by the Earl of Dunmore, the last royalist governor of Virginia. In that capacity he had come in contact with Washington, who was a colonel in the same service; and it was doubtless owing to their early association that twenty years afterward, when Sevier was under the ban of outlawry by North Carolina, Washington appointed him to the military command of East Tennessee.

This young man was destined to become one of the most unique characters in American history. I know of no other of whom it can be said that he was loved by both his friends and his enemies. Indian mothers were wont to hush their children to sleep with the terror of his name, but Indian chieftains were known to plead when in distress, "Send us John Sevier. He is a good man, and he will do us right." In the times that "tried men's souls" to the uttermost he was to stand firm when most men faltered. He was to be "the rear-guard of the Revolution," and in its darkest days was to throw his sword into the trembling scale and turn it to final victory at King's Mountain.

At this time he was about twenty-six years of age, nearly six feet in height, and of a slender but wiry and athletic figure. His carriage was erect, his movements quick and energetic, and his bearing commanding. He had light hair, a fair skin, and a ruddy complexion, and his large dark-blue eyes were singularly expressive of vivacity, good feeling, and fearlessness. He had handsome features, a lofty forehead, a prominent nose, and a mouth and chin of absolute perfection. His manners were exceedingly winning, and he had about him a sort of magnetic force that would convert into a friend the most stubborn of enemies. However, it is doubtful if, with but one exception, he ever had an enemy. His individuality was so marked that, if told John Sevier was present, any stranger could have pointed him out in the most crowded assemblage. His career will read more like romance than history, but it was entirely in keeping with the man, who was altogether great, unselfish, heroic, one of those choice spirits who are now and then sent into the world to show us of what our human nature is capable. Next to the landing of the Pilgrims at Plymouth, the coming together of those two bodies of emigrants on the Watauga was the most important event which up to that time had occurred in American history; but it was no more important than the meeting there of John Sevier and James Robertson, for, humanly speaking, had those two men not met, and acted thereafter in harmony together, the civilization there planted could never have survived the struggle it was destined to encounter with savage foes and fratricidal enemies.

There were now between thirty and forty men in the settlement, and, the location of the new-comers being decided on, they all set about the erection of their dwellings. Trees were felled, cut into logs, hewn into joists, split into flooring, and rived into shingles, and in an incredibly short time the various families were domiciled in their new abodes. These were generally one and a half stories high, about twenty feet square, and built of rough logs, chamfered at the ends, so as to fit closely together. They had a solid plank door, hung on wooden hinges, and two or three small windows, formed by sawing through one or two of the outer logs. The windows were entirely open, or closed only with a stout blind, and glazed with thick paper saturated with bear's grease to render it transparent; but the larger number of the cabins, if destitute of glazing, were furnished with blinds, which were necessary as a protection against intruders. The roof was covered with large split shingles, held down by long weight-poles, and the floors were of puncheons,--wide pieces of oak or poplar, two or three inches thick, split and hewn with an axe, and laid upon sleepers. If the hewing is well done, such floors are as level and smooth as if fashioned of machine-made material. The chimney was of sticks or stones, laid up in clay, and it went up on the outside in a pyramidal form, and of a size totally disproportioned to the dwelling, for these people were fond of a wide roaring fire in winter, and in summer the huge flue was the best of all ventilators. If it is added that the roof of some of these cabins was extended in front so as to cover a wide veranda, that the bark and moss were left clinging to the logs, which by another season would be covered with honeysuckles and the Virginia creeper, we shall see that they must have presented no unpicturesque appearance.

The interiors need only a brief description. There were generally but two rooms, one below, the other above, approached by a ladder in a corner. The lower floor was parlor, kitchen, and often bedroom. The fireplace was deep and wide, surmounted, perhaps, by a broad mantel of unpainted oak, on which were a few trinkets and the violin so precious to the backwoodsman. In one corner was a spinning-jenny, in another an uncushioned settle, and opposite the fireplace a bureau or chest of drawers of native wood and home manufacture. These, with a small table, a few chairs with rustic frames and deerskin coverings, also of home manufacture, and a couple of forked sticks nailed to one of the logs and supporting the trusty rifle, would probably complete the furniture of the apartment.

This is a description of the smaller houses. Others, adapted to larger families, were what were termed "double-barrelled" cabins, having two rooms on the ground-floor, separated by an open passage-way, and a "lean-to" in the rear to serve as a kitchen. Still others, it may be, were like the mansion of the elder Sevier,--half a dozen single cabins tacked one upon the other and covering space enough to serve for the foundation of a cathedral.

From these details we can easily form for ourselves a picture of the first civilized settlement beyond the Alleghanies. A score or more of these cabins were scattered here and there in the very heart of the forest, the great trees crowding so closely around them as often to overhang their very roofs. Near them horses and cattle were grazing on the thick native grass that grows among the trees, or housed in rude sheds at the rear of the dwellings, while farther away, along the margin of the many streams, deer and elk and buffalo were browsing. Glimpses of foot-paths leading from one widely-separated dwelling to another might be here and there seen; but there were no roads, for no wheeled vehicle had yet invaded the sylvan solitude.

Their families being properly housed, the settlers began to think of a school for the instruction of their children. Books were scarce among them, especially such as were suited to the instruction of the young. Paper, ink, slates, and pencils, also, were not easily procured. Even years later important letters and despatches were often written with ink made of gunpowder and on a blank leaf torn from a family Bible. But books and writing-implements were now imported from Virginia, and, a teacher being selected from among the better educated of the settlers, a school was opened, and the young ideas were taught to shoot in the right direction.

The people now numbered, all told, about two hundred souls, not more than forty of whom were able to bear arms. On the east a mountain barrier shut them off from all civilized aid and succor, and on every other side they were exposed to savage tribes, at least a hundred thousand strong, of whom not less than fifteen thousand were warriors. Three thousand of these, and those nearest the settlement, were Cherokees, a fierce, warlike race, by instinct and tradition the foe of the white man. How this handful of pioneers came to venture upon such dangerous ground, or, being there, escaped total extermination, may well excite our wonder. They understood their exposed situation, but they went peacefully about their daily pursuits, tilling the soil, planting and harvesting, and "gathering into barns," or, more correctly, into ricks,--for as yet there were no barns among them,--unmolested by the Indians, and in harmony with one another, for two full years of genuine prosperity. They send accounts of their prosperity to the friends they have left beyond the mountains, and new immigrants come to the settlement, some of them men of means, who aid materially in its development. However, they are an abnormal community. Two colonies claim jurisdiction over them, but the claim is never enforced, and never extends beyond a discussion in State papers; so they are without law or anything to assert its majesty. There is no power to enforce a right or punish a wrong, and not a solitary lawyer in the settlement. Every man is a law unto himself, but, strange to say, not a single crime is committed among them.

The new-comers spread, in search of choice locations, west as far as the Chimney-Top Mountain, and south to the fertile valley of the Nolachucky. The more remote settlers were therefore in a very exposed position, --almost alone, and beyond them a wide wilderness,--but they had no fear from the Indians. The few who came to the settlements were friendly, and, after smoking and eating with the settler, they would go away, grasping his hand and assuring him that the red man was his brother. Those were halcyon days; but Satan entered into Paradise, and one of his legitimate children,--a Scotchman named Cameron,--in the early spring of 1772, invaded this Eden on the Watauga.

He was the British agent residing among the Cherokees; and he came with several of the chieftains to warn the settlers that they had encroached upon the Indian lands, and must move off, or be removed by the British soldiery. However, he whispered into the ear of Sevier and Robertson that for a reasonable consideration paid to him--the representative of the British government--the settlers would be permitted to remain undisturbed in their possessions.

Unfortunately, the Indian agent was right. Virginia had left her exposed citizens to the tender mercy of the Cherokees by admitting that they had settled upon Indian territory. By a treaty made with the tribe only a short time before, the State had acknowledged the Cherokee title to the entire region lying south of a line running due west from the White-Top Mountain. It was idle for the white settlers to say that the Six Nations, who had been the original owners of the soil, had in 1768 transferred it to the government by treaty, and that the Cherokees had never before claimed any right to it but as a hunting-ground. The parent colony had acknowledged in the Cherokees a right to the soil, and hence, as the settlers were south of the treaty-line, had made them trespassers upon the Cherokee territory. It was an unfortunate and dangerous position; but Robertson and Sevier were not disposed to purchase security by bribery. They spurned the overtures of the British agent, and decided to negotiate directly with the Indians.

Some of the visiting Indians expressed a desire that the order of the British agent should not be enforced; others were willing that the settlers should remain, provided they made no further encroachments. But Robertson and Sevier were not willing to occupy their homes by any title so precarious as the word of a few Indian warriors. They determined, while they ignored the British agent, to recognize the Indian title, but to treat for their lands with the whole Cherokee nation. Accordingly, they requested the visiting chiefs to call together the head-men of the tribe in a friendly council at the "Watauga Old Fields."

They came at the appointed time,--six hundred half-naked red men, clad in buckskin leggings and hunting--shirts and head-dress of turkey-feathers, and all the male settlers, now nearly a hundred, together with all the women and children in the near-by plantations, assembled to receive them. Robertson, from his "winning ways," had been appointed master of ceremonies, and he resorted to every device to placate and amuse the savage gentlemen. Dances, ball-plays, and foot-races were improvised, in which the young men of both races joined in good-natured rivalry; but, while attending to the festivities, Robertson did not forget the real object of the gathering. For the consideration of five thousand dollars, to be paid in powder, lead, muskets, and other goods of value to the Indians, he obtained from them a ten years' lease of all the lands on the Watauga and tributary streams. This lease was executed by the head-king, Oconostota, and other leading men of the tribe, and it was supposed that it would remove for a long time to come all difficulty with the Cherokees. But this dream was only the next day rudely dispelled by a most unfortunate occurrence.

It was the last day of the convocation, and it had been arranged that a great foot-race should take place on the open ground near the river, between the younger braves and the young men of the settlement. The race was in full progress, and among the younger men all was mirth, hilarity, and good-natured emulation, while even the older chiefs, catching the spirit of the occasion, had relaxed from their habitual gravity and were cheering on the contestants, when suddenly a musket-shot echoed over the grounds, and one of the young Indians--a near kinsman of a chief--fell in his tracks lifeless. The smoke came from the woods near the race-ground, and pursuit failed to discover the assassin, but he was evidently a white man.

It was as if the shot had been fired into a magazine of gunpowder. The Indians had come without arms, or there might have followed a bloody tragedy. As it was, they gathered their blankets about them, and, with threatening gestures and faces presaging a terrible revenge, silently stole away into the forest.

It was afterward learned that the murderer was a man named Crabtree, from the Wolf Hills, now Abingdon, in Virginia. A brother of his had been killed by the Shawnees a short time before while exploring with Boone in Kentucky, and, lurking in the woods near by, he had taken this inopportune time to wreak a bloody revenge.

The Indians had left hastily, giving no time for explanation or parley. Revenge--blood for blood--was the cardinal doctrine of their theology, and, unless something were done to avert it, war, bloody and exterminating, would soon be upon the white settlers.

But what could be done? To flee the country was only to invite pursuit; to remain would be to invite a conflict with three thousand infuriated savages. Hastily they gathered in council; and then it was that Robertson volunteered, like Curtius, to ride into the breach,--at the peril of his life to visit and endeavor to pacify the Indians. It was a journey of a hundred and fifty miles through an unbroken forest, and death might lurk behind every bush and tree on the way; but what was one life perilled to save perhaps five hundred? Thus Robertson reasoned with his friends and neighbors, and then, mounting his horse and giving a parting kiss to his wife and child, he rode off into the wilderness.

EDMUND KIRKE.

* * * * *

DIEU DISPOSE.

Edward Lindsay and his wife were unmistakably favorites of Fortune. They were happily married, their love for each other being firmly established on a basis of sympathy and respect; they were young and blessed with sound health; they were very popular among their friends, of whom they had many; they were clever, Edward in a literary, his wife in an artistic way; they were prosperous, far beyond the expectations they had formed when, shortly before their marriage, Edward left his position in the Crescent Bank and went into real estate on his own account. It is hardly to be wondered at that they were regarded with envy by more than a few of their acquaintances in the comfortable city of St. Louis.

But there was, after all, a cloud that cast a shadow upon the happiness of the Lindsays,--a cloud of which they rarely spoke, but about which each of them thought a great deal: they were childless. In the early months of their married life they had been wont to talk of their prospective children, and to say what they would do and what they would not do when _they_ had a child; but when the months lengthened into years, and still there was neither son nor daughter to carry out their plans, they gradually left off alluding to these things, though they never ceased to hope that they might some day have a child.

At first the cloud was very small, so that they refused to recognize its presence; but every day it lengthened and broadened, until at last it darkened the brightest moments of their life. For each knew that the thoughts of the other ran much upon this one thing, and each was troubled that the other should brood upon it. And then, in course of time, they grew to be a little morbid. It seemed to them as if by their friends who had children they were regarded with an ill-concealed, patronizing pity. They felt an unreasonable antipathy toward young parents who loved to discourse of the ailments and accomplishments of their babies, and they even avoided the houses of many acquaintances wherein, they knew from experience, the conversation must be principally devoted to some young hopeful.

But after three winters had come and gone since their marriage, Edward began to reflect more and more seriously upon a scheme of which he had often thought as a relief from this unsatisfactory state of things, and one April morning he broached it at the breakfast-table.

"Ellen," he asked abruptly, "how would you like to adopt a child?"

His wife arrested the coffee-pot over a half-filled cup and gazed at him with sparkling eyes.

"Oh, Edward!" she exclaimed, as if a reply were quite unnecessary. "Why have we never thought of that before?"

"I can't imagine," he rejoined shamelessly. "But I happened to think yesterday of the unlimited possibilities before such a child as we should adopt. You see, we could make sure of a vigorous constitution, of sturdy and respectable parents, of physical beauty, of any combination of good qualities, if we only exercised proper care in our selection. And then, with the training and education we should give a child of ours--"

"Of course we should always consider it our own child," said Ellen.

"Of course," assented her husband. "Perhaps," he added, "it would be better that he should never know the facts of the case."

"Oh, no! I should never be happy myself if I felt I was deceiving the child," she protested.

"Well, it would be rather a difficult thing to manage, anyway, his--"

"Or her," interrupted Ellen.

"Whichever you may prefer," Edward returned, with prompt liberality. "I was thinking of a boy, simply because I realize that a boy's chances of reaching distinction are much greater than a girl's."

His wife sent him a glance of obviously feigned reproach, and thereupon confessed that she should be as happy with one as with the other. But Edward felt that he ought to represent the matter in its proper light, and affirmed that every girl anxious to work goes into life handicapped, and that nine times out of ten when a girl marries she reaches the goal of her ambition. In adopting a girl, therefore, while they might contribute much to their own happiness, they could not reasonably hope to enrich the world greatly. On the other hand, from a boy properly selected, carefully reared, and soundly educated, they might with good reason expect the very highest results. Ellen took some mental exceptions to this argument, on behalf of her sex, but she deemed it unnecessary to express them. | She entered enthusiastically into his project, and they speedily agreed that Dr. Kreiss, their titular family physician,--they had never yet had occasion to consult him,--should be requested to look about for a suitable boy.

Edward hailed the doctor on Fourth Street the next day, and presented his case.

"I see exactly what you want, said the doctor. "Must be 'young, sound, and kind,' I reckon we can fill the bill. You would rather have an orphan, I suppose?"

"Oh, by all means! There might be some unpleasant results otherwise."

"Likely enough," replied the doctor. "But it will not be so easy to lay our hands on a first-class orphan _baby_. I could get you plenty of boys four or five years old."

But Edward explained that infancy was a _sine qua non_. They especially wished that the child should be too young to have acquired tastes or habits of any kind, whether good or the reverse. They did not seek to gratify a mere whim of the moment,--simply to provide themselves with a plaything,--but hoped to aid in shaping a life of more than ordinary usefulness and worth. The doctor made answer that he would gladly do his best to find such a child as they wished, that he had no doubt of ultimate success, but that they must be prepared to wait.

This interview having been reported to Ellen, the life of the Lindsays at once assumed a brighter character. Edward went to his business with greater zest, and in his wife's eyes was a light he had not seen there for many a day. They now revived their old-time theories of education and physical training. They dispassionately reviewed the respective advantages of European and American universities. They spent a good deal of time in discussing the eligibility of the professions as well as of the sciences and arts. Edward argued that business of any kind was practically out of the question, because, with real estate in its present favorable condition, a few more years would render mere money-getting wholly unnecessary for a child of theirs. They speculated, of course, upon the personal appearance of their expected heir, but they wisely deferred any expression of preference in this respect to the time of his arrival. Names were debated upon daily, until, after many discussions, they made choice of "John," a title which had done honorable service in Ellen's family, and which, Edward said, commended itself as being simple and strong. Meanwhile, though a month passed away without word from the doctor, they waited in confidence. They had no wish, they told each other, that he should act hastily: it was merely a question of time; they could afford to be patient. And at last the doctor sent them a laconic note,--"Come and see me."

Dr. Kreiss had a deservedly large practice, and when the Lindsays presented themselves at his office they were obliged to wait until the numerous company of invalids that preceded them could be attended to. A dead silence prevailed in the room, and both Edward and his wife began to feel uncomfortable after a few minutes had elapsed. They endeavored to amuse themselves by studying the faces of the doctor's patients and guessing at their complaints; but this was not enlivening, and Edward at last essayed conversation. He whispered several things which he thought quite bright and appropriate, but Ellen took them all very seriously and vouchsafed only monosyllables in reply. It being evident that she was not in a mood for pleasantry, he relapsed into silence. But he went on to think of sundry occasions upon which he had waited in a certain dark little anteroom at Primary No.--until the principal might find leisure to flog him. Having exhausted this subject, he looked about for something to read, and descried some books on a table at the farther end of the room. He shrank, however, from the idea of walking over to them and back again in a pair of shoes which he knew very well would squeak. After vainly searching his pockets for a newspaper, he resigned himself to the inevitable, and occupied himself with his watch-chain and in tracing figures on the carpet with his cane.

Finally the doctor got through with the patients who were before them, and the Lindsays were ushered into his presence.

"I've got you a splendid boy," he said, with enthusiasm; whereat they glanced furtively about the room. "Oh, he isn't here," he laughed, "but ready for delivery whenever you say the final word. I only wish to make sure that you are satisfied with the prospect. It's a short story. The mother died at the child's birth, about a year and a half ago. Less than a week ago the father, who was a fine, broad shouldered young fellow engaged in some sort of a shipping business, got an ugly fall on one of the steamers and used himself up pretty thoroughly. I was called to attend the case, and did my best for the poor fellow; but it was no use. He died yesterday morning."

The doctor paused, as if for a leading question. Ellen was mute, and Edward felt constrained to say something: so he asked, "Did you know the mother?"

"Very well," answered the doctor, "She was one of the sweetest girls I ever met anywhere. She was a teacher in one of the public schools before she married, but she was capable of better work than school-teaching, and if she had lived she would have proved it. She had some very bright ideas, I assure you. She was uncommonly pretty, too, with a lot of dark-brown hair, fine eyes, and rather classical features. You'll see it all in the boy. He's his mother from head to heels."

"How does it happen that his relatives are willing to part with him?" Edward asked.

"Because his father was an orphan himself, and his mother's family is so poor that the child would be a serious burden to them. For all that, I had to make use of some eloquence to get possession of the baby, and only succeeded after representing the many excellencies of the young people who wish to adopt him."

The doctor bowed gracefully. Ellen then found words to say that he had been more than kind, and that if he was satisfied of the child's good health there was no reason for hesitation. Edward, who wished to terminate these preliminaries as speedily as possible, added, "Most certainly not."

"Very well, then," said the doctor: "we will consider the thing settled. The boy is as sound as a dollar, has a splendid digestion, sleeps like a top, and cuts his teeth as if he enjoyed it. Now, if you will call with a carriage to-morrow about this time, I will go with you--for that will be necessary--to get the little fellow."

But Ellen would not take Edward from his business again the next day, and--to his relief, it must be admitted--declared that she could attend to further arrangements without his assistance. This she did, and Edward found her in an ecstatic state when he came home to his dinner in the evening.

"We can never thank the doctor enough," she exclaimed _imprimis_, meeting her husband at the door. "I have never seen such a beautiful baby. _Such_ a sweet little face, and such dear little ways! You must come up into the nursery immediately. I should have brought him down to welcome you, but it is just his supper-time, and Mrs. Doly thought he'd better not wait."

And Edward was forthwith hurried up-stairs into the room which his wife composedly designated as "the nursery," where, in the arms of a middle-aged, motherly-looking woman, reposed the little waif chance had intrusted to his care. He was certainly a very handsome boy, and his fine head, big blue eyes, and clear, rosy complexion justified enthusiasm. As Edward appeared in the door-way, the child regarded him intently for a moment, and then, whether by accident or by some working of intelligence, with a little jump of emphasis ejaculated, "Da-da," which everybody knows to be early English for "papa." Of course Edward capitulated on the spot, and, like a child with a new toy, he could scarcely be torn away at the sound of the dinner-bell.

"Little John," as they came to call him,--because his grave and dignified manners seemed to render inappropriate both "Johnny" and "Jack,"--had securely established himself in the affections of his foster-parents before the end of a week. He was a mine of entertainment. Literature and art languished in the house, while the Lindsays amused themselves in playing with their baby or in discussing his good qualities and in planning for his future. And now when they went about among their married friends they not only felt themselves _en rapport_, but considered that they occupied a position of decided superiority, for everybody conceded that there was no more lovely and winning child in St. Louis than little John Lindsay; and when people spoke only of other children than their own, they frankly admitted that they never had seen such a wonderful boy. It was one of his characteristics that he never cried in good, sober earnest. Upon rare occasions he would sob a little over a delayed repast, a bumped nose, or some other tribulation incident to his age, but he was extremely susceptible to argument, and could always be restored to his normal tranquillity by a proper explanation of the case. To be sure, he was a picture of health, and seldom had occasion for tears on the score of ailments; but it should be remembered, as Mrs, Doly, the nurse, proudly claimed, that babies are very apt to cry when there is nothing the matter with them.

"Oh, Mrs. Doly," Ellen exclaimed one morning, when by some means or other Little John had specially excited her admiration, "what a lovely woman his mother must have been! How I wish I might have known her before she died! Sometimes I feel as if it cannot be right for me to have this dear little baby without her consent."

Not long after this it suddenly occurred to her that some legal steps ought probably to be taken in order that Little John might be secure against all demands. She went to Edward in alarm, and felt no peace again until he reported compliance with every necessary formality.

When hot weather arrived, Edward decided to allow himself a short vacation, --an indulgence which the exactions of business had hitherto prohibited every year since his marriage. As to where the precious time should be spent there was but one opinion in the Lindsay household: they would go East and rent a little cottage on the sea-shore at Marant, where they had passed several summers as children, and where the salt air would do much for Little John's development, as it had done for their own not so very many years ago. Edward wrote to one of his correspondents at Boston, requesting him to secure suitable quarters; and, when June was a fortnight old, they moved into a comfortable cottage at Marant, after a flying trip without incident from St. Louis.

Little John fell in love with the sea at first sight, and his constancy never wavered so long as he remained at Marant. He was at his happiest when his perambulator was pushed to the edge of the water so that the waves flowed about the wheels. In such a position he would remain perfectly content for hours, usually in silence, but at times softly soliloquizing or addressing the waves in earnest but incomprehensible baby-language. In the mean time, Mrs. Doly, seated in a camp-chair behind, could devote an almost uninterrupted attention to her knitting, rising only at intervals to see that the carriage occupied a proper position with respect to the movements of the tide, while Ellen reclined in idleness upon the sand. To so great an extent was her office a sinecure that once, when the water was very calm, Mrs. Doly fell asleep in the warm sun, during Ellen's temporary absence, and awoke as the water wetted her toes to find Little John completely surrounded and pretty nearly in his element literally. Far from being alarmed, however, he was in a state of exalted bliss, and emphatically protested against being removed to a more secure position. But when the tide was going out he was not so content to remain _in statu quo_, and, partly rising to his feet, would indicate by most forcible remarks and gesticulations that he wished to be moved farther down the beach. He manifested an ardent desire to accompany Edward on his rowing expeditions, whenever he witnessed the start; but Ellen would not consent to this, and Little John was never initiated into the charms of boating.

It was not long before Ellen's fears were aroused that her boy might grow up with nautical tastes.

"Ought we to permit him to become so infatuated?" she asked Edward.

"Why, what can we do?" he returned.

"We can give up Marant and spend the rest of your vacation at the mountains."

"That would be useless, dear, granting that Little John has been born with a taste for the sea. You can't eradicate an inborn proclivity."

"But, Edward, you surely do not wish--would not permit Little John to go to sea?"

"I should never attempt to prevent him from doing so if he wished to. A born sailor can't make a good lawyer, or a doctor, or anything else,--at least until he has satiated himself with the sea. All the evidence of history shows that, you know. Of course we both hope that Little John will not develop a sailor's taste, and I don't think there is any reason to fear that he will: all babies are fond of the sea."

"Yes, Edward; but," tremulously, "you know Dr. Kreiss said his father was in a shipping business."

"Very true: some sort of a broker or agent, probably. They never go to sea; and it isn't to be expected that the child inherits any taste for it from _him._ Still, we mustn't forget, Ellen, that none of our wishes are perfectly sure to be realized. We will do our best to further them, but, after all, you know, _Dieu dispose_"

Ellen had never brought herself fully to realize the application of this trite saying to the case of Little John, but she now went away to her room and thought the whole question through. She saw all at once the long series of temptations to which he must be subjected before he became a man. Yes, it was possible that this sweet child might grow up to disappoint her bitterly, to be far worse than an honest sailor,--a useless idler, or even a criminal. She shuddered at the very thought of the last, and with a great leaping of the heart she resolved that, if God should see fit to spare the child, her own life should be devoted to shaping his. She would forget herself entirely; her little ambitious projects should be wholly thrown aside, that no effort might be spared for the accomplishment of her one great duty. Tenderness and sympathy and example should do their utmost, but she would not spoil her boy: there should be sternness if it were needed; and she felt that this would try her devotion most of all.

Life at Marant thoroughly agreed with Little John. Every day left upon him its mark of development and improvement. Other babies in the neighborhood suffered more or less from "prickly heat," whooping-cough, and cholera morbus, and ailed upon the advent of teeth. Not so Little John. He seemed proof against everything. One day Ellen was called from the beach to attend to some detail of housekeeping, and upon her return was horrified to find the child playing with some poison ivy, which Mrs. Doly, in metropolitan ignorance of its qualities, had gathered from the adjacent bluff. He had rubbed it all over his face and crushed it between his hands, and was in the act of stuffing some of it down the back of his neck. With her gloved hands Ellen snatched the leaves away, upbraided poor Mrs. Doly, subjected Little John to violent ablution, and then sat down to await disaster. But it never came. The only inconvenience Little John ever experienced from the incident was the loss of a certain degree of liberty; for thence-forth Ellen would not suffer him to be separated from her for an instant. Mrs. Doly, however, did not escape so easily. The noxious _Rhus_ produced its most evil effects upon her face and hands, and for a week she led a life of physical torture enhanced by humiliation of spirit. Upon another occasion a neighbor's child dropped a small marble in front of Little John, who unhesitatingly picked it up, put it into his mouth, and swallowed it before anybody could interfere. Again was Ellen aroused to the highest degree of alarm; but this time, expecting nothing less than speedy death for the unfortunate baby, she despatched the entire household in search of a physician. None was to be found at Marant, the sole local practitioner having gone to Boston for the day. With great presence of mind, Ellen then instituted a course of treatment herself, up to the successful termination of which Little John maintained his usual excellent spirits.

He was backward both in walking and in talking. Twenty months had passed over his curly head before he could fairly stand alone; and then his vocabulary was much more limited than is usual with children of that age. But Edward construed this into a favorable sign. "Your precocious children rarely amount to anything," he said. "They wear themselves out before they come to the real work of life. I should really feel disappointed if Little John should grow up a model school-boy. He would be sure to develop into a pedagogue, or a book-worm, or something of the sort. Thanks to Providence, he promises better."

His foster-parents rarely thought of him as an adopted child, so effectually had he possessed himself of their love. From time to time, however, in some moment of enthusiasm, Edward would declare that the more he thought about it the more he was led to believe that it was better to have found Little John than to have had a child of their own. "You see, Ellen," he would say, "we both have an active, nervous temperament. A child would be very apt to inherit this in an exaggerated degree, and consequently to lead a life unhappy in itself, besides causing us a great deal of sorrow and disappointment. But what a wonderful reserve of nerve-force Little John has! Whether he turns out a judge, an artist, or a sailor, it will count for more than his _physique_, and _that_ is priceless." And then Ellen would smile contentedly. In those days the Lindsays were very happy indeed.

The charms of Marant are well known, and it is not surprising that the Lindsays should have protracted their stay to the utmost, and that autumn should have arrived before they turned their faces westward. Doubtless Little John would have strongly protested against quitting the sea-side, had he been aware that he was about to do so. For several days after returning to St. Louis he was certainly almost inconsolable. He begged constantly, in his peculiar, abbreviated language, for the beach and the ocean, with especial earnestness whenever he was taken for a promenade in his perambulator. But in time, of course, the grand impression faded from his memory,--to the secret delight of Ellen, who had never become quite reconciled to his adoration of the sea.

As the child acquired words and accomplishments, he lost nothing of his sweetness and strangely mature dignity. When the tan disappeared from his cheeks, he looked a little less robust; but this was to have been expected. Such confidence had the Lindsays in the invulnerability of his constitution that they were not alarmed when he experienced his inevitable first indisposition of a serious character. Mrs. Doly and Ellen agreed that it was a natural consequence of the change in his diet and mode of life since they had come back to the city, and Dr. Kreiss, who was at once summoned, substantiated the theory. But the next day Little John was no better, and at night so decidedly worse that Edward sent for the doctor again. The man of medicine looked grave this time. He stayed with the little sufferer for several hours. Before midnight he came once more; and when he went away Little John was dead.

The blow fell upon the Lindsays with the more crushing force from its terrible suddenness. Among all the contingencies to which they had looked forward they had never seriously considered the possibility of this. They had prepared themselves for disappointment, but not for bereavement. For the first time they realized how thoroughly their adopted child had become a part of their life. Hours that had been the brightest in the day now dragged along wearisomely, and they often sat in silence together, because they knew that if they spoke at all It must be of Little John. After a time they saw, as many young parents have seen after their first great loss, that the world could never be quite the old world to them again. But they felt their love for each other to be all the stronger, and they tried hard to lighten each other's sorrow by being cheerful and brave. It was saddest, of course, for Ellen. All day she was alone in the house, and, though she might busy her hands over a watercolor or an etching, her thoughts would often stray away and send the tears to her eyes. Occasionally she yielded to impulse and paid furtive visits to the nursery, where, with a little dress or some other memento of her lost child laid upon her knees, she would sit in long revery. By and by Edward noticed that her face had taken upon itself a constant expression of sadness, which even her smiles could not disguise. He began to think about a European tour. From girlhood Ellen had looked forward to spending a year in study abroad, and it seemed to him that no time could be better than the present. It would be hard to leave his business; he could not do so before spring anyway; but everything should be sacrificed to Ellen's happiness, and, with her assent, he resolved, they should go at that season. Just now his business was unusually exacting. He became every day more alive to the fact that, unless he chose to lose a valuable portion of his _client?_, he must spend a few weeks in the Southwest. Many St. Louis capitalists were anxious to buy land in Texas at this unparalleled period of her prosperity, and many commissions as well as opportunities for private investment in the State demanded his attention at once. But could he and ought he to leave Ellen now? He could not decide. When he was at home he refused to consider the question at all; but at his office it constantly forced itself upon his attention. Finally, after a great deal of exasperatingly unsatisfactory correspondence with agents in Austin and Galveston, he went to Ellen.

"I will give the whole thing up, if you say so," he declared.

"But you think it very necessary for you to go?" she asked.

"From a business point of view, absolutely necessary. It is a question of improving or failing to improve a chance to make a good many thousand dollars. There is no middle course: I can't send anybody who could do the business for me. Still, if you are as unwilling to have me go as I am to leave you, I shall stay at home."

This was hardly fair, and Ellen was sorely tempted; but she was too brave and too true to yield to what she believed a selfish impulse. She wound her arms about her husband's neck and effectively testified her reluctance to permit the separation. She declared, however, that she would not countenance his staying at home,--that it was plainly his duty to go. She begged only that he would return at the earliest moment he could do so conscientiously. He earnestly assured her that she need have no doubt of that, and that a word from her would bring him home at any time.

"But if I am to go," he continued, "you must have somebody to stay with you while I am away. Why not ask Bertha Terry? You used to be always out sketching together, and I know she would be delighted to come."

"Bertha is a lovely girl, but--I--"

She paused, with trembling lips.

"But what, Ellen? Of course I wish you to have whomever you may prefer."

To his surprise and concern, his wife burst into a flood of tears.

"Ellen," he said very tenderly, "I am afraid you are not well. If this is so, I certainly cannot leave you."

"Oh, no! oh, no!" she cried between her sobs. "It is only because I shall miss you so,--and because I have tried not to cry for so long that I _must_ now,--and because--because I have a terrible feeling that I may never see you again."

Edward permitted her tears to exhaust themselves to some extent before he spoke. Then with gentleness and tact he introduced the subject of the European tour, upon which, he said, they might start very soon if the trip to Texas should be brought to a successful close. He alluded to the priceless art-treasures which they would examine together, and which she would reproduce. He dwelt upon the glories of the Alps, the charms of Italy, the wonders of Paris, with such good effect that Ellen presently dried her eyes and found her smiles again.

A few days later, on a raw October evening, Edward yielded to the urgent demands of his business and set out for the South. It was at the time when the "boom" in the grazing-lands and real estate generally of Texas was at its height. Railways were pushing out in all directions, opening new and profitable fields for investment, and immigrants were pouring into the State in unexampled numbers. It was a period rich in opportunities that could never come again. Edward set to work to make the most of them. In the first place, he carefully attended to his commissions, resolutely repelling the swarm of speculators who hovered about every man supposed to possess a little capital, but all the time watchful and reflecting. Then he began to make investments for himself. He bought, sold, and bought again, until his funds were exhausted, and after that he wrote to St. Louis and borrowed money. He was constantly on the move, much of the time in camp, making and saving many a dollar by acting as his own agent. The only respite he allowed himself was the time devoted to correspondence with his wife. He sent her minute accounts of his work, and received long and loving letters in return. But time passed, like the Northers themselves. Four, five, six weeks were gone almost before he had counted them, extending his absence decidedly beyond the date he had originally set for his return, and still there was much to be done. He had not borne the separation from his wife without pain, and he looked forward to prolonging it with much more than reluctance; but he felt that to leave now would be to spurn the hand of Providence, the more so because, though Ellen had many times anxiously inquired for the date of his return, she had never failed, whenever she wrote, to assure him of her own content so long as he was successful and happy. He therefore sent her an elaborate statement of the situation, reiterated his readiness to return if she desired it, and begged her to decide for him whether he should remain longer or not. Why could she not come down and spend a few weeks at Waco? he asked. She would find pleasant people there, and he could then see her at least once in a while. He would go back to St. Louis to bring her down. In any event, he said, he would run up and spend a day or two with her if his stay were to be prolonged. She wrote in reply that she dreaded to experience the wild life he had so graphically described, and that she could not persuade herself to go down into that primitive country unless she might be with him always. This she knew to be impossible; and she was convinced also that her presence at any time would prove a hinderance to him in his business. But if he could come home for a short visit it would make her very happy. She hoped that he might come very soon indeed. Still, she added, with her old bravery, he must make no sacrifice to gratify her wishes. She trusted him implicitly; she knew that he was as impatient to return as she was that he should do so. He must stay as long as he deemed it best; and even his proposed visit must be given up, if need be.

And so Edward stayed. The visit to St. Louis was postponed once or twice, and then put off indefinitely. New commissions were intrusted to him, new opportunities disclosed themselves, new schemes were projected. He extended his field of work into remote sections of the State, and once made his way as far as the valley of the Rio Grande. Even in his busiest moments Ellen was never wholly absent from his thoughts, and he never ended a day without the reflection that his return was so much the nearer. But week followed week into the past, the holidays slipped by, and spring itself overtook him before he could see any definite prospect of getting away. At last, one morning early in March, he wrote to Ellen from Denison that he should be at home before the end of a week. The letter had hardly been mailed when he received one from his wife evincing a depression she had never permitted herself to acknowledge before. She wrote briefly, and, with vague allusions to her health and an avowal of what she called her "lack of firmness," besought him to return.

The indefiniteness of this letter troubled Edward. He was disposed to think that it meant much more than it expressed. He knew his wife's excellent constitution so well, and reposed so much trust in her frankness, that he did not believe she was seriously ill; but he did fear that his prolonged absence had tried her cruelly, for he realized that she must have gone through with many a struggle before she could have brought herself to recall him. While he was debating, still under the spell of business, whether to start for home at once or first to settle some important matters at Denison, a telegraph-boy entered the office of the hotel where he was sitting, and handed a despatch to the clerk.

"For the gentleman at the window," said the young man.

Edward opened the missive with the calmness of an honest and solvent man, but with a pang of fear for Ellen. He read as follows:

"We think you had better return at once. BERTHA TERRY."

For an instant he sat with his brain in a whirl. Then a curse upon Providence rose to his lips; he repressed it, and began to load himself with reproaches. A moment before, he had been in the satisfied mood of a man who has his own approbation for work well done. He now looked upon his course during the past winter with both abhorrence and wonder. He told himself that it was heartless to have left Ellen at all; to have stayed away for so many months was simply inhuman. It was all plain enough now; and that he should have been so blind to the truth he could not conceive. Suddenly he bethought himself that there was yet time to catch the Austin Express for St. Louis, and that if he did not succeed in doing this a whole day would be lost. He quickly wrote and forwarded a despatch to Bertha, requesting her to telegraph to him at Vinita without reserve, and then, regardless of his unfulfilled engagements, hurried to the station. He was just in season: as he stepped upon the platform he heard the whistle of the approaching train. Once on board, he experienced a momentary sensation of relief: he was rapidly moving homeward, and at Vinita he would at least be freed from suspense. He tried to convince himself that the case could not be a serious one. But if it was? A terrible fear took possession of him. He attempted in vain to put it aside. It rendered it impossible for him to sit down alone with his thoughts for a moment, and he passed away the day in wandering back and forth through the cars, making an effort now and then to get up a conversation with some fellow-passenger, counting the hours before the train would reach Vinita, and constantly execrating himself.

But, Vinita reached, there was no telegram. The operator thought it must have gone to Vineton, a town far to the southeast, on the Iron Mountain Railway. He could telegraph for it, of course, he said, and send it on to any given point, but he believed that Edward would get word more quickly by forwarding another message to St. Louis. He suggested that the reply be sent to Sedalia, where it would undoubtedly be delivered, even at the late hour at which the train would arrive.

Edward listened to these remarks in dull despair. It was true that he might receive news from Ellen at Sedalia, but Sedalia would not be reached before the small hours of the following morning, when his journey would be practically ended. Nor was there any nearer town, large enough to support a night telegraph-office, where he could expect a message to be received in season to reach him. He thanked the operator for his suggestions, and returned sorrowfully to the train, to pass a night of suffering, from which his short snatches of sleep gave him little relief. Poor fellow! His sadness and remorse were cruelly enhanced by the suspense he was called upon to endure. He vowed many times to himself that, if Ellen were spared until his return, no pressure of the world should ever separate him from her again. When the sun began to make known its coming in the east, he breathed a prayer of thanks that his agony of waiting was almost over.

Toward the middle of the forenoon the train rolled into the Union Dépôt at St. Louis. Edward stood upon the platform of the foremost car. Long before it came to a stop, he leaped from the steps and ran along toward the hackmen's stand. A babel of voices greeted him. Quickly selecting a man whose face was familiar, he pressed a _douceur_ into his hand, and, in a voice that broke in spite of his efforts to control it, asked to be driven home immediately and as fast as possible. The hackman looked upon Edward's haggard face with silent sympathy, divining, perhaps, something of the truth, and hastily led the way to his vehicle.

The train was hardly at a stand-still when the carriage rattled away from the station. The driver plied his whip freely, and soon left the business section of the city behind. As they sped along Washington Avenue, Edward endeavored to prepare himself for the worst, but he was incapable of calmness and reflection: his whole being rebelled against the supposition that he might be too late.

There was a carriage, which he recognized as Dr. Kreiss's, drawn up before his house. Fairly unmanned by emotion, he sprang up the steps, threw open the door, and met the doctor face to face.

The physician maintained a professional composure.

"Good-morning, Mr. Lindsay," he said. "I regret to say that you have not arrived quite soon enough."

"Great God, doctor! Is it possible?" faltered Edward, whilst the tears sprang to his eyes.

The doctor looked at him curiously.

"Go up-stairs and see your wife and baby," he said, with considerate brevity. He added to himself, as Edward vanished up the stairway, "A case of special providence that it's a boy."

NATHAN CLIFFORD BROWN.

* * * * *

JOSEPH J. MICKLEY.

Not many years ago there were several substantial old houses standing on the north side of Market Street, east of Tenth, in the city of Philadelphia. These structures, which then wore an air of respectable old age, have been in recent years either totally destroyed or so extensively altered that the serene atmosphere of antiquated gentility no longer lingers about their busy exteriors.

On a morning in April, 1869, the present writer had occasion to call at one of these buildings,--No. 927. Several broad and weather-stained marble steps led up to an old-fashioned doorway, where the modern bell-pull and the antique brass knocker contended for recognition. Alike rusty as these were, it became a problem as to which would best secure communication with the interior. While the matter still seemed indefinite, it was set at rest by the advice of an obliging street-urchin, who volunteered his information with appropriate brevity and directness:

"Try the door. If it's loose, Daddy Mickley's home, sure. If it's locked, 'taint no use of knockin', for he's out."

Thus instructed, I tried the door. It happened to be "loose," and ushered me into a long dark entry, at the farther end of which a wide flight of heavy oak stairs led to the upper rooms in the rear of the building. Among these rooms, one of the first to be reached was evidently a workshop; and here was encountered the only living being as yet visible in the spacious old mansion. Upon entering, I was met by a dignified and placid old gentleman, whose appearance was very much in keeping with the house in which he dwelt. He was quite evidently of the old school, and his pleasant voice gave me an old-school welcome. A fine broad forehead rested above a pair of the most kindly eyes that can be imagined, and belonged to a splendidly-shaped head, which was totally bald, save for a slight fringe of white hairs about either temple. The mouth was, in its expression, even more prepossessing than the eyes, and the whole bearing of the old gentleman--who had evidently reached his three-score and ten, but who, as was equally apparent, carried the warmth and vigor of youth still with him--was calculated to please and impress the least observant visitor.

The late Joseph J. Mickley comprised qualities at once more attractive and more unusual than are often met with in one person. He was distinguished throughout the world, during more than a generation, for the diligence and success of his numismatic researches, and his collection of rare coins was for a long time the most valuable in this country. As a collector of scarce books and autographs he was hardly less noted or less successful. But in Philadelphia he was most of all admired for his delightful social qualities and his extensive information on a surprising variety of topics. During forty years his house was a rendezvous for a numerous group of specialists,--not alone in his own favorite pursuits, which, indeed, were both many and diverse, but in any and every department of art or learning. Coin-hunters, autograph-dealers, historical students, philosophers, musical-instrument-makers, noted performers, and performers of less note, all the way down to "scratch-clubs," were his constant visitors for years. It is probable that no private house in Philadelphia has entertained a greater number of intellectually distinguished people than the old mansion just referred to, where Mickley resided from 1842 to 1869. Musical celebrities from every country hastened to make his acquaintance, and such was the magnetism of his personality that acquaintances thus formed seem never to have been lost sight of by either host or guest. During his European tour, which lasted from 1869 to 1872, the then venerable traveller was continually meeting friends among persons who had called upon him at various times, dating back in one case as long before as 1820. They always appeared to have known beforehand of his coming, and he always remembered them and the circumstances under which he had first met them.

The social reunions at Mickley's were informal to the last degree, and the accommodations correspondingly primitive. They usually took place in his workshop. Crazy stools or empty piano-boxes generally served for seats. The surrounding furniture comprised barrels, cases, and chests, filled to overflowing with the host's ever-increasing antiquarian treasures. If a quartette were assembled,--and many times the musical party was enlarged to a quintette or a septette,--an adjournment was necessary to a room less crowded, but equally sparse of conventional furniture.

Mr. Mickley was always happy to join in these impromptu musical assemblies, when occasion offered, although performing music was one of the few things which he never succeeded in doing well. He invariably played the viola on these occasions,--perhaps, as Schindler hints about Beethoven, because indifferent playing on the viola is not so noticeable as on other instruments. As was to have been expected from so pronounced an antiquarian, he had small sympathy for modern music. He even rebelled against the gentle innovations of Mendelssohn, contending, not without an approach to accurate judgment, that Haydn and Mozart had completely covered the field of chamber-music. While in the midst of numerous and always congenial pursuits during his long life, quartette-playing remained a favorite pastime of very many days in very many years.

Mr. Mickley's intellect was so many-sided and so evenly balanced that it is difficult to name his predominant bias. It is very nearly safe, however, to say that this was his historic faculty. In the writings, still chiefly unprinted, which were left behind him, he was at once the most minute and the most compact of historians. Emerson never condensed his rare thoughts into smaller compass, not even in his "English Traits," than Mr, Mickley has condensed his facts and observations. There is a small pamphlet extant, the manuscript of which was read by him in 1863 on the occasion of the centennial anniversary of a noted Indian massacre in Northampton County, Pennsylvania, where several of his ancestors perished. It contains historic material enough for a volume. To indicate his early passion for amassing reliable data, the same sketch shows that a portion of its facts had been obtained, while he was still a boy, from then aged eye-witnesses of the affair, nearly fifty years before its story was thus put into permanent shape.

He mastered the Swedish language, after having passed his seventieth year, chiefly that he might write a correct history of the first settlement of Swedes on the Delaware River below Philadelphia. At the age of seventy-two he spent several months in Stockholm, the capital of Sweden, and while there placed himself in communication with every prominent librarian of the country, besides scholars in Denmark, Holland, and Germany. He personally inspected a great mass of documents and ancient volumes. Yet the result of all this is contained in a manuscript of less than thirty large folio pages, literally crowded with invaluable data. This was read before the Historical Society of the State of Delaware in 1874. It has never been put in type, and is almost wholly made up of material which has no existence elsewhere in the English language.

A single instance will serve to show the minuteness and persistence of his investigations. In one of the public libraries of Stockholm Mickley discovered an ancient Dutch manuscript signed by Peter Minuit. No scholar within reach could master its contents. The private secretary of the ambassador from Holland, who was appealed to, asserted beforehand that he "could read anything that ever was written in Dutch." Yet, after a long inspection, he frankly owned his inability to decipher a single word of it. Mr. Mickley was determined to ascertain the contents. As the document could not be bought at any price, and could not even be removed over-night from its place of keeping, he caused photographs to be taken of it. One such copy was sent to a very learned acquaintance in Amsterdam, and another to a noted scholar at Leipsic. In the course of subsequent travels he found accurate translations awaiting him from both sources. The importance of the manuscript in this connection will be the more appreciated when it is remembered that Peter Minuit commanded the first expedition ever sent to the shores of the Delaware River.

Being thus by nature an historian, it is but natural that Mr. Mickley should have left behind him ample materials for telling the story of his own life. From these we learn that the family name was originally Michelet. It dates back to the French Huguenots who, after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, settled in Zweibrcken, a Grerman province. The first foothold of the family in this country was established in that portion of Pennsylvania which has for more than a century been thickly peopled by that enlightened and art-fostering sect, the Moravians. It was from the Moravian influence that Joseph J. Mickley first experienced a fondness for music and its appropriate artistic surroundings. He was born March 24, 1799, at South Whitehall, a township then in Lehigh County, but originally comprised in Northampton. At the age of seventeen he went to Philadelphia as apprentice to a piano-maker. At that time the method of building a piano-forte was as different from the advanced art of these days as was the instrument itself. The piano-maker had then to work from the legs upward. His necessary duties demanded knowledge which is now distributed among several entirely distinct sets of artificers. That young Mickley satisfactorily completed his apprenticeship may be inferred from two facts: he started in business for himself in August, 1822, and in October, 1831, the Franklin Institute awarded him a prize for skill in the manufacture of pianos.

From this time on, his business life, though of long duration, was uneventful, and may be summed up in very few words. From his original starting-place at No. 67 North Third Street, he removed, four years later, to a store on the site now occupied by a portion of the publishing house of J.B. Lippincott Company. Here he remained until 1842, and then established himself in the building mentioned at the beginning of this article, where he continued to live until the final closing up of his business in 1869.

It does not appear that Mr. Mickley was ever actively engaged in the manufacture of piano-fortes. He continued, however, to tune pianos to the end of his life; and it is reported that he could never be induced to alter his terms from the original fee of one dollar which was customary forty years ago. He also became noted far and wide as a repairer of violins and other stringed instruments. At one time, a violin which had belonged to George Washington was sent to him for this purpose. Ole Bull, who happened to be in town at the time, hearing of the circumstance, hastened to the shop for the purpose of examining and playing upon the historic instrument. Mickley also became an authority in regard to the value and authenticity of these instruments, although he never indulged in the passion of making collections in this field. His minuteness of observation was frequently manifested. While stopping at Venice in 1870 he notes down in his diary, "A man came to the hotel with some violins for sale. Among them was a Hieronymus Amati. It was a good one, but the head and neck were not genuine." At another time, a violin was sent to his place from a distant locality for repairs. The instrument was preceded by a lengthy letter beseeching his special care for its welfare, and setting forth in extravagant terms its great intrinsic value and its peculiarly interesting "belongings." Anticipating a treasure, Mr. Mickley sent for some violin-connoisseurs to enjoy with him a first sight of the precious instrument. On opening the express-package a very worthless "fiddle" was revealed. After the laugh had gone round, he said dryly, "I think the value of this must be in its 'belongings.'"

In the old house on Market Street Mr. Mickley was not alone popular among prominent people from afar. He was equally loved by his neighbors on all sides. Many of the more unconventional of these knew him best by the familiar title of "Daddy." To the better-educated class of young musicians he was almost as much a father as a friend. Nor were his close friendships confined to the young. Among his most steadfast admirers was an old-bachelor German musician by the name of Plich. Herr Plich was a piano-teacher, and it was under his tuition that the afterward favorite prima-donna Caroline Richings made her first public appearance as a pianist in 1847. This old teacher induced Mickley to take him as a boarder, and he lived for a number of years in one of the upper back rooms of No. 927. One night a fire broke out in a building directly contiguous with the rear of the Mickley mansion. There was great consternation, of course, and busy efforts on the owner's part to gather together the manifold contents of his treasure-house. When all had been at length secured in a place of safety, he bethought himself of Herr Plich. Hastening to the upper room, he discovered the old man in a state of semi-insanity, marching up and down the apartment, and carrying in his hands only a valuable viola. So confused was he with fright that main force was required to get him out of the room. After seeing him safely out of the front door, Mickley went back and secured a considerable sum of paper money which had been totally overlooked for the sake of the beloved viola. Plich at his death bequeathed the viola to Mickley, and it was the only instrument which the latter always refused to part with during his lifetime. The entire savings of Plich were also left in trust to Mickley, to be distributed for such charitable objects as he should consider most worthy, and for about twenty-seven years Mr. Mickley carefully administered this trust.

Mr. Mickley's most remarkable success in life was obtained as a numismatist. His habit of collecting coins began almost in childhood. It has been stated that at the age of seventeen he first became interested in coin-hunting, owing to his difficulty in finding a copper cent coined in 1799, the year of his birth. Every student of numismatism knows that this piece is exceedingly rare. The one sold in Mr. Mickley's collection after his decease brought no less than forty dollars. The taste thus formed continued a prevailing one for sixty years. It is surprising to find how speedily he became a leading and recognized authority. Although as guileless as a child and the easy victim of numerous thefts throughout his life, he was scarcely ever deceived in the value of a coin, token, or medal. Once, at Stockholm, in 1871, he visited a museum where rare coins were exhibited. "The collection," says his diary, "is very, very rich in Greek and Roman, but particularly in Scandinavian and Anglo-Saxon. There are not many United States coins, but among them I was astonished to find a very fine half-eagle of 1815." The known rarity of this coin thus on exhibition in a far country very naturally attracted the keen eyes of the aged collector.

These researches, continuing year after year, grew to be more and more valuable, until they became widely celebrated. By the time he had reached middle age he was as well known among the guild of antiquarians as a Quaker is known by his costume. Before his death he had been elected a member of all the prominent societies in numismatics, history, and archaeology throughout the world. The last honor of this kind, which reached him in his eightieth year, was a notice of his election to membership in the Société Française de Numismatique et d'Archéologie. His great collections in this department of knowledge were not confined to coins, but extended also to the literature of the subject. This was splendidly illustrated in his famous library, which comprised many works of the utmost value and scarcity.

A taste thus developed in early youth naturally became in the course of years a habit, a sentiment, a leading passion of Mickley's nature. By the year 1867 his coin-collection had become the most extensive in this country. By this time also the entertainment of curious visitors absorbed a good share of the collector's daily duties. He was naturally proud of his treasures, and took a great delight in showing them to all who came. Utterly devoid of suspicion, he was a ready victim to designing persons. The following memorandum, which was found among his later papers, will show how he suffered from this source:

"I have become rather indifferent about numismatics, or, at least, about collecting coins. It was a great source of amusement for a period of over fifty years. But, having been so unfortunate at different times with my coins, it is, as it were, a warning to desist from collecting any more. In the year 1827 the United States dollars from 1794 to 1803, all good specimens, together with some foreign coins, were stolen. In 1848 about twenty half-dollars were taken. In 1854, after showing my collection to three Southern gentlemen (as they called themselves) I missed three very scarce half-eagles. The great robbery was in 1867. In Jaffa, Palestine, a small lot, worth about one thousand francs, with a collection of Egyptian curiosities, was stolen at the hotel; and, finally, last winter, at Seville, Spain, some old Spanish coins were missing while I was showing them to some persons."

The "great robbery" above alluded to occurred on the evening of April 13, 1867. It was of such magnitude as to cause a wide sensation at the time, and enlisted the sympathies of his coin-hunting brethren the world over. Mr. Mickley's chief precautions, notwithstanding his previous warnings of danger from another source, had been against fire. In a third-story room was his cabinet. This had been long since filled, chiefly with an unbroken and historic list of American coins. The additional accumulations of years, nearly all foreign, and many of great rarity, had been stored in an old piano-case in his bedroom, where, as he said, in the event of fire they would be close at hand. On the evening in question Mickley was alone in his workshop, engaged in repairing a musical instrument. He had then been living entirely alone for a number of years. A single servant, who provided his meals, had gone home. About nine o'clock the loud barking of his dog in the yard below called him to the window. It was afterward found that a pair of old shoes thrown from an upper room by the burglars had thus called away the attention both of dog and master from what was going on inside. An hour later a caller discovered several pieces of money lying in the hall. An investigation disclosed the startling loss which he had sustained. The entire contents of the piano-box had been carried off. A private desk had also been broken open and despoiled of a few medals, although its chief contents were intact. A gold pencil, the gift of Ole Bull, and other keepsakes, remained undisturbed. But the larger portion of a collection of foreign coins, one of the most complete in the world, and the product of a lifetime's intelligent research, was gone!

It was a heavy calamity, and one from which the old collector never fully recovered. Sir Isaac Newton's historic Fido did not do nearly the amount of irremediable damage when he overturned the lamp upon his master's papers. The actual pecuniary loss, reckoning at cost prices, was in the neighborhood of nineteen thousand dollars. The market value of such a collection was of course vastly greater, and increasing all the time at a good deal faster rate than compound interest. It was somewhat of a coincidence that Mr. Mickley had received and refused what he records as a "tempting offer", for the entire collection only a short time before the robbery.

The ardent passion of a lifetime was now chilled, and his one desire seemed to be to get rid of his remaining coins and of the responsibility which keeping them entailed. Such, however, was the completeness of Mickley's literary methods of condensing, that an entry of three or four lines made in his diary on the night of the robbery is all that he had to write about the appalling loss. A week or two afterward he records in the same volume the disposal of all the remaining coins, with an air of great relief, as he adds, "I do not doubt I should be robbed again if I kept them." A large box full of the most valuable had been taken, for safe-keeping, to the Mint just after the robbery; but these were sold with the rest. It is understood that this remnant of the original lot was disposed of for about sixteen thousand dollars, the largest purchaser being Mr, Woodward, of Roxbury, Massachusetts. The dollar of 1804 went to a New York collector for the enormous sum of seven hundred and fifty dollars.

Efforts to restore the lost treasure were not wanting. It might be supposed that the possession of such rare tokens of value would have speedily led to the discovery of their whereabouts. Mr. Mickley himself intimated that he suspected the quarter from which the depredation had come. Yet from that day until the present the secret has been as securely kept as that of the rifling of Lord Byron's letter from a vase at Abbotsford, or of the Duchess of Devonshire's portrait from the London Art-Gallery. In fact, the same mild generosity which had always characterized Mr. Mickley still came uppermost in the face of this trying disaster. He frequently sought to overlook the misdoings of petty thieves. A London pickpocket who had successfully practised upon him Oliver Twist's little game was only prosecuted because his testimony was insisted upon by the authorities. At the foot of the Pyramids he deplored the chastisement inflicted by an Arab sheik upon one of his native servants who had committed a similar depredation. His life-long friend the late William E. Dubois, of the United States Mint, has stated that "eight or nine years after the robbery a few very fine gold pieces of English coinage were offered for sale at the Mint cabinet-rooms. I was so well convinced that the labels were in his handwriting that I sent for him to come and see them. He could not deny the likeness, but seemed reluctant to entertain the subject at all."

During these years of study and research Mr. Mickley must not be thought of as a strict specialist. Side by side with his fascinating collection of coins there was an ever-growing library, the extent and value of which were never appreciated until his death. This accumulation was in itself an example of his cosmopolitan tastes. It was copious in local history, in biography, in music, in general literature, in costly and well-preserved black-letter editions, in illuminated missals dating back to the thirteenth century, and, above all else, in autographs. Of the latter, space cannot be spared here for anything approaching a full description. As some indication of their value, it may be mentioned that a letter of George Washington (the last he was known to write), dated six days before his death, was bought by George W. Childs, Esq., for one hundred and fifteen dollars. A letter of Abraham Lincoln to General McClellan fetched nearly one hundred dollars. There were also signed autograph letters of all the governors of Pennsylvania, of all the Presidents, and of all the signers of the Declaration of Independence. The latter group is rarely met with complete; and three of the scarcest names alone sold for as much as all the others put together. There were signatures also of about forty generals of the Revolutionary war, of both the British and American armies, and including Lafayette and Kosciusko. Both Napoleon and Josephine were represented; and the lovers of poetic justice will be glad to know that the latter name brought double that of the great emperor. In autographs of literary and musical celebrities the collection was extraordinarily rich, those of Goethe and Schiller, Beethoven and Mozart, being conspicuous. But the chief rarity was a large album formerly owned by Babet von Ployer. This contained, among other treasures, a manuscript of Haydn, believed to be the only one ever offered for sale in this country. It also contained an India-ink sketch of Mozart, drawn by his wife Constance. At the sale in 1878 this album was knocked down for one hundred and twenty-six dollars, although three hundred dollars had been previously refused for it. The Mozart letter, a particularly interesting specimen, was sold for fifty-two dollars to M.H. Cross, Esq.

Turning from the autographs to the books, we find still greater value and variety. The historical portion, especially where it referred to local subjects, was almost phenomenal. One precious lot comprised a complete set of the first daily newspaper of the United States, beginning with the "Pennsylvania Packet" in 1771, and continuing unbroken, through several changes of title and proprietorship, for one hundred and seven years. An amusing incident is related in connection with Mr. Mickley's purchase of the larger portion of this series,--"Poulson's Advertiser" from 1800 to 1840. When the wagon was driven to his door, loaded with the purchase, the housekeeper exclaimed, "What ever is to be done with all this truck?" Yet this "truck," a mine of wealth to the future historian, was sold after Mickley's death for eight hundred dollars. There were city directories of several editions for ninety-three years. The black-letter list was quite large, and there were more than thirty editions of the Bible, some of great rarity, and nearly all in a fine state of preservation.

From the time of the coin-robbery the older acquaintances of Mr. Mickley noticed a decided change in him. On the subject of coins, once so voluble, he grew very reticent. His business, which had for many years appeared rather a pastime than a task to him, grew irksome. After a period of uncertainty, he finally decided to close up his affairs and spend some years in foreign travel. In spite of advanced age, he was both physically and mentally well equipped for such a journey. His health had always been good. His temper seemed never to be ruffled. Of the French and German languages he was a master, and he had some knowledge of the Spanish, Italian, and Swedish. His previous extensive acquaintance with men of many nations and habits was kept fresh in mind by a remarkable memory. With all these advantages, the period of his travels was the most interesting of his life.

Mr. Mickley set sail on the 5th of June, 1869, being at that time a few months past his seventieth year. He remained abroad for three years, visiting every country in Europe, ascending the Nile to the first cataract, passing through the Suez Canal, and across a portion of Asia Minor and Palestine. He made two trips to Northern Sweden to behold the spectacle of the midnight sun. Being a week too late on the first season, he tried it again the following year. Passing through the entire length of the Gulf of Bothnia, and ascending the Tornea River, he entered Lapland, crossing the Arctic circle and penetrating the Arctic zone in a sledge-journey of seventy miles. The indomitable old traveller pushed on until he reached a small lumber-village named Pajala. On the night of June 23, 1871, crossing the river with a small party of Swedes and Finns, he ascended Mount Avasaxa, in Finland. At this altitude, he says, "the sky happened to be clear in the direction of the sun, and he shone in all his glory as the clock struck twelve."

During this prolonged absence he visited almost every considerable town in Germany, Holland, Italy, and England. The instant that he arrived at a town, he seemed to know the shortest cut to its museum. If there was an antiquarian in the place, he knew of it beforehand, and hastened either to make or renew an acquaintance. In the larger cities he was surrounded by these people, and he expressed unaffected surprise and pleasure at their attentions. He made visits of inspection to nearly every mint in Europe, having been commissioned by the Philadelphia Mint to make purchases of rare coins for its cabinet. Here the old passion appears to have blazed up again for a little while. It was an entire surprise to his family to discover among his possessions at his death the nucleus of a new collection, which was sold for about two thousand dollars.

Mr. Mickley made at this period some valued acquaintances. Among these was the Italian composer Mercadante. At the time of Mickley's visit, in April, 1870, the composer, who was also president of the Conservatoire in Naples, had been blind for eight years. "The old gentleman," says Mickley (who, by the way, was only two years his junior), "held out his hand and bade me welcome. I told him it would be a lasting pleasure to have shaken hands with so highly distinguished a man, whose name had long since been favorably known in America. At this his face brightened; he arose from the sofa, shook my hand cordially, wishing me health, happiness, and a safe voyage." Later, at Brussels, he called on M. Fétiss, the famous French musical critic and biographer. At that time, in his eighty-eighth year, Fétis was a fugitive from Paris, owing to the troubles of the Franco-Prussian war. Mr. Mickley's picture of the veteran _littérateur_ and critic is an engaging one. He says, "Considering his great age, Mr. Fetis is very active. He climbed up the stepladder to get books and to show me such as he considered the most rare and interesting. He is not only active in body, but he retains all the faculties of his mind. He appears to have a very happy disposition. While I was with him a continual smile was on his face, and it seemed to give him great pleasure to show me his books. He has been engaged in collecting them for over fifty years, and they have cost him a sum equal to three hundred thousand dollars, exclusive of a great many presents. The first book on music was printed in 1480." At Trieste he spent some time with the United States consul there, Mr. Thayer, of Boston, best known to musical and literary people as the author of an exhaustive Life of Beethoven, which has been under way for nearly thirty years and is not yet finished. Mr. Thayer showed his visitor all the historic data and personal relics which he had collected for the book, of which at that date only one volume had been published. Since then Mercadante and F?s have been gathered to their fathers. Their genial guest is also gone. The industrious Mr. Thayer lives, with three volumes of the Life completed, and every American, either literary or musical, will wish him well on to the conclusion of his _magnum opus_.

Mr. Mickley's plain personal habits remained almost unchanged by the many unforeseen exigencies of foreign travel. Once, at Rouen, six months after leaving home, he says, "Tasted wine for the first time in Europe, as the water here did not agree with me." A little later, at Munich, he remarks, "Drank beer for the first time." His pockets remained as accessible as heretofore to the nimble-fingered gentry. Upon his first visit to Naples, he records very naïvely, "Three silk handkerchiefs have been stolen from me here,--which is one more than in London." At Jaffa, on his way from Egypt to Palestine, besides the robbery of coins alluded to some time back, he lost a choice autograph manuscript of Mozart which had cost him two hundred and fifty francs at Salzburg. If careless in these particulars, he was very watchful and jealous of opportunities to uphold America's position in the world. He took special pains to inform the mint-masters at various points concerning the superior appliances and machinery of the Philadelphia Mint. On the way back from Lapland, while steaming southward along the upper waters of the Gulf of Bothnia, he writes, under date of July 4, 1871, "This being our national holiday, I put up my flag on the door of my berth, but was obliged to explain the meaning of the holiday to nearly all the passengers." While in England, he met at Manchester a barrister who had formerly been his guest in Philadelphia. This gentleman proposed to introduce him to an American lawyer then practising there. "I asked the name. He said it was Judah P. Benjamin. I declined the invitation."

Wherever Mr. Mickley journeyed, so long as any fresh acquisition of knowledge was to be gained the old traveller appeared insensible to fatigue. When halfway up the Great Pyramid an English group who were in his company stopped and insisted upon going no farther. He resolutely continued, and they, unwilling to see so aged a man out-distance them, followed reluctantly, until all reached the summit and congratulated each other on the famous view. In St. Petersburg, Moscow, and other Russian cities, which he visited in the winter season, he was equally untiring and undaunted. As a specimen of his accuracy of observation, he writes during his first journey in Italy, "I counted forty-six tunnels between Pisa and Bologna." Several severe accidents fell to his lot. In Rome, while exploring a dark, arched passage, he fell into "Cicero's Well," receiving severe bruises. In a street in Constantinople, where there are no sidewalks, he was knocked down by a runaway horse and taken up for dead, remaining insensible for several hours. The former of these mishaps occupies three lines in his diary; the latter, twelve lines. On his third visit to Leipsic he was confined in his room for several weeks with an attack of smallpox. But in regard to none of these accidents, although an aged man, thousands of miles from home, and entirely alone, does he betray any symptoms of apprehension. He merely adds, on the date of his recovery from the attack at Leipsic, "This sickness has detained me much longer than I had expected to stay."

In one of Mickley's trips he made a not unimportant contribution to musical history. Almost every student of instrumental music is acquainted with the name of Jacob Steiner or Stainer, the most successful of violin-makers outside of the Cremonese school of workmen. Of Steiner's life but little is known, and no biography of him extant in either French, German, or English contains either the date or place of his death. The account commonly given is that he separated from his wife and died in a convent. Mr. Mickley, with his accustomed perseverance, started out to see if this matter might not be cleared up. At Innspruck he inquired in vain for information. As Fétis and Forster both fixed his birthplace at Absom, a small village some twelve miles from Innspruck, Mickley repaired thither. For some time his errand was fruitless. He stopped in at a little shop where an old woman sold photographs, etc. "I asked her, 'Did you never hear of Jacob Steiner, the violin-maker?' She replied, 'There is no Steiner nor violin-maker living in this town.' I then said that a celebrated violin-maker of that name, of whom I desired some information, had lived there two hundred years before. She replied, quite seriously, 'I am not two hundred years old.'" A few minutes later, in the course of his walk, his eye fell upon an old church, the outer wall of which contained a number of stone tablets with inscriptions. A search of five minutes revealed the desired information. On a plain tablet Steiner's name was found, together with the information, given in very old-fashioned German, that he had died there in 1683, "at the rising of the sun."

The closing field of Mr. Mickley's travels covered Southern France and Spain, Lisbon, where he passed the winter of 1871-72, and Madrid. The weather being very severe, he was detained two months at Lisbon, where he engaged a teacher and took daily lessons in Portuguese. He had done the same at Stockholm the previous winter with the Swedish language, which he mastered pretty thoroughly. At Madrid he examined what he emphatically pronounced the finest collection of coins in the world, numbering one hundred and fifty thousand specimens. He adds, "This is the only place in Europe where the subject is properly understood. Alfonzo V., King of Aragon, in the fifteenth century, was the first person known to have collected coins for study or amusement, and Augustin, Archbishop of Tarragona, was the first writer on the subject. The science of numismatics is, therefore, of Spanish origin."

Mr, Mickley left Madrid in March, crossing the Pyrenees and arriving in Paris on the 24th of that month, his seventy-third birthday. He "made the tour of three hundred and sixty-three miles in twelve hours, without being in the least fatigued." After a few weeks passed in Paris and in revisiting friends in England, he sailed for home, arriving in Philadelphia June 5, 1872, exactly three years from the date of his departure.

It was surprising to his friends how little change the lapse of years and the somewhat rugged incidents of travel had made in Mr. Mickley. He quickly settled down, and, as nearly as possible, resumed his old habits. He bought himself a residence, but followed the Paris custom of taking his meals elsewhere. In the house he was entirely alone, even without a servant. After a time he showed some disposition to concede to "luxuries" which he had previously ignored. Carpets he had never used in his life, but he now admitted that they were very pleasant and comfortable, and ordered his house to be carpeted throughout. The arrangement of his library in the new quarters was a great pleasure, and took some time. Mr. Mickley was in no sense of the word a politician, but he voted pretty regularly. An incident connected with his last visit to the polls was amusing. Having been three years absent, a patriotic Hibernian, who kept the window-book and knew nothing of him, demanded to see his tax-receipt. The old gentleman went quietly home and brought back the desired document. He was next asked if he could read and write, which question, however, was not pressed. The last scene in Mr. Mickley's life was as quiet and peaceful as its whole tenor had been. On the afternoon of February 15, 1878, Mr. Carl Plagemann, the well-known musician and a friend of many years' standing, called at his house. While he waited, Mr. Mickley wrapped for him some violin-strings, the last work of his hands. He requested Mr. Plagemann to go with him that evening to visit another old friend,--Oliver Hopkinson, Esq., at whose house there were to be some quartettes. "I have a letter," he said, "from the Russian ambassador, a part of which I am unable to translate. A Russian lady is to play the piano there this evening, and I shall ask her to help me out." Mr. Plagemann could not go, and, as so often before, Mr. Mickley started out alone. Just before reaching the house of Mr. Hopkinson he was taken suddenly ill, and, chancing to be close by the residence of his physician, Dr. Meigs, he stopped there and rang the bell. As the door opened, he said in husky tones, "I am suffocating." He walked in and ascended the stairs without assistance. Then he said, "Take me to a window." As this was being done, he fell back insensible into the arms of the attendants, and, a few minutes later, breathed his last.

Thus, on the very western edge of fourscore years, ended this long and industrious, this peaceful and beautiful life. In our land of busy and constant action there have been few like it,--surely none happier. Serene at the close as it was placid in its course, its lot had been cast ever between quiet shores, which it enriched on either hand with its accumulated gifts of knowledge and of taste. And at the close of it all there could be no happier eulogy than the one modestly yet comprehensively delivered by his old and congenial friend William E. Dubois, himself since summoned to take the same mysterious journey. "In fine," says he, "Mr. Mickley seemed superior to any meanness; free from vulgar passions and habits, from pride and vanity, from evil speaking and harsh judging. He was eminently sincere, affable, kind, and gentle: in the best sense of the word he was a gentleman."

J. BUNTING.

* * * * *

ROSE ROMANCE.

Two roses, freshly sweet and rare, Bloomed in the dewy morning On neighboring bushes green and fair, One garden-bed adorning. "Ah!" sighed the pair, "what joy, what pride. If on one branch together We two were growing side by side Through all this golden weather!"

There came a youth who roughly tore The roses from their bowers, And to his sweetheart proudly bore The two fair, fragrant flowers. Upon her bosom with delight They bloomed,--but not forever: They faded--ah! but, rapture bright, They faded there together.

ADA NICHOLS.

* * * * *

THE WHITE WHATERS.

"Down with her! Hard!" came hoarsely through the mist.

An oil-skinned figure threw himself heavily upon the oar; the little craft rounded tremblingly up into the wind, hurling clouds of spray and foam aloft that were borne far away by the whistling breeze. For a moment the sail beat furiously, as if in protest at this infringement upon its privileges, then a second oil-skin--the cause of all this commotion--raised his arms, a steel spear flashed, a willowy pole trembled in the air, a quick movement, a roar of rushing waters, a shower of spray that drenched the craft, a sound of escaping steam or hissing rope, and a white whale had been struck by Captain Sol Gillis, of Bic.

Captain Gillis, as might be assumed, was not a native of the province of Quebec, but merely a carpet-bagger, who moved north in the summer and returned in early autumn about the time the wild geese went south, and all for reasons known only to himself. He hailed from down East, and voted in a small town not many miles from the historic shell-heaps and the ancient city of Pemaquid.

Our meeting with the down-East skipper was entirely one of accident. Wandering along the beach at Bic, we had come upon a boat, half dory, half nondescript, which from the possession of certain peculiarities was claimed by one of the party to be of Maine origin, and, to settle the dispute, a little house a few hundred yards higher up was visited.

It was like many others along shore,--single-storied, painted white, with green blinds, with a small garden in the rear, in which grew old-fashioned flowers and an abundance of "yarbs" that bespoke a mistress of Thompsonian leanings. A stack of oars, seine-sticks, and harpoon-handles leaned against the roof; gill-nets festooned the little piazza, while a great iron caldron, that had evidently done service on a New Bedford whaler, had been utilized by the good housewife to capture the rain-water from the shingled roof.

"Mornin' to ye, gentlemen. Been lookin' at the bot?" queried a tall, thin, red-faced man, with an unusually jolly expression, stepping out from a shed.

"Yes. We thought she was of Maine build," replied the disputant.

"Wall, so she is," said the mariner,--"so she is; and there ain't none like her within forty mile of Bic. I'm of Maine build myself," he added. "But I ain't owner. I'm sorter second mate to Sol Grillis; sailed with him forty year come Christmas. Don't ye know him? What! don't know Sol Gillis!" And a look of incredulity crept into the old man's eye. "Why, I thought Sol was knowed from Bic to Boothbay all along shore. But come in, do. I know ye're parched," continued the friend of the skipper, dropping his palm and needle and motioning the visitors toward the little sitting-room. "Mother," he called, "here's some folks from daown aour way."

As the old man spoke, a large-framed woman appeared in the door-way, holding on to the sides for support, and bade us welcome. Her eyes were turned upward, and had a far-away look, as if from long habit of gazing out to sea, but, as we drew nearer, we saw that she was blind.

Leading the way into the kitchen, which was resplendent with shining pans and a glistening stove, all the work of the thrifty but blind housewife, she began to entertain us in her simple manner, and described a model of a full-rigged ship that rested on a table, though she had never seen it, with an exactness that would have done credit to many a sailor: even the ropes and rigging were pointed out, and all their uses dwelt upon with a tenderness strangely foreign to the subject.

"And Captain Sam built it?" we asked.

"No, no," replied the old lady, turning her head to hide a tear that stole from the sightless eyes. "It's all we've got to remember aour boy John. He built her and rigged her. He was his mother's boy, but--"

"He went down on the Grand Banks in the gale of '75," broke in her husband hoarsely.

"Yes," continued the wife, "me and Sam's all alone. It's all we've got, and Sam brings it up every summer as sorter company like. Ye're friends of Captain Sol, I guess," she said, brightening up after a moment. "No?" and she looked in the direction of the captain, as if for a solution of the mystery. "Naow, ye don't tell me that ye ain't acquainted with Captain Sol, and ye're from aour way, too? Why," she continued earnestly, "Sol's been hog-reeve in aour taown ten years runnin'; and as for selec'-man, he'll die in office. Positions of trust come jest as nat'ral to him as reefin' in a gale of wind. Him and my man tuck to one another from the first."

"Then you were not townsmen always," we suggested.

"No, we wa'n't," was the reply.

"My man and Sol met under kinder unusual circumstances. Tell 'em haow it was, Sam."

The old sailor was sitting on the wood-box, shaping a row-lock from a piece of white pine, and, when thus addressed, looked up with a blank expression, as if he had been on a long search for ideas and had returned without them.

"He gits wanderin' in his ideas when he sets his mind on the '75 gale," whispered the old lady. "Tell 'em abaout yer meetin' Captain Sol, Sam," she repeated.

"Me and Sol met kinder cur'us," began the captain. "That year I was first mate of the Marthy Dutton, of Kennebec; and on this identical v'yage we was baound daown along with a load of coal. In them days three was a full-handed crew for a fore-an'-after, and that's all we had,--captain, mate, and cook, and a dog and cat. One evenin',--I reckon we was ten miles to the south'ard of Boon Island,--it was my trick at the wheel, and all hands had turned in. It was blowin' fresh from the east'ard, and I had everything on her I could git. I reckon it was nigh on ter two o'clock, and as clear as it is to-day, when the fust thing I knowed the schooner was on her beam ends. She gave a kind of groan like, pitched for'ard, and down she went, takin' everything with her; and, afore I knowed what was the matter, I found myself floatin' ten miles from shore. I see it was no use, but I thought I'd make a break for it: so I got off my boots and ile-skins in the water, and struck aout for shore, that I could see every once in a while on a rise.

"Wall, to make a long story short, I reckon I was in the water a matter o' four hours, when I see the lights of a schooner comin' daown on me. I hailed, and she heard me, ran up in the wind, put aout a bot, and Sol Gillis, the skipper, yanked me in. I couldn't have held aout ten minutes longer. So Sol and me has been tol'able thick ever since."

"Here he comes naow," said the matron, whose quick ear had caught the sound of approaching footsteps. "Sam, set aout my pennyroyal, will ye? Ye see," she added apologetically, "Sol is literary, and when he comes raound he gives us all the news, and there is sech goin's on in the papers nowadays that it jest upsots my nerves to hear him and Sam talkin' 'em over. Sech murders, riots, wrackin', and killin' of folks! If it wa'n't for a dish of tea I 'low I couldn't hear to it." And the good woman held out her hand to a burly fisherman in a full suit of oil-skins, and presented him to the visitors as Sam's friend, Captain Sol Gillis.

"I'm a white-whaler at present, gentlemen," said the captain, with a hearty laugh that was so contagious that all hands joined in, scarcely knowing why.

He was a tall, robust specimen of a down-Easter, his open face reddened by long battling with wind and weather, and shaved close except beneath the chin, from which depended an enormous beard that served as a scarf in winter and even now was tucked into his jacket.

"It's a curious thing, naow, for the captain and mate of a coaster to be in furrin parts a-whalin'; but we find it pays,--eh, Sam?" And Captain Sol closed one eye and looked wisely for a second at his friend, upon which the two broke into hearty laughter that had a ring of smuggled brandy and kerosene in it, though perhaps it was only a ring, after all.

"Kin yaou go whalin'?" said the captain in reply to a question of one of the visitors. "Why, sartin. White-whalin's gittin' fashionable. There's heaps o' chaps come daown here from Montreal and Quebec and want to go aout: so I take 'em. Some shoots, and some harpoons, and abaout the only thing I've seen 'em ketch yet is a bad cold; but there's excitement in it, --heaps of it: ain't there, Sam?"

"I ain't denyin' of it," replied the latter. "What's sport for some is hard work for others. Work I calls it."

"Wall, as I say," continued the skipper, "white-whalin' is gittin' fashionable, so in course there ain't no hard work abaout it; and if yaou will go, why, I'm goin' aout now, me and Sam. The only thing, it's dampish like; but perhaps mother here kin rig yaou aout."

Half an hour later the two landsmen were metamorphosed into very respectable whalers, and, with the two captains, were running the whale-boat down the sands of Bic into the dark waters of the St. Lawrence. The light sail was set, and soon we were bounding away in the direction of Mille Vaches, Captain Sam at the oar that constituted the helm, and Captain Sol in the bow, with harpoon at hand, ready for the appearance of game.

The white whale, or Beluga, is extremely common at the mouth of the St. Lawrence, and is found a considerable distance up the river beyond Tadousac. The oil is in constant demand for delicate machinery, and Beluga leather, made from the tanned hide, is manufactured into a great variety of articles of necessity and luxury.

In appearance these whales are the most attractive of all the cetaceans. They are rarely over twenty feet in length, more commonly fifteen, of a pure creamy color, sometimes shaded with a blue tint, but in the dark water they appear perfectly white, perhaps by contrast, and seem the very ghosts of whales, darting about, or rising suddenly, showing only the rounded, dome-shaped head.

The Beluga is a toothed whale, in contradistinction to those that are supplied with the whalebone-like arrangement that characterizes the right whales: consequently its food consists of fish and perhaps squid. To enable it to capture such prey it must be endowed with remarkable powers of speed. The motor is the great horizontal tail, powerful strokes of which force the animal; through the water and enable it to leap high into the air in its gambols. The pectoral fins are small and of little use in swimming. The head is the most remarkable feature. It is the only instance in this group of animals where this organ appears at all distinct from the body. By viewing the creature in profile, a suggestion of neck may be seen, and it is claimed that there is more or less lateral motion,--that the head can be moved from side to side to a limited extent. The outlines of the face are shapely, the forehead rising in a dome-like projection and rounding off in graceful lines, so that the head resembles to some extent that of our common _Balaena Cisarctica_.

In their movements the Belugas are remarkably active, and are very playful, --leaping into the air in their love-antics, rolling over and over, chasing each other, and displaying in many ways their wonderful agility. They often follow vessels in schools of forty and fifty, and old whalers claim that they utter a whistling sound that can be heard distinctly above the water. The young, sometimes two, but generally one, are at first brown in color, later assuming a leaden hue, then becoming mottled, and finally attaining the cream-white tint of the adult. The calves are frequently seen nursing,--the mother lying upon the surface and rolling gently.

The Beluga has a wide geographical range, being found upon our northern and northwestern shores in great numbers. Their southern limit seems to be the St. Lawrence, and in search of food they venture up this river beyond the mouth of the Saguenay, and often in water but little over their own depth. On the western coast they also enter the great rivers, and have been captured up the Yukon seven hundred miles from its mouth. In their columnar movements they somewhat resemble the porpoise,--long processions being frequently seen, composed of three in a row, perhaps led by a single whale.

Among the Samoyeds, at Chabanova, on the Siberian coast, the white-whale fisheries amount to fifteen hundred or two thousand pood of train-oil a year. On the coasts of Nova Zembla and Spitzbergen they are captured by enormous nets made of very stout material; and the Tromsoe vessels alone have taken in a single season over two thousand one hundred and sixty-seven white whales, valued at about thirty thousand dollars. Magdalen a Bay is a favorite place for them, and often three hundred are taken at a single haul in the powerful nets. Here and in most of the northern localities the entire body is utilized,--the carcass being used in the manufacture of guano. So perfectly are the bodies preserved by the cold of these northern regions that if they cannot be removed at the time of capture they are secured in the ensuing season.

As the boat reached mid-stream, where the wind was blowing against the current, great rollers were met with, that tossed the light craft about like a ball. But this was evidently the play-ground of the Beluga, and dead ahead the white forms were seen darting about in the inky water with startling distinctness, while faint puffs were occasionally borne down on the wind.

Gradually we neared them, and suddenly a white dome appeared on the weather bow. Then came the command and ensuing scene chronicled at the commencement of this paper.

We were perfectly familiar with whaling-terms, and as the game was struck we construed Captain Sam's impressive "git aft" to mean "starn all," and even in that moment of stumbling and drenching felt a sense of disappointment in the suppression of a time-honored term. To omit "There she blows!" was enough; but to substitute "git aft" for "starn all" was a libel on the chroniclers of the "Whaler's Own Book."

There was little time, however, for regrets. Our combined weight had raised the bow a trifle, yet not enough to prevent the sea from coming in; and, as the skipper, who was laboring with the steering-oar, said, the small whaler was "hoopin' along, takin' everything as it came, and askin' no questions." Now by the slight slacking of the line we were high on a wave, the crest of which was dashed in our faces in the mad race; now down in a hollow, taking the next sea bodily and plunging through it, causing the oars and harpoons to rattle as if they were the very bones of the boat shaking in fear and terror.

In a short time she was a third full of water, and the amateur whalers were invited to man the pumps--namely, two tin basins--and bale the St. Lawrence out as fast as it came in. The maddened animal soon carried us beyond the area of heavy seas, and preparations were made for taking in the slack. The boat was still rushing along at an eight-knot rate; and, as the whale showed no signs of weakening, it was Captain Sam's opinion that nothing short of the lance would stop him.

"Jest lay holt of the line, will ye?" sung out Captain Sol, passing the slack aft, and four pairs of arms hauled the boat nearer the game, that was far ahead. At first this only spurred the creature to further endeavors; but the steady pull soon told, and, after an amount of labor that can only be compared to sawing a cord of wood with a dull implement, the white head of the Beluga came in sight.

"Steady, now!" shouted Captain Sol, releasing his hold and picking up the lance. "Now, then, work her ahead."

A final haul, and the boat was fairly alongside of the fleeing animal, careening violently under its rapid rushes; and, in response to the order "Git to wind'ard," we sprang to the weather rail. A moment of suspense, a quick motion of the lance, and the great white body of the whale rose from the water and fell heavily back, beating it into foam in its convulsive struggles.

"She dies hard," said Captain Sol, shaking the water from the creases of his oil-skin as the boat rounded to at a safe distance from the dying whale. "But," he continued, lighting a match by biting the sulphur and puffing violently at a short, black pipe, "that ain't nothing to what they do sometimes: is it, Sam?"

"I ain't denyin' of it," was the reply of that individual, who was now sculling the boat about the whale in a great circle.

"I've seen," continued the skipper, "a white whale smash a bot so clean that ye'd thought it had been through a mill; and it was a caution haow we didn't go with it. That was a curious year," he added. "Something happened to drive the whales up here so thick that the hull river was alive with 'em, and of course we was for reapin' the harvest. When we struck the rip-rap--as they call the tide agin' the wind--it was jest alive with 'em, puffin' and snortin' on all sides. I had three harpoons aboard, besides a rifle, and in a minute I had two foul, with buoys after 'em, and as one big feller came up alongside to blow I let him have it with the rifle.

"Naow," he went on, "whether they heard it or not I can't say, but I heard a yell from Sam jest in time to look and see a whale rise I'll 'low twenty foot clean out of the water. Then there was a kind of a rush, and Sam and me went down, and when we riz it was gone. The critter had hopped clean over that bot as slick as nothing. That kinder tuck the peartness aout of us, so to speak; but later in the day I got aout the gun ag'in, havin' broke the lance, and in killin' the critter she jumped on the bot, and--wall, Sam and me we lit aout, and was picked up after a spell; but that bot, there wasn't enough of her to make kindlin'-wood of.

"They ain't vicious like," continued the skipper, "but clumsy, and if yaou git in the way ye're bound to git hurted. Round the bend at Bic Island one came ashore one time and got left every tide, so she was aout of water an hour or so every day. Heaps of city folks went to see her, and one chap came along and let on haow she couldn't be alive aout of water, and poked her like with a stick. Wall, it ain't for me to say haow many feet she knocked him, but when she fetched him with her flukes it was a Tuesday, and I guess he thought he'd reached the turnin'-p'int of Friday when he hauled himself aout of the mud.

"No, they won't exactly live aout of water, but they'll stand it a like of three weeks if yaou splash 'em every hour or so. They sent one to England that way. They ain't fish. Whales' milk's good, if cream is.

"But the best bit of whalin'," continued the communicative Captain Sol, "that I ever see in these 'ere parts was done by that identical old chap in the starn there."

"When Sol ain't talkin', gentlemen," retorted the person thus alluded to, "ye'll know he's sick,"

"Wall," said Captain Sol, laughing, "I'll spin the yarn, and yaou kin go back on it if yaou kin. As I was sayin', we was aout one day I think a couple o' miles below Barnaby Island. I was a-mummin' for'ard, kinder sleep-in' on and by, and Sam at the helm, when we see a bot a-slidin' into the ripple right ahead of us, and in a minute a couple of white heads was dodgin' up a little to the wind'ard. Sam trimmed the sheet and hauled the Howlin' Mary--that's what we called the bot---on the wind, and the other bot did the same, both of us makin' for the same spot. I see it was nip and tuck; and, knowin' that Sam was a master-hand, I says. ' Sam, yaou take the iron.' So we shifted.

"The other bot had a trifle the weather-gage of us, but both of us, mind ye, makin' for where we thought the critter was comin' up to blow, and in a minute, sure enough, up it come. This 'ere other bot shot right across aour bows; but, Lord bless ye, it would take a proper good Injun to beat Sam, for he up, hauls back, and let fly the harpoon clean over the other hot, takin' the critter right alongside the blow-hole so neat that the line fell across the other bot.--Naow, deny it if yaou kin," said Captain Sol, turning to his friend.

"Ye're a master-hand at talkin'," retorted Captain Sam. "I ain't denyin' of it; but it was luck, good luck, that's all."

By this time the white whale had succumbed, and lay upon the surface motionless and dead; and upon the boat being hauled alongside the huge creature was taken in tow and soon stranded upon the beach, where the valuable parts were secured,--the liver and blubber for the oil, and the thick, white skin that was to be tanned and made into leather or used in the manufacture of various articles.

The evening following, upon invitation, we visited the cabin of Captain Sol, who was a widower and kept bachelor's hall, so to speak. We found him seated on a keg, by the side of an enormous caldron that might have contained the witches' compound, judging from the strange forms of steam that arose from it, while the lurid flames beneath, fed by the oily drippings, lent a still greater weirdness to the scene.

"Good-evenin', gentlemen," said the captain, rising quickly as we entered. "I was settin' here in a sog like, and didn't hear ye. It's a master-night, and we're goin' to have good weather to-morrow. If yaou want to try it ag'in, ye're welcome.

"Sam? Sartin; he's goin'. Him and me's jest like the figger ten: if yaou haul off the one we ain't good for nothin'. If yaou want to see a faithful friend, jest clap yer eyes on Sam Whittlefield. And that ain't all," continued the skipper, looking around and speaking low. "Ye might not think it, for he's master-modest, but Sam's got larn-in' that there ain't many in aonr taown kin grapple with. Yaou oughter see his lib'ry. A full set o' the records of Congress from 1847 up to 1861; and he'd have had 'em all, only he jined the navy and couldn't keep 'em up. Then there's a history by Mister Parley, and a hull secretaryfull of books of all kinds. Oh, Sam's literary; there ain't no gittin' raound that.

"Yaou might hear him speak of their son John? Wall, he was a chip o' the old block. He was as wild a yonker as they make 'em; but Sam never laid the whip on him; he argued with him and eddicated him on a literary principle. When John did anything reckless like, the old lady'd fetch aout a sartin book, called 'The Terrible Suffering of Sary Perbeck,'--like enough ye've heard on it,--and I tell ye that tuck the conceit aout of him. She belonged to old Quaker stock of Paris, Maine, and she kept it up till John was a man grown and she lost her eyesight. She made a good boy of him; but the poor feller went down with the rest in the gale of 1875, on the Grand Banks. John had hard luck. The first v'yage he made, the schooner was struck by a sea on the Banks, capsized, and rolled completely under, comin' up the other side, so't the men below dropped out of their bunks on ter the ceilin', and then back ag'in as she righted.[A] The hatches were battened down, and they found John lashed to the wheel, half drowned. The next trip all hands foundered. They reckoned she went down at the anchorage.

[Footnote A: The schooner Daniel A. Burnam had a similar experience in 1877. She rolled completely over and righted herself without the loss of a man.]

"Have some beans, won't ye?" asked the skipper abruptly, as if he had been deluded by some trick into a gloomy frame of mind and was determined to shake it off then and there. "Them is the real New England beans," he continued, taking a black bean-pot with a wooden spoon from the ashes. "There's the bone and sinner of New England's sons right here. I'm master-fond of 'em; never sails withaout a pot or so. Every time I see a pot it makes me think of old Joe Muggridge, a deacon of aour taown. He beat me once years ago in 'lection for hog-reeve; but I don't bear no ill feelin'. He was deacon of the First Baptist, and captain of one of the biggest coasters in aour parts, and that fond of beans that folks believed he'd 'a' died if he couldn't have had 'em. Wall, it so happened one fall that there came on a powerful gale on the Georges, and a power of hands was lost. A good many bots got carried away from the schooners, and one dory with two men from Boothbay was picked up by one of these ocean-steamers bound in for New York, and that's the way the yarn got told. They'd been withaout food and water for three days, and were abaout givin' up; but the steamer-folks tuck 'em in and steamed for port.

"The next mornin' it was blowin' fresh and lively, and the lookout sighted a schooner lyin' to a couple of miles to the lew'ard, reefed daown close, and a flag flyin', union down,--signal of distress. Thinkin' they were sinkin', the captain of the steamer put towards her, and rounded to half a mile off and called for volunteers to git aout the bot. Half a dozen brave fellers sprang to the davits, and among 'em aour Boothbay boys. They'd been in a fix, ye see, and was eager to help the rest of sufferin' humanity. She was rollin' so that it tuck 'em nigh an hour to git the bot over, and then two men fell overboard; but finally they got off toward the schooner, all hands givin' 'em three cheers.

"It was a hard pull, and a nasty sea, but they kept at it, and in half an hour was within hailin'-distance. Then the third officer of the steamer stood up and sung aout, 'Schooner ahoy!' 'Ay, ay!' says a man in the schooner's fore-riggin', and the men see naow that she was ridin' like a duck and as dry as a sojer. 'Are ye in distress?' sung aout the officer. 'Yas,' came from the man in the riggin'. 'Flounderin'?' shouted the officer ag'in. 'No,' sung out old man Muggridge, for it was him: 'next thing to it. We're aout o' beans. Kin ye spare a pot?'

"Wall," continued Captain Sol, reddening with the roar of laughter that accompanied the recollection, "it ain't for me, bein' a perfesser of religion, to let on what the men in the bot said, but it had a master-effect on the deacon, for afore them rescuers got back to the steamer he'd shook aout his reefs and was haulin' to the east'ard.

"Wall," said the old skipper, banking the fire with a shovelful of sand, as his visitors rose to go, "to-morrow, then, at early flood, sharp."

The early flood was that dismal time when the phantom mists of night still cling to the earth, and low-lying clouds of fog cover the river, only to be dispersed by the coming day. Cold and cheerless as it was, it found us again launching the whale-boat, and, when the sail was trimmed aft and pipes lighted, we rushed into the fog and headed down the river to meet the rising sun.

The mist was so dense that only the glimmer of Captain Sol's pipe could be seen for'ard, appearing like an intermittent eye gleaming through the fog that settled upon our oil-skins in crystal drops and ran in tiny rivulets down the creases into the boat. For a mile we scudded along before the west wind through the gloom, and then a wondrous change commenced. Soft gleams of light shot from the horizon upward, the dark-blue heavens assumed a lighter tint, the pencilled rays growing broader and fusing together, producing a strange and rapidly-spreading nebulous light. The cloud of low-lying mist now became a brassy hue, seemingly heated to ignition, and then from its very substance appeared to rise a fiery, glowing mass that flooded the river with a golden radiance.

"It's a master-sight," quoth Captain Sol between the puffs, as the change went on and the fog began to break before the rising sun. "I ain't no likin' for fogs. Ye see----" But here the skipper stopped, as a peculiar sound and then another, the puffing of the white whale, was heard.

The boat was hauled on the wind, the mast unshipped, and, harpoon in hand, Captain Sol stood braced for the affray. The ripple seemed alive with the ghostly creatures, their white forms darting here and there, while the puffing came fast and furious.

"Stand by to git aft!" whispered the harpooner, and that moment, instead of a white head, the entire body of a Beluga rose in front of the boat, clearing the water in a graceful leap.

Quick as thought the skipper hurled his weapon. It struck with a sounding thud, a wing shot, and the great creature fell heavily, impaled in mid-air, to rush away, bearing boat and white-whalers far down the river toward the sea.

C.F. HOLDER.

* * * * *

OUR MONTHLY GOSSIP.

A Virginia Lady of the Old School.

Among the many beautiful and fascinating women who adorned Richmond society at the beginning of the present century there were few more remarkable and interesting than Mrs. Mayo, the wife of Colonel John Mayo, founder of the bridge at Richmond that bears his name. She was the daughter of John De Hart, of New Jersey, an eminent lawyer and a member of the first Continental Congress. Bellville, the home of Colonel and Mrs. Mayo, in the suburbs of Richmond, was the seat of elegant and boundless hospitality. No person of distinction ever came to Richmond without calling at Bellville, the _entrée_ to which was an unquestioned passport to the best society of the city.

Mrs. Mayo's eldest daughter, Maria, was the most celebrated Virginia belle of her day. She never gave a decided answer to any of her numerous suitors, and the story goes that one evening three gentlemen met at her house, and after a very pleasant visit they returned to Richmond together. One of them asked the others why they went there, as he was engaged to Miss Mayo and expected shortly to marry her. The other gentlemen also said they had hopes of winning the fair lady. The first gentleman determined to have the matter settled, and accordingly went to her house the following day and sought an interview with Mrs. Mayo. He told her he had her daughter's consent, and asked hers. Mrs. Mayo replied she was sorry she could not give her consent, and the gentleman then understood that the mother and daughter were in perfect accord in the matter of the young lady's love-affairs. In this way Miss Mayo kept on hand a regiment of admirers, who formed a sort of reserve-corps. When John Howard Payne, the author of "Home, Sweet Home," visited Richmond, he was a frequent guest at the Mayo mansion. He wrote a poem, in which he described himself as falling asleep in a grove and all the months of the year appearing to him. The month of June was the first, and he finally winds up with May, which he described in very glowing language, ending with the line,--

Sweet May, oh, I could love thee ever.

Maria Mayo is said to have refused more than a hundred suitors before she accepted General Winfield Scott, who courted her when he was a member of the Richmond bar as Mr. Scott. After entering the army he continued his addresses, and was refused successively as Captain Scott and Colonel Scott, and it was only as General Scott, the victorious hero of Lundy's Lane, that he at last won the hand of the much-admired belle.

Mr. William Henry Haxall, a very agreeable gentleman of Richmond, relates that on one occasion he visited Mrs. Scott soon after one of her trips to Europe. He went in the evening at nine o'clock, and after some time, when he thought he had paid a call sufficiently long, he slyly looked at his watch, and, to his amazement, found it was one o'clock. On his apologizing for the length of his visit, Mrs. Scott assured him she never retired before one or two o'clock, but that she had no idea it was so late, Mr. Haxall being one of the most agreeable gentlemen she had ever met, when in fact he had not spoken a dozen words, but was a charmed listener to her interesting description of her travels abroad.

In 1828, Mrs. Mayo, in the sixty-eighth year of her age, undertook a voyage to Europe in a sailing-vessel. After her arrival, she passed most of her time in Paris, where she was the recipient of very flattering attentions and the intimate friend and guest of some of the best families of the nobility, especially those of General La Fayette and his son George Washington, of the Count de Ségur, and of M. de Neuville, minister of marine, of whom Mrs. Mayo wrote, January 10, 1829, "He lives in one of the palaces in grand style, and we see there all the people of the court as often as it suits us." She renewed also her friendship with many French families whom she had known in Richmond as refugees during the French Revolution, and their attentions and evident pleasure at the reunion seem to have been peculiarly gratifying to her. She returned to Richmond in 1829, and lived at Bellville until that elegant mansion was destroyed by fire in 1842. After her return, she confined her entertainments almost exclusively to handsome dinner-parties, at which she presided with exceeding grace and elegance, and where it was said that, though the wines were fine, the flavor and brilliancy of the conversation were far superior. She never retired without a candle and writing-materials at her bedside, and if during the night any new idea or bright thought arose, she would immediately strike a light and jot it down. She retained her mental vigor and personal attractions until her death in 1843, in the eighty-second year of her age.

The following instances will serve to illustrate Mrs. Mayo's great nerve and self-possession. She was accustomed to drive daily to the bridge to collect the toll of the preceding day, consisting generally of silver of various denominations, which she put in a bag and deposited in the bank. Her driver Moses was a favorite negro, who had a weakness for drink: he had several times tried her fortitude and temper severely by upsetting her into a gully by the roadside leading to Bellville, fortunately with no serious consequences to her, unfortunately with none to himself. On one occasion, Mrs. Mayo, being too late for the bank, and intending to pass the night at the residence of her daughter Mrs. Cabell, took the bag of silver and placed it in a closet in her room, which was at the back of the house and opening on a porch. During the night she was awakened by a noise, and perceived the figure of a man in her room. Pretending sleep, she quietly watched his movements until she saw him enter the closet, when she arose quickly, and, rushing rapidly across the room, shut and locked the closet door in an instant, and called loudly for her son-in-law Dr. Cabell, who was in the adjoining room. On his hurried entrance, she informed him that she had a man in the closet, and that he must go for a policeman, --which was done, and the door opened, when, to their astonishment, there stood the trusted Moses. Mrs. Mayo, horrified, exclaimed, "Oh, Moses, how could you try to rob me!" Moses, hanging his head, dropped on his knees, and, in beseeching tones, replied, "Misses, it warn't Moses: it was the debbil;" and the old lady forgave him.

At a time when the whole State was in consternation from an apprehended insurrection of the slaves, when families far and near were flocking to the cities for protection, and patrols were scouring the country day and night, Mrs. Mayo was entirely alone at Bellville, with no white person in the neighborhood. Her friends in vain besought her to go to Richmond. At length matters became so threatening that some gentlemen, discussing the subject one night, concluded that it was too unsafe for Mrs. Mayo, and determined to ride out and insist upon her returning with them to the city. They reached Bellville about midnight, and, as they rode up, a window was raised, showing that the brave proprietress was on the _qui vive_. She demanded, in a quiet, fearless voice, "Who is there?" They explained the object of their visit, but pleaded and remonstrated ineffectually. She refused to accompany them, saying she had no fear, and could protect herself; which she did boldly and safely until the danger and alarm had passed away.

E.L.D.

Mystifications of Authoresses.

"Don't you think," wrote the author of "Evelina" to her sister, "there must be some wager depending among the little curled imps who hover over us mortals, of how much flummery goes to turn the head of an authoress?" For at that time little Fanny Burney, twenty-six years of age, was enjoying such an ovation as had never before come within the experience of woman. She had written a book which all London was reading, quoting, and discussing admiringly without the least idea of the author's identity; and Fanny could not meet an acquaintance, could not receive a letter, could not attend a party of friends, without being asked, "Have you read 'Evelina'? Is it not charming?" Anonymity was in this case the cleverest _ruse_ for an absolute enjoyment of the results of her work. One after another her family and outside friends, from the great Dr. Johnson down, were admitted to a share of the delightful secret. All who knew that "Little Burney" was at the bottom of this fascinating mystery were as eager as she herself for nattering comments and conjectures, and there were nudgings of elbows, "nods and becks and wreathed smiles," when "Evelina" was mentioned. It would have been no wonder if the little girl's head had been turned as she hugged her surprise and happiness to her swelling little heart. When the murder was out, and she was _fêted_ and honored, called to court and compelled to courtesy thankfully at the ponderous compliments of great personages, she must have felt that the bloom of the peach was rubbed off and the bubble of the champagne departed.

In most cases strangers may not intermeddle with the joy of authorship. Spoken praise carries off the rose and puts a thorn in its place. One of our famous novelists, whom we will call Brown, happened to catch sight in a strange city of the sign, "Autographs of distinguished authors for sale," He thought to himself he would test his own market value, and accordingly entered the shop.

"Have you the autograph of Mr. Brown?" he inquired.

"Oh, yes."

"What is the price?" he asked.

"One for two cents, or two for three cents," was the reply.

He was in the habit of declaring afterward that he could have borne the one for two cents, but that the two for three cents stung him bitterly. Such is fame; and no wonder that young authoresses often begrudge a complete surrender of their identity to the Juggernaut car of public curiosity and criticism, and begin either anonymously or with a pseudonyme. A masculine _nom de plume_ has of late been a favorite device with the fair sex, partly for the reason that it is supposed to confer an ampler ease, and partly from an idea that male writers command a readier hearing and higher prices than female. We see a great many Henris, Georges, and the like on the title-pages of books which are a flimsy veil to conceal the pretty feminine figure behind.

After Miss Burney had set the fashion, women pressed boldly forward into literary ranks, although the author of "Waverley" absorbed in a great degree the curiosity of the reading public. Miss Austen, whose work is destined, in the opinion of good judges, to survive with the language, made her first venture, like the author of "Evelina," anonymously; but it created no such furore. This was "Sense and Sensibility," published in 1811; but she had already written "Northanger Abbey" and "Pride and Prejudice," although they were not published until years afterward. No one supposed her to be more than an every-day bright and observant young lady. Like other English girls of her class, it was her habit to sit in the drawing-room with the ladies of the family after eleven o'clock each day, ready to receive visitors. Instead of having needle-work in her hand, Jane had a pen, which was often dropped just in the midst of one of her clear, incisive pictures of the Woodhouses, Knightleys, and Bennets, as neighbors who might have served for the originals of those characters were announced. Feminine tact instantly obliterated every sign of literary occupation: the quill was thrown aside, and her sister's canvases and embroidery were strewn over the writing-table to cover every scrap of paper.

The famous pseudonyme of George Sand, which seems so characteristic of the writer, was a matter of accident. When Madame Dudevant, tired of her domestic _rôle_, went to Paris to take up a literary career, her mother-in-law, Baroness Dudevant, said to her, with incredulous horror,--

"Is it true that it is your intention _to print books_?"

"Yes, madame."

"Well, I call that an odd notion."

"Yes, madame."

"That is all very good and very fine; but I hope you are not going to put the name that I bear on the _covers of printed books_."

"Oh, certainly not, madame: there is no danger."

When the publisher wanted a signature for "Indiana" which should show that it was by one of the authors of "Rose et Blanche," which she had written in collaboration with Sandeau under the name of Jules Sand, the author retained the Sand and prefixed George to it as a simple and rustic title.

The Brontés when about to publish their poems took the names "Currer, Ellis, and Acton Bell," each keeping her initials. This choice, wrote Charlotte, was "dictated by a sort of conscientious scruple at assuming names positively masculine, while we did not like to declare ourselves women, because, without at the time suspecting that our mode of writing and thinking was not what is called 'feminine,' we had a vague impression that authoresses were likely to be looked on with prejudice." The London "Athenaeum," which was one of the few papers that noticed the little book, spoke of the work of the three "brothers." Even after "Jane Eyre," "Wuthering Heights," and "Agnes Grey" were printed, the secret of the triple identity was jealously kept, until a vexatious tangle of their names, and a claim from certain publishers that the three authors of the three books were one person and that all the novels were by the author of "Jane Eyre," roused Charlotte and Anne Bronte to the point of setting off for London to show Smith and Elder that they were honest and fair. Up to this time the publishers had not known whether they were women or men. "On reaching Mr. Smith's," writes Mrs. Gaskell, "Charlotte put his own letter into his hands,--the same letter which had excited so much disturbance at Haworth Parsonage only twenty-four hours before. 'Where did you get this?' said he, as if he could not believe that the two young ladies dressed in black, of slight figures, looking pleased yet agitated, could be the embodied Currer and Acton Bell for whom curiosity had been hunting so eagerly in vain." The secret, however, was not disclosed, except to the publishers. Until "Shirley" was published, opinion was much divided as to the probable sex of Currer Bell, but "Shirley" was declared to be written by a woman; and, this suggestion once started, questions of identity soon settled themselves. Charlotte went to London again, and this time was introduced to all the literary people in the town. It was not until her third visit, however, that she attended a lecture of Thackeray's, and at the close found that the audience, instead of withdrawing, had formed themselves into two lines and drawn back to see the famous authoress as she passed out. "During this passage through the 'cream of society,' Miss Bronté's hand trembled to such a degree that her companion feared lest she should turn faint and be unable to proceed." Ellis and Acton Bell were in their early graves, and all the splendor of her fame could hardly lighten by a breath the weight of that lonely sorrow of Charlotte.

The story of George Eliot's pseudonyme has been too recently told to require allusion, except to point out its practical value to herself, shielding as it did her susceptibilities,--in fact, guarding like a chrysalis the first strivings, the flutter into full life, of that immortal winged thing it concealed.

Several of our own female writers have chosen a masculine _nom de plume_, and guarded it consistently, like Saxe Holm, etc. Miss Murfree is, we believe, the first whose disguise editors as well as the general public failed to pierce. Now that the critical faculty begins to play more surely upon the works of Charles Egbert Craddock, it may be said that a woman's love of romance and picturesqueness shades off into haze and unreality some of the pictures of life which a man's experience and surer knowledge would have made vivid by fewer and more vigorous strokes. However, as long as she chose, Miss Murfree held her secret beyond the reach of discovery, because nobody questioned it; her disclosure was piquant, and the state of surprise into which she threw her admirers was so utter that the full story of it ought to be told, although we are not empowered to tell it here.

L.W.

The Abuse of Adjectives.

It is a great pity that the fairy willow whistle which blew everything into its proper place should have burst with its first note, for there would be such ample opportunity nowadays for the display of its peculiar functions. Why, for instance, should modern novel-writers turn the patient adjective into an overworked little drudge, and compel it to do thrice the labor that it can effectually perform? Fifty years ago it led a life of respected ease, and was only called on when it could be of some real use to the author; now it knows no respite from its ever-increasing tasks, and too often bears upon its weak shoulders the real burden of the book. Formerly we were told that Tilburina had golden hair and blue eyes, or raven hair and black eyes, as the case might be; and, that matter being settled, we heard little more upon the subject. Now the hair and eyes appear anew on every page, and are apparently considered the most important element in the story.

Who has not been struck with the slighting manner in which Sir Walter describes his heroines' charms? Edith Bellenden, we are asked to believe, was fair without insipidity; Julia Mannering, who is to Waverley what Rosalind is to Shakespeare, is hardly credited with being beautiful at all; while when it comes to his heroes Sir Walter is even more strikingly ineloquent. "A slender young man," or "a young man of genteel appearance," is sometimes all that is vouchsafed to us, the rest being happily left to our imagination. Among modern writers, Trollope alone manifests this curious indifference to the hair, eyes, noses, and mouths of his _dramatis personae_. What was the color of Grace Crawley's hair, or of Lily Dale's eyes? What did Archdeacon Grantby look like, or who shall venture to describe the immortal Mrs. Proudie? George Eliot, on the contrary, inclines, especially in her later books, to a lavish use of adjectives; and the aspiring authoress of to-day may cite Gwendolen's "long brown glance" as being quite as strained as any effort of her own. But then we can no more approach George Eliot by copying a few of her mannerisms than we can become Napoleons by wearing an old coat, or William the Thirds by cultivating an inordinate taste for green peas.

To all, however, who wish to behold this tendency in its fullest and freest development, we would recommend the perusal of a novel by Rhoda Broughton, called "Second Thoughts,"--a bright, vivacious, almost witty little book, marred only by its ineradicable defects of style. The heroine, Gillian Latimer, is described over and over again, with as much emphasis on every feature as if she were one of Madame Tussaud's pet creations and had nothing but her outward appearance to suggest the real woman she aspires to be. On her eyes alone more adjectives are brought to bear than would have sufficed Scott for all the orbs in Waverley. They are "gray eyes," "great gray eyes," "angry gray eyes," "steel-gray eyes," and "displeased gray eyes;" also "grave eyes," "sparkling eyes," "clear eyes," "blazing eyes," "proud eyes," "great eyes," "aching eyes," "large bright eyes," "drooped eyes," "eager young eyes," "angry eyes," "steel-colored eyes." "sad, leave-taking eyes," "flashing eyes," and "proud, dewy eyes." Upon one occasion she "lifts the fair stars of her gray eyes" into her lover's face; on another, she scorches him badly with "gray eyes like furious fires." The hero himself, a most quiet, commonplace young doctor, is not above a little eye-work on his own account. He has alternately "serious eyes," "cross eyes," "quiet, shrewd eyes," "coldly just, bright eyes," "steady eyes," "calm eyes," "fiery eyes," "town-tired eyes,"--which is quite a novelty in the list,--and "eyes of burning choler," to say nothing of eyes that "burn like fire," while he "grows pale as ashes," which must have given him the effect of a conflagration, especially as he stands once "all beflamed with sunset."

Next to the supreme question of eyes we hear most about Gillian's "blonde head," and her "flaxen head," her "flax head," her "bowed flax head," her "tossed head," her "wilful head," her "fair head," and her "well-poised head," while to match these maidenly attributes she has a "fair Sphinx face," a "tragic pale face," a "serious face," a "humiliated white face," a "flaming face," a "hotly-flushed face," a "sweetly apologetic face," and a "flower-textured face." Moreover, being a very remarkable girl, she is endowed with a "severe young figure," and a "gracious figure," whatever that may mean, while her "lily-fair" and "delicate-cold" hands have "satiny backs," and are "small and capable" as well. She is never merely pretty like other women, but she has "ripe June beauty." and a "robust yet delicate beauty." If she loses her temper, which happens rather often in the course of the story, she manifests the same by the "red scorn of her look," or by her "beautiful vexed eyes," which resemble a "sudden angry gray arrow,"--imagine an angry gray arrow,--or by "flaming out into crimson anger," or "with wreathed neck and flaming cheek," or "with enkindled eye and vermeil cheek," both of which expressions we would recommend to lovers of simplicity.

If she is sad, however, she "lifts the drowned stars of her impatient, suffering eyes," or lowers them with a "moist look;" or she strays in "confused red misery," or in a "passionate scarlet hurry," which is as extraordinary in its way as an angry gray arrow. When her father dies, she stands "long and craped," with a "black elbow" resting on the chimney-place; while her various methods of blushing take up half the volume. Never, indeed, was there a heroine who blushed so much about so little. Sometimes it is merely a matter of "flaming cheeks," or of the "young roses of her cheeks," or of the "mortified carmine of her cheeks," or of her "hot bloom," or of her "beautiful hot red roses." Sometimes it is the "deep color of mingled shame and joy;" while on more especial occasions we are assured that her face is "made all of poppies," that it "changes from poppy-color to milk, and back from milk to poppy-color," that it "keeps shifting from frightened white to mortified red, and back again," and, better than all, that "cheek and chin and pearl-fair throat grow all one rose-red flame," with which triumph of compound adjectives we will close our quotations, only remarking that Gillian's blushing chin rivals the achievement of Ursula in "John Halifax," who, we are gravely told, colored over her throat, neck, and arms.

All honor to the lady Olivia, who has taught us how to make a rational inventory of a woman's charms! "Item, two lips indifferent red; item, two gray eyes with lids to them; item, one neck, one chin, and so forth." To these let us add, item, one blush indifferent rosy, and then have done with the subject forever.

A.R.

* * * * *

LITERATURE OF THE DAY.

"Nathaniel Parker Willis." By Henry A.Beers. "Edgar Allan Poe." By George E. Woodbury. (American Men of Letters Series.) Boston: Houghton, Mifflin & Co.

The American Men of Letters Series is giving us some excellent biographies, well written, the facts well assimilated and grouped, and the whole treatment so accurate and graphic as to be full not only of instruction but of entertainment. Formerly American biography was so deficient in just those qualities which endear English biographical literature to us, that we were inclined to believe that the fault was inherent in Americans and American life, that our days and works lacked picturesqueness and color and left no salient points for the chronicler to seize. We now see that the meagre harvests of former biographers were due to their hasty and superficial generalizations. For at least three of the volumes in this series--the life of James Fenimore Cooper and the two now before us--may be favorably compared with the best work in the English Men of Letters Series, which is indeed high praise. Unusual and striking as were the incidents in the life of Cooper, they had completely dropped out of sight of the present generation. The biographers of Willis and Poe had no such advantage. Willis is still remembered, not only as a _litt?teur_ and journalist, but as a man about town, while legend has never ceased to be busy with the memory of Poe, so that the traditions of his strange career are curiously linked to and incorporated with his best-known works.

The present estimate of Willis as a literary man is so slight that it seems almost like impaling a butterfly to apply critical tests to his writings. Professor Beers has nevertheless made it a profitable and interesting study to follow him through his career, which was, upon the whole, singularly fortunate. Few authors have possessed so happy a knack of making the present moment both enjoyable and profitable. His personal endowments were all in his favor, and no sooner was he launched in Europe than he gained a great social success. England, in particular, opened some of its pleasantest circles to him. Not only did Lady Blessington take him up, but he became a favorite with many of the most lofty and exclusive members of the aristocracy. Never was opportunity more auspicious, for Willis was a born worshipper of refinements and luxuries. He had starved in America for beauty and color, and dear to him were all these adjuncts of a highly-civilized life. It was his mission to reproduce for Americans lively impressions in letters to newspapers at home, and in stories and sketches, in which he drew freely not only upon his own experiences, but upon all the hints and suggestions he could pick up. His industry and ingenious expedients were well rewarded: in fact, one is a little surprised to find that in 1842 he was writing four articles monthly for four magazines, and receiving one hundred dollars for each, which makes a sum total of almost five thousand a year. He was, besides, handsomely paid for his books both in England and at home, and had generally on hand some writing for illustrated volumes of travel, so that for many years he may easily be said to have made seven or eight thousand a year.

No greater contrast to Willis--the man of the world, who knew how to turn every habit, talent, and instinct to account--could be found than poor Poe, all whose opportunities were wasted, spoiled, or flung away. It is the most difficult thing in the world to arrive at anything like a complete idea of the identity of so fantastic a man as the author of the "Raven." The faults, inconsistencies, and contradictions of his character perplex and dismay one the more closely one looks into his letters and the minor incidents of his career. Mr. Woodbury has, however, acquitted himself well in this difficult task, and has in many cases separated truth from long-accepted fiction and given us a clear picture of what has hitherto been blurred and distorted by unfaithful friends and foes. The story is a most hopeless and pitiful one, its gloom brightened and its bitterness sweetened by but few of the consolations which belong to average human lives. The causes of this are apparent enough: they were constituents of Poe's brain and heart; but for him to have been otherwise organized would have been for his unique work to have had no existence.

Recent Fiction.

"Troubled Waters: A Problem of To-Day." By Beverley Ellison Warner. Philadelphia: J.B. Lippincott Company.

"A Marsh Island," By Sarah Orne Jewett. Boston: Houghton, Mifflin & Co.

"The Duchess Emilia." By Barrett Wendell. Boston: James R. Osgood & Co.

"Across the Chasm." "Within the Capes." New York: Charles Scribner's Sons.

"One of the Duanes." By Alice King Hamilton. Philadelphia: J.B. Lippincott Company.

"Tales from Many Sources." Vols. I. and II. New York: Dodd, Mead & Co.

There is a generous use of good material in Mr. Warner's novel, the scene of which is laid in a New England manufacturing town, with all the sharp and diversified social contrasts, the eager strifes and competitions, that belong to such a community, clearly portrayed. The author calls his story "A Problem of To-Day," and it is his study to press home to the consciousness of the reader the series of dull and wearing miseries, the bitter discouragements and pathetic misfortunes, which pursue the working-man whose most faithful labor insures him no secure hold upon future comfort and prosperity. It is both the strength and the weakness of the book that its most prominent figure, Richard Wilton, is a wealthy mill-owner who has risen to his position in a way which makes him an unfair representative of the class of capitalists. A man without intellect or humanity, without faith, without law, a robber of the dead, a despoiler of the widow and orphan, a successful impostor, a remorseless brute who takes pleasure in outraging and crushing his subordinates, would naturally be a bad master and make his work-people miserable by heaped-up tyrannies. His faults are not the inevitable outgrowth of a position of power and the conflict between capital and labor, but are the result of his own individual depravity. But this man's personality is a powerful one, and his personality is the motive of most of the dramatic events which crowd the pages. The history of the "strike" which follows the reduction of wages at Trade Lawn Mills is faithfully and vigorously given. Mr. Warner evidently knows the temper of workingmen, their patience and impatience, their trials, temptations, and weaknesses. He gauges with pitiful fidelity the faults of character and purpose which make almost every "strike" contain within itself the germs of collapse and failure. The plot is cleverly conceived and successfully carried out. That the bubble which has for a time floated Richard Wilton's frauds and crimes bursts at last, and that the villain is brought to well-merited disgrace, is a matter of course. Trade Lawn Mills pass into the hands of their rightful owners, and certain co-operative ideas which are an essential ingredient of the story and its applied moral are carried out. The author attaches high importance to co-operative schemes, and finds in them the clear solution of the vexing questions concerning the future of the workingman. As an offset to the somewhat dark and troubled pictures of life which the story presents, there are sunny and pleasant passages in which a High-Church clergyman and a young lady by the name of Sydney Worthington figure. The whole book is, in fact, inspired by a spirit of hopefulness and a sure belief that divine order overrules the efforts, successes, and failures of the humblest human being and that a way of deliverance is sure to come.

If "A Marsh Island" shows no distinct advance upon Miss Jewett's earlier work, it is yet a pretty, artistic product which delicately emphasizes the author's best points and gives us her distinct charm without any waste of effects. Her feeling for rural life and her clear comprehension of rural people were never better displayed than in this little story. A generous play of late-summer and autumn radiance lights up its every nook and corner; it is mellow with warm color and odorous of late fruits and flowers. We cannot help finding the artist visitor, that product of the bloom of Boston civilization, a little hackneyed and time-worn. He has surely done his part in literature, and may retire to the heaven of the dilettante. But all the inhabitants of Marsh Island are human and attractive, and the untiring industries of the well-ordered household soothe one like the rhythm of a song. The bizarre, incongruous, but, upon the whole, satisfactory specimen of New England "help" which Miss Jewett generally introduces finds an excellent example here in the person of Temperance Kipp. Squire Owen is a genial man, so overflowing with generous nature that he can afford to fill out the more meagre humanities of his wife, who has susceptibilities, tempers, and moods. "They used to tell a story," he one day remarks to Mrs. Owen, with great satisfaction, when she has a distinct grievance about clothes,--"I do' know but you've heard it, --about old Sergeant Copp an' his wife, that was always quarrellin'. Somebody heard her goin' on one day. Says she, 'I do wish somebody'd give me a lift as fur as Westmarket. I do feel's if I ought to buy me a cap. I ain't got a decent cap to my back: if I was to die to-morrow, I ain't got no cap that's fit to lay me out in.' 'Blast ye,' says he, 'why didn't ye die when ye had a cap?'" The more impassioned side of life does not suit Miss Jewett so well as the humorous and pastoral; but each detail about her heroine is attractive, and nothing in recent fiction, is more true, touching, and womanly than Doris's journey to Westmarket in the autumnal dawn to keep her lover at home from the fishing-banks.

"The Duchess Emilia" is one of those stories which ought to be withdrawn from the province of criticism by the fact of their being the delight of the reader, thrilling him with their weirdness and firing his imagination by their splendid audacity. If the attention is so feebly grasped as to permit one to reason about an impossible situation, it becomes at once extravagant and absurd. One would require to be considerably carried away by illusion to be moved by Mr. Wendell's story. The hero is a New-Englander, born of mad parents (they met while both were patients in an insane asylum); and this inherited curse would seem to be enough for any hero to totter under. It becomes unimportant, however, when we discover that he has furthermore been taken possession of at birth by the spirit of a wicked and fascinating Italian duchess, who wishes to expiate her crimes before leaving this mundane sphere. One might readily expect some startling effects from the development of a plot thus removed from the haven of probabilities and set afloat in a sea of the wildest romance. The Duchess Emilia's repentance, however, seems to have ended the interest of her career, and her good deeds are appallingly dull; in fact, her whole personality thins away into insignificance.

"Across the Chasm" opens with fair promise, and our introduction to Virginia life and a talkative old negro "somewhar up in de nineties" is one which we should be glad to follow up by further acquaintance. This serves, however, merely as preamble, and in the next chapter we are transported to a city called Washington, although for characteristic flavor it might as well be any other place, and we enter upon the events attending a young lady's entrance into society. This might all be very pretty and pleasant, except for the deadly seriousness of the author. It is entirely frivolous and unimportant, but frivolity may be made charming and full of suggestion. Points of etiquette and behavior engage the minds, hearts, and passions of the personages of the story. It is a sort of animated illustration of the little book called "Don't." For example, "_Don't_ leave your overcoat and rubbers in the hall when you go to make a call on a lady for the first time," receives practical exemplification when Major King, a high-toned Southerner, with unbuttoned frock-coat and baggy trousers, pays a visit to the heroine. He not only takes off his overcoat and rubbers, but tilts his chair, stays till midnight, and in every way calls down the wrath of that accomplished prig Mr. Louis Gaston, who is a high-toned Northerner. This yawning gulf between the generous faults of the South and the fastidious Phariseeism of the North is the problem of the book. The story is slight, wholly conventional, and rather commonplace, but it is gracefully told, and the conversations are not without interest.

Mr. Howard Pyle's "Within the Capes" belongs to a widely different category from the pretty feminine Southern sketch, and is quite equal to the most insatiable requirements, containing half a dozen successful kinds of fiction in itself. As a love-story, it is charming; as a sea- and shipwreck- and treasure-finding-story, it offers a fair challenge not only to Russell, but to Stevenson himself; while as a detective-story it is as good as most. The adventures are related by the hero, one Captain Tom Granger, who toward the end of his long life feels a desire to have his strange history live in his own version, and not in the fables of the gossips. A characteristic quaintness of expression gives validity to the narrative, with plenty of homely enforcement of Tom Granger's wit and wisdom.

"One of the Duanes" offers a vivid picture of the life which goes on among the officers and officers' wives and daughters who make up a little world within a world at our army and naval stations. Mrs. Hamilton has depicted the interests and excitements, the gossip and the scandals, in a way which impresses the reader as being faithful and without exaggeration. The story is interesting, and the book is thoroughly readable and enjoyable.

Two or three little volumes containing the best short stories that have been published ought to be a desirable addition to any library-table, to be picked up by a chance caller or read aloud on a rainy evening. And "Tales from all Sources" fairly well answer one's requirements of what such collections should contain, being grave and gay, bizarre and frivolous, to suit the various tastes. We should be glad to see Bulwer's "The Haunted and the Haunters" (called in some editions "The House and the Brain") reproduced in such a collection. The fault of this series, if it be a fault, is that most of the stories are well within the recollection of any one who has read the English magazines for the past few years, --"The Black Poodle," for example, and "The Pavilion on the Links," being matters of yesterday. However, both are sufficiently good to command a second reading.

END