Part IV.—The Immolation.

LV.

The clock had just struck two. Vera, according to her custom, was waiting in the ante‐room of the empress’ audience‐chamber. The door was soon opened by an usher, and the person she was waiting to introduce appeared. There was an involuntary movement of surprise on the part of both. Fleurange stopped as if in doubt. Vera’s appearance did not correspond with the idea she had formed of the lady‐in‐waiting she expected to find at her majesty’s door, and for an instant she thought she was in the presence of the empress herself.

Vera, on her side, expected still less to see a petitioner like the one who now appeared.

The Princess Catherine, with her usual forethought, had, in view of this important occasion, carefully prepared a dress for her who was to be regarded as her son’s _fiancée_, and, when the day came, the young girl opened a coffer which had a special place among her luggage, and followed with docility the instructions she there found in the princess’ own handwriting, with the dress she was to wear. It was black, as etiquette then required, but a court dress, and the princess took pleasure in having it made as magnificent as possible. Fleurange thus arrayed was dazzling. Nevertheless, her only ornaments were a gold chain from which was suspended a cross concealed in her corsage (a precious gift from her father which she never laid aside), and on her right arm a bracelet the Princess Catherine had taken from her own wrist the eve of the young girl’s departure, assuring her it would bring her good luck. She wore no ornament on her head, but her beautiful hair was turned back and plaited in a way not common at that time, though so becoming and striking as to add another peculiar charm to that of her whole person, which was as noble as if she was entitled to a place at court, but simple enough to show that she now appeared there for the first time.

The two young girls looked at each other, and, as we have said, their surprise was mutual. But it was only for an instant. Vera advanced.

“Mademoiselle Fleurange d’Yves, I suppose?”

Fleurange bowed.

“The empress awaits you: follow me.” She turned towards the door, but before opening it she said: “Take off the glove on your right hand—that is etiquette—and hold your petition in that.”

Fleurange mechanically ungloved her beautiful hand in which trembled the paper she held. She stopped a moment, pale and agitated.

“Do not be afraid, mademoiselle,” said the maid of honor to her in an encouraging tone. “Her majesty is kindness itself. You have nothing to fear; she could not be better disposed to give you a favorable reception.”

There was not time to utter another word. The door then opened. Vera entered first. She bowed, and made Fleurange advance; then retired herself with another profound reverence, leaving the young girl alone with the empress.

The audience lasted over half an hour, and Vera, though accustomed to wait, was beginning to find the time long, when the door again opened, and Fleurange came out. Her face was agitated, her eyes brilliant and tearful. Perceiving Vera, she stopped, and took her by the hand.

“Oh! you were right,” she said. “Her majesty treated me with wonderful kindness. But I know how much I am also indebted to you. It was owing to you she was disposed to be gracious even before I was heard. May God reward you, mademoiselle, and repay you for all you have done for me!”

Vera replied to this effusion with unusual cordiality, and accompanied Fleurange to the door. As they took leave of each other, their eyes met; a common impulse caused them both to make a slight movement: but a little timidity on one side, and some haughtiness on the other, stopped them, and the young girls parted without embracing each other.

Vera slowly retraced her steps, and entered the empress’ salon. As soon as the latter perceived her, she said: “Well, Vera, what have you to say? Did you ever see a more charming apparition?”

“The young lady was beautiful indeed,” said Vera, with a thoughtful air. “I never saw such eyes.”

“That is true—eyes that look you directly in the face, with an expression so innocent, so frank, and almost of assurance, were it not so sweet. I was not reluctant, I assure you, to take charge of her petition, and promise to favor it. Here, take it: I would not even read it. I am ready to grant all this charming girl requests. It is sufficient to know she loves one of those criminals, and wishes to marry him in order to share his fate. Such a terrible favor will not be refused, I am sure.”

The empress seated herself in her large arm‐chair. “But what fools men are,” she continued, after a moment’s silence, “to thus foolishly risk the happiness of others as well as their own! Really, I admire these women whom nothing daunts, nothing discourages, and who thus sacrifice themselves for such selfish beings.”

“Yes,” replied Vera, “their devotedness is certainly admirable; but the women who implore, who supplicate, and at length avert the punishment of the guilty, have also a noble _rôle_, madame, and one which the unfortunate have reason to bless.”

“I understand you, Vera. Your large beseeching eyes have nothing to remind me of, or reproach me for. I have already told the emperor all I learned from you yesterday. We must now leave it to his magnanimity, and importune him no more.”

These words were uttered with a slight accent of authority, and some moments of silence followed. Vera, with mingled sadness and displeasure, stood motionless with her eyes cast down, awaiting her sovereign’s order. In this attitude, she perceived a bracelet on the carpet, which she picked up to give her mistress, who recognized it. “Ah!” said she, “it is the talisman that charming creature, just gone, wore on her arm. Keep it, Vera, you can return it to‐morrow with the reply I promised her.”

Vera examined the bracelet with curiosity. It was a massive gold chain with a deep‐red cornelian clasp on which was graven some talismanic figure. It looked natural. She had seen some one wear a similar bracelet, she was sure; who could it be? For the moment, she could not remember.

While thus examining it, the empress continued: “Take a seat at that table, and write Prince W—— in my name, without any further delay—in my name, you understand. Send this petition with your letter, and say it is my wish it should be granted, and that I beg him to send me an answer—a favorable answer—to‐morrow morning at the latest. As soon as it arrives, you will forward it in my name without any delay to that lovely girl. She is staying at the Princess Catherine Lamianoft’s house on the Grand Quay.”

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

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

Vera again looked at the bracelet; the princess’ name clearly recalled the remembrance so vague a moment before. It was hers. She had seen the Princess Catherine wear the bracelet.

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

“Nothing, madame; excuse me.”

“Then make haste and write what I tell you, and send the letter and the petition without any delay.”

Vera obeyed without reply; she took the petition, and went to a table in one of the deep embrasures of the windows, before which a gilt trellis covered with a vine formed a genuine screen. As soon as she was seated in this place where she could not be seen, she eagerly opened the petition, and glanced over it before beginning the letter. This glance was sufficient to justify the suspicion just excited. A deadly paleness came over her face; her features, generally so calm, were suddenly transformed by a violent explosion of anger and hatred. She crushed the paper, and remained motionless on the chair into which she had fallen, incapable of acting, thinking, or realizing where she was and what she had to do.

At length she returned to herself, and made an effort to collect her thoughts. The moments were passing away; the empress would be astonished at the time it took to accomplish her wishes. She therefore took up her pen, but had scarcely written a few words with a trembling hand, when a noise, unusual at that hour, was heard in the court—the sound of a drum, and the guards shouldering arms. Vera rose with surprise, and looked out of the window. The emperor had arrived in his sledge, alone and without any escort, according to his custom, though this was not his usual time of coming. Shortly after, the doors of the salon were thrown open—a signal for Vera to leave the room. She tore up the note, put the petition in her pocket, and, while the empress was advancing to meet her husband, the lady of honor disappeared through a side door, and hurried to her room next the empress’ apartment.

A whole hour passed away, she could not tell how. She had been able to control and generally to effectually disguise the strong feelings which pique had not suppressed—feelings which gave her assurance of some day overcoming all obstacles. And then, what were these obstacles? It was not long since George, her chosen husband from childhood, plainly testified the attraction he felt for her, and seemed as much as she to regard the union arranged in their infancy as the realization of his wishes. It is true a cloud had since passed across that brilliant horizon, and, when she met George again, he was not the same.—Why was it so?—She had often sought the reason, but all she was able to ascertain was that a young girl, an obscure _demoiselle de compagnie_ in his mother’s service, fascinated him for a while, and some one had whispered the name of _Gabrielle_, but the haughty Vera was not disturbed by so trifling an affair. The future was hers, and she was awaiting it without any fear, when the news of George’s crime and misfortune came like a thunderbolt, enabling her to estimate the depth of her affection for him by the very liveliness of her grief. From that time she had but one thought—to prevail over the emperor, obtain George’s pardon, and win him back to herself. Her first repulse did not destroy all hope of success. But while her influence, her passion, and her efforts were still without any result, another—and what a rival! (for Vera, in spite of her pride, was not so vain or so stupid as not to recognize the redoubtable charm against which she had to struggle)—another, young, as beautiful as herself, and even more so, had eclipsed in an instant, by an heroic act, all her own devotedness had even dreamed of, and gone beyond the limits which she dare not cross! How could she doubt George’s feelings when the young lady she had just seen appeared in his prison. How could she thwart her? What was to be done? Besides, who was this girl who suddenly appeared in their midst—who had the air of an angel, but whom she hated as if she were a demon? All at once an idea flashed into her mind. “Can this be Gabrielle?” she exclaimed aloud. But before Vera had time to dwell on this idea, and calm the fresh agitation which it caused, the sound of the little bell interrupted her painful reverie. She rose, but with some surprise, for she had not heard the usual signal of the emperor’s departure, and she was very seldom admitted when he was present. But her hesitation was only momentary, for the bell again hastily repeated the summons. Vera hastened to answer it, but, confused at the sight of the emperor, she stopped at the door, and bowed profoundly. The empress, with mingled kindness and impatience, exclaimed:

“Why do you not come in, Vera? The emperor wishes to speak to you, and you are making _him_ wait!”

LVI.

While all we have just related was occurring at the palace, the Marquis Adelardi was on his way to the fortress, considering as he went what it was advisable to say to George. After much reflection, he resolved not to announce Fleurange’s arrival till he knew the result of her interview with the empress. He must not torture George in his misfortunes with vague hopes; above all, he must avoid arousing expectations that might prove vain. This would delay the communication but little, for the young girl’s audience was the same day, and on the morrow he could act with a complete knowledge of the case.

Strong apprehensions were mingled with these thoughts as he reflected, on the new position in which his friend now stood. His fate was decided, the prolonged excitement of the trial was over, and the time come for him to resign himself to his lot. In what disposition should he find him? With a nature ardent and impetuous, but at the same time delicate, sensitive to the least restraint, and excessively fond of the comforts of life, how would he endure the horrors of this new prospect—he whose very object in his studies, and in the gratification of his tastes and passions, was only enjoyment? Pleasure by means of his intelligence, his affections, his intellect, and his senses—such had been the sole motive of his actions, even the best; and, in the dangerous risks that led to his destruction, he had rather sought to satisfy a thirst for a new sensation than the realization of a chimerical though generous scheme. How would he, for whom the words duty, sacrifice, and restraint had no meaning, now bear up in the presence not of danger, but of misfortune under so merciless a form?

The marquis asked himself these questions with an anxiety founded perhaps on some resemblance between his own nature and that of him whom he comprehended so thoroughly. Both were men of the world: one more refined and cultivated, more captivating; the other with more acuteness, more sagacity, and more judgment. Both were generous and noble, and, apart from the political entanglements that had misled them one after the other, incapable of a base action unworthy of their noble birth. But there exists in the human soul a chord whose tone is the echo of the divine voice; this chord gave out no sound in these men, otherwise accomplished; or, if not voiceless with the elder of the two, at least, according to the expression of the great poet of his country, inert and feeble from “silence too prolonged.” This mysterious and hidden chord never resounds very loudly, it is true, and the tumult of the world with its passions, pleasures, wit, talent, and glory, often deadens its tone and prevents its being heard; but when the silent hour of adversity comes, then it awakes to a sweet, powerful harmony which sometimes transforms the soul it fills. At such a time its want is felt, and excites a horror, the cause of which is not comprehended by those who experience it.

George was not confined in a dungeon, but in a narrow cell lighted only by a high grated window. There was nothing in it but a bed, a table, and two straw‐bottomed chairs. In his former visits, the marquis had found his friend sad, but always calm, courageous, and, as it were, contemptuous of the danger of his position. Though grown pale and thin, his features hitherto retained their lofty, noble character, and the disorder of his hair and even of his garments did not at all detract from the aristocratic appearance which, in the very best sense of the word, characterized his whole person. But this was no longer the case. He could not have been more changed by a long illness, or the inroads of time, than he was since they last met. Seated beside his table in an attitude of deep dejection, he hardly raised his head at his friend’s entrance. After pressing his hand, the latter remained some moments too much affected himself to break the mournful silence. George waited till the warden who ushered the visitor in had left the cell.

“You have come at last, Adelardi,” said he at length, with an altered voice. “I have been surprised not to see you since—since everything was decided.”

“I could not obtain permission to enter any sooner; but, to make up for it, I am allowed to come every day, till—” He stopped.

“Till I give up the enjoyments of this place for those that await me when I leave it,” said George, with a bitter smile.—“Adelardi,” continued he, changing his tone, and rising abruptly, “can a friend like you come to me to‐day with empty hands? Is it possible you have not divined my wants, and are here without bringing me the means of escaping my doom, and meeting death, which they have had the cruelty to refuse me?” He strode up and down his cell two or three times as if beside himself. “Answer me, then, Adelardi!” exclaimed he, in a violent manner. “Why have you not rendered me this, the greatest of services? In a similar position, you would have expected it of me, and I assure you it would not have been in vain.”

The marquis was not ignorant of the religious principles that should have inspired his reply, but he had long lost the habit of appealing to them. He therefore simply replied: “You know well, George, what you ask would have been impossible.”

“Ah! yes, I forgot.—It is just. They take precautions to prevent their victims from finding another way out of these walls than that opened by their murderers; but they do not consider all the resources of despair,” continued he, with agitation. “When a man is determined to die, they must be sharper than they are now to prevent him, and oblige him to accept the odious life they would inflict upon him.”

Adelardi allowed him without any interruption to give vent for some time to the despair that burdened his heart, but at last he turned to him with sudden firmness: “George, I have always found you calm and courageous till to‐day, but now your language is unworthy of you.”

A slight flush rose to the prisoner’s brow, and he resumed his seat. “You are right, my friend, I acknowledge. I am no longer what I was. I must indeed astonish you, for I no longer recognize myself.” He remained thoughtful for some moments, and then continued: “It is strange! for, after all, Adelardi, in saying that till now I never knew what fear was, or shrunk in the presence of danger or death, saying I had courage, was not laying claim to any extraordinary merit, for there are but few men who lack it. Yes, if any virtue fell to my lot, it was certainly that, it seems to me. Why, then, am I so weak to‐day?—Courage,” repeated he, after a pause. “Is it true? Was it really courage, or was I merely brave, which seems to be another thing? What is the difference between them?”

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

Neither of them possessed the true key to the enigma; neither of them now thought of searching for it. But Adelardi, glad to see his friend’s excitement somewhat allayed, continued the subject to which the conversation had led. Besides, he saw it would afford an opportunity of touching on a point he did not wish to introduce directly.

“No,” he resumed, “bravery and courage are not the same thing. What proves it is that the most timid woman can be as courageous as we when occasion requires it, and often more so.”

“Yes, I acknowledge it.”

“For example,” continued Adelardi, looking at him attentively, “more than one of your companions in misfortune have had a signal proof of such courage to‐day.”

“How so?”

“Do you not know that their wives have fearlessly and unhesitatingly requested and obtained the favor of sharing their lot? Some are to accompany them in their sad journey; others will follow them.”

“And have their husbands accepted such a sacrifice?”

“They who inspire such great devotedness can generally comprehend and accept it. It was only yesterday, one of them conversing with a friend admitted to see him, as I to see you, said: ‘I can submit to anything now; I can endure my fate without murmuring; I shall not be separated from her. The only intolerable sorrow in life will be spared me. I am grateful to the emperor, and will no longer complain!’ I must add that he was recently married, and adores his wife.”

“The only sorrow,” repeated George slowly—“the only one!—that is really something I cannot understand. To love a woman to such a degree as to feel her presence could alleviate such a lot as ours, and that never to behold her again, would be a misfortune surpassing that which awaits us! No, I do not understand that, I frankly confess.”

“And yet,” said Adelardi, with some eagerness.—But he stopped and did not continue his thought—that one can accept and admire heroic affection, but not suggest it.

“And yet,” continued George, smiling, “how often you have seen me in love, you were going to say. Yes, I acknowledge it, though perhaps I was sincerely so but once, only once, and yet—shall I confess it, Adelardi? Love even then was a holiday in my life; it added to its brightness; it was an additional enjoyment, another charm. Her beauty; her rare, naïve intelligence; even her virtue, which gave a mysterious attraction to the passionate tenderness sometimes betrayed, in spite of herself, by her eyes, so innocent and frank in their expression; Oh! yes, that time I was in love and ready to commit a folly I am now glad to have avoided. Poor Fleurange! If I had married her, what a fate I should have reserved for her, as well as for myself.”

“For her! Yes, indeed; it was a very different lot your affection promised her when you displayed it without any scruple; but if she—she, charming, devoted, and courageous, were there with you, do you not imagine she could sweeten yours?”

“Mine?—my lot?—the frightful lot that awaits me?” asked George, with a bitter laugh. Then he resumed the previous tone of their conversation.

“No, no; I am not one of those men whom love alone can suffice—stripped of all that outwardly adorns and adds to its value. In short, think of me as you please, Adelardi, but I do not resemble in the least my companion in misfortune you have just referred to. No human affection could make me endure the life I lead here; judge how it would be elsewhere.”

He rose, and began again to walk around in an excited manner. Adelardi remained silently absorbed in anxious, painful thoughts. George soon resumed, in a kind of fury: “Here, Adelardi, speak to me only of one thing; give me only one hope—death! death! that is all I desire.” And touching, with a gesture of despair, the black cravat negligently fastened around his neck, he said, in a hoarse voice: “This will be a last resort, if in a week I do not succeed in finding some means more worthy of a gentleman of escaping from their hands.”

His friend preserved a gloomy silence. What could he say? What reply could he make at a time when every earthly hope failed, and there was none felt in heaven? Adelardi was now fully conscious; he had a lively sense of what was wanting. He was born in a land where the impressions of childhood are always religious, and the longest period of indifference or forgetfulness seldom effaces them completely from the soul in which they were profoundly graven in early life.

“My dear friend,” said he, with a melancholy gravity not habitual to him, “to be of service to you at such a time, I feel I should be different from what I am. Yes, George; in the fearful temptation that now besets you, in your despair in view of the frightful lot that awaits you, there is only one resource, and but one. I feel unworthy of suggesting the only remedy.” His voice faltered, as he continued, with emotion: “George, you must believe—you must pray.”

George was for a moment surprised and affected. After a pause, which neither seemed disposed to interrupt, he said, in a softened tone: “Well, Adelardi, let it at least be permissible, in praying, to implore a favor not refused to a man more guilty than I: Fabiano is dying.”

“I know he cannot recover from his wound.”

“But perhaps he would not be in immediate danger had he not been violently attacked with typhus fever the day before yesterday. I hoped something myself from the contagion; but, doubtless afraid of shortening our heavy chain, they sent him last night to die at a hospital, I know not where.”

At that moment the bolt flew back, the hour had elapsed, and they were obliged to separate, but with an effort scarcely lessened by the thought that it was not a final farewell, and that this sad interview would be repeated more than once before the last.

As the marquis was about to leave the prison, the warden said in a low tone, as he was opening the last door:

“I do not think I am acting contrary to my duty in confiding this letter to you, sir. The dying prisoner who was taken away last night gave it to me one day, begging me to forward it to the address after his departure. He has gone away, and I wish to fulfil the poor fellow’s request.”

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

After leaving the fortress, he looked at the letter confided to him, and was greatly surprised to find it addressed to _Mademoiselle Gabrielle d’Yves, at Professor Dornthal’s, Heidelberg_.

LVII.

The Marquis Adelardi entered the sledge awaiting him at the gate of the fortress, but gave no orders to his coachman, uncertain where he should go. Fleurange by this time must have returned from the palace. Should he go to see her, as was agreed upon the evening before, to learn the result of the audience, and at the same time remit the letter confided to him? This was the plainest course to pursue, and, if he hesitated, it was because his interview with George had left a certain dissatisfaction or, at least, uneasiness which he feared to betray. In the singular mission confided to him, he began to feel that the love and courage of the two parties were unequally divided, and he would have anxiously questioned whether it was certain that the gratitude of one would finally correspond to the devotedness of the other, had he not been reassured by several reflections.

It was not, perhaps, very surprising that George depreciated a happiness he considered beyond his reach. But if she whom he was by no means expecting suddenly appeared in his prison, would he then complain that his bride was too beautiful? The marquis thought not. He knew better than any one else how Fleurange once charmed him. No woman had ever held such empire over George’s mobile heart, and he was sure the very sight of her again would suffice to revive the powerful attraction. As to this, his perfect knowledge of his friend’s character prevented all doubt, and therefore, though wounded by his coldness in speaking of Fleurange, he came to the conclusion his indifference would vanish like snow before the sun as soon as she appeared. She would never perceive it or suffer from it. He regarded this as the most important point.

The interest Fleurange inspired him with was one of the best and purest sentiments he had ever experienced in his life. Without suspecting it, and without aiming at it, she exercised a beneficent influence over him. A thousand early impressions, effaced and almost stifled by the world, awoke in the pure atmosphere that surrounded this young girl, and he welcomed them with a feeling that surprised himself. Therefore, from the time of meeting her again, he seriously assumed, more for her sake than George’s, the quasi‐paternal _rôle_ the Princess Catherine had entrusted to him with respect to both.

The considerations referred to having, therefore, completely reassured him respecting George’s probable if not actual dispositions, he returned to his first intentions, and gave orders to be taken to the house on the Grand Quay. He had scarcely descended and asked to see Mademoiselle d’Yves, when he saw Clement crossing the hall. He bethought himself it might be better to consult him first.

Clement was gloomy and preoccupied. He had just seen his cousin return from the palace in all the brilliancy that dress and the joy resulting from success added to her beauty. But the marquis had not time to notice the young man’s physiognomy, nor the effort with which he replied to the first questions addressed him as soon as they were alone together in a room on the ground floor.

“I wish to speak to. you, Dornthal, about an unexpected incident. But first, has your cousin returned from the palace?”

“Yes.”

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

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

“I did not doubt it. The empress is always so kindly disposed to grant a favor; and, were it otherwise, the sight of her who presented the petition could not fail to ensure its success.”

Clement made no reply to this observation. “You said, Monsieur le Marquis, that an unexpected incident—”

“Yes, I am coming to it. I must first tell you what perhaps you are ignorant of.—That miserable Fabiano Dini, who so cruelly compromised George, and was confined with him—”

Clement, surprised, interrupted him with emotion. “The unfortunate man is actually dying, Monsieur le Marquis. He was removed from the fortress last night, and—”

“_Parbleu!_ I know it; that was precisely what I was going to tell you. But how did you find it out?”

“I made inquiries respecting him.”

“You knew this Fabiano, then?”

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

“And do you know now?”

“Yes, I know in what hospital he is, and that, thanks to his illness which makes flight impossible, and the fear of contagion which keeps every one away from him, he is only guarded by the infirmarians. I hope to get admittance to him to‐day.”

“You know him?” repeated the marquis after a moment’s reflection. “Then that explains what seemed so mysterious. Your cousin Gabrielle, in that case, perhaps knows him also?”

“Yes, she knows him—the same. as I.”

“That explains everything; and, since it is so, here, Dornthal,” said the marquis, giving him the letter of which he was the bearer, “have the kindness to give her this.”

At the sight of his cousin’s writing, Clement was unable to conceal his emotion, and, seeing the marquis’ observant eye fastened on him, it seemed useless to conceal the truth. Without any hesitation, therefore, he briefly related all the circumstances of the life of him who was now expiating his faults by the final sufferings of a miserable death.

“I am not afraid, Monsieur le Marquis, to confide to you the secret of his sad life. You will keep it, I am sure, and will never forget, I hope,” added he in a faltering tone, “that it is _Fabiano Dini_, and not Felix Dornthal, who will be delivered by death from an infamous punishment.”

The marquis pressed his hand. “Rely on my silence, Dornthal.” After a moment, he continued: “This unfortunate man showed great courage during his trial, and absolute contempt of danger for himself. He only seemed preoccupied with the desire of saving him whose destruction he had caused. God forgive him!”

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

Adelardi again extended his hand, and was about to leave the room when Clement stopped him. “Monsieur le Marquis, will you allow me now to ask you a question?”

“Certainly.”

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

“No, not yet.”

“But he is doubtless aware of her intentions?”

“No, my friend, he is likewise ignorant of them. Though I had no doubt as to Gabrielle’s success in her interview with the empress to‐day, nevertheless, before giving George such a surprise, I wished to be absolutely sure there was no uncertainty to apprehend.”

“Oh! yes, I comprehend you. To lose such a hope, after once conceiving it, would indeed be more frightful than death!” said Clement, with a vivacity that struck the other. He soon continued in a calmer tone:

“One more question, Monsieur le Marquis—an absurd question, I acknowledge, but one I cannot resist asking at such a time. You know my position with regard to Gabrielle is that of a brother. Can you assure me that he whom she loves, and is thus going to wholly immolate herself for—can you assure me on your honor that he is worthy of her?—that he loves her?—that he loves her as much as a man ever loved a woman? I certainly cannot doubt it, but then I must see her happy in return for so much suffering—I must!” repeated he almost passionately, “and I beg a sincere reply to my question.”

The marquis hesitated a moment. Clement’s vehemence struck him, and under the impression of his recent interview with George, he did not at first know how to reply. Should he betray his friend? Ought he to deceive him whose noble, upright look was fastened upon him? He remained uncertain for some moments; at length, he decided to be frank, and reply as candidly as he was questioned.

“You ask for the truth, Dornthal. Well, it is not in my power to affirm that George’s love is at this moment all you desire. According to my impression, Gabrielle is now only a sweet dream of the past. But be easy, my dear friend; as soon as this dream becomes a reality, as soon as she appears before him—is with him—his—oh! then there is no doubt but the almost extinguished flame will revive and become as brilliant as it once was, and this charming creature will have no cause to suspect a shadow of forgetfulness had ever veiled her image. What do you expect, Dornthal? As to love and constancy, women far surpass us, and they are not the less happy for that. Adieu! my dear friend, till to‐morrow.”

Clement only replied by taking the hand the marquis again extended before going out. He listened to him, pale and shuddering, but, as soon as he was alone, he exclaimed, endeavoring with an effort to suppress the sobs that stifled his breast:

“Ah! my God!—my God!—Is that love?”

LVIII.

Fleurange, to the great regret of Mademoiselle Josephine, laid aside the rich dress which seemed to realize the old lady’s dreams of the previous night, and had just reappeared clad in the simple high‐necked dress of dark cloth which was her usual costume, when Clement, who had told her he should not return till late in the evening, suddenly re‐entered the salon he left only half an hour before. His intention was to consecrate the remainder of the day to the sad duty he felt he owed his cousin, and thought it useless to mention it to Gabrielle, from whom he concealed all he had learned respecting Felix. But the letter just given him altered the case, and made it indispensable to inform her at once.

He therefore explained to her without much preamble the actual situation of their unhappy cousin; he informed her of the attempt he was about to make to see him, and then related what he had learned from the Marquis Adelardi, giving her the letter of which he was the bearer. It was not without lively emotion Fleurange broke the seal and hurriedly read it aloud:

“COUSIN GABRIELLE: I am condemned to the mines for life, but as, at the same time, I am dangerously wounded, I shall probably have long ceased to exist when this letter reaches you, if it ever does. I regret the misfortunes I have brought on so many, and especially on my last benefactor, and I particularly regret this on your account, for it will perhaps be a source of suffering to you. I should have thought of this sooner, but, seeing you unexpectedly pass by in a calèche one evening at Florence, I waited at the door of the hotel where I saw you stop, and yielded to the irresistible desire of making you think of me by throwing you some lines concealed in a bouquet. A few days after, my patron, who was very far from suspecting my acquaintance with the original, imprudently showed me his beautiful Cordelia. I confess I was seized with a keen desire to tear him away from contemplating it, which irritated me. Lasko opportunely arrived. But I did not think that would go so far. As to the rest, Gabrielle, believe me, my love which you rejected (and I confess you acted wisely) was perhaps more worthy of you than his; for I feel if I had met you sooner, and you could have loved me, you would have made me better, whereas he!—But it is too late to speak to you either of him or myself!—It is all over. It is to you—you alone, dear cousin, I address these last words; you must repeat them to all to whom they are due; uttered by you they will be heard. _Forgive_ and _Farewell_.

F. D.”

Fleurange wiped away the tears that filled her eyes. The letter affected her in more than one way, and Clement, it may be imagined, did not listen to it with indifference. But now one thought overruled all others, and, after a moment’s silence, he said: “This letter was written when he expected to die from his wound. Illness is now hastening his end, and perhaps he is no longer living while we are talking. This evening, at all events, you will know whether I found him dead or alive.”

Fleurange interrupted him: “Clement, listen to me. If Felix is still alive, as is by no means impossible, I should like to see him again, and will go with you.”

“You!—no, that cannot be; the danger from contagion is too great. That hospital! you cannot go there; it is a place provided for criminals and miserable creatures of the lowest grade. I cannot expose you to so much danger. I will not.”

“But, perchance,” said Fleurange, “this preference, this sort of sympathy he has always expressed for me in his way, might give me the power of consoling the last moments of his wretched life. Who knows but my voice might utter some word to soothe the despair of his last agony? Clement, Clement, do you dare tell me I should not attempt it? Can you conscientiously venture to dissuade me from it, because thereby I shall incur some danger?”

“Gabrielle,” said Clement, with a kind of irritation, “you are always the same! Do you not understand that you are merciless towards those that love you?”

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

A moment of silent anguish followed these words. Then, with a troubled voice, he said: “Be quick; lose no time. You may perhaps have an influence over him no one else could have. Make haste, I will wait for you.”

Before he ended, Fleurange was gone from the room. In less time than it takes to relate it, she returned wrapped in her cloak, her velvet hat on her head, her face concealed by a veil, ready to go. They went down without speaking a word. Clement’s sledge was waiting at the door. He took a seat beside her, and they set off with the almost frightful rapidity which is peculiar to that mode of conveyance. It was no longer light, being after four o’clock, but the brilliant clearness of the night, increased by the reflection of the snow, sufficiently lighted the way, and the horses went as fast as in the daytime. The place of their destination was on the opposite bank of the Neva, much lower down than the Princess Catherine’s house. They therefore crossed the river diagonally, following a road traced out by the pine branches which from time to time indicated the path. They were thus transported in the twinkling of an eye from the splendor of the city into the midst of what looked like a vast white desert. In proportion as they descended the river, the palaces, the numerous gilded spires of the churches, with the immense succession of buildings whose effect was heightened by the obscurity, were lost in the distance, and, when they at length stopped at the very extremity of a faubourg on the right bank of the river, they found themselves surrounded by wooden hovels, with here and there some larger buildings, but all indicating poverty, and none more than a story high. Clement aided his cousin in alighting, and looked around for the person he expected as his guide. A man approached.

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

“It is I.”

“You are not alone.”

“What difference does that make?”

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

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

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

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

The guide seemed to find the reply satisfactory; he pocketed the gold piece Clement slipped into his hand and made no further objection. They walked swiftly after him towards one of the buildings just referred to which was the best lighted. As they approached, they saw the light proceeded from a large fire kindled in the open air, around which quite a number were warming themselves, some squatting down, others standing, and some asleep near enough to the fire not to freeze to death; all lit up with the wild light which revealed their bearded faces, their angular fur caps, and their sheep‐skin caftans. Here and there were some venders of brandy, who furnished them with a more efficacious means of resisting the cold even than the fire in the brazier.

Clement and his companion passed rapidly by this group, not, however, without being assailed by some annoying words. A vigorous blow from Clement sent a curious winebibber flying back who attempted to lift Fleurange’s veil. This lesson was sufficient, and they arrived without any further annoyance at the door of the building decorated with the name of hospital, which was only a long, spacious wooden gallery.

They entered. Passing thus suddenly from the light of the great fire, and the sharpness of the extreme cold, into the obscurity and warmth of the ambulance, their first sensations were caused by the darkness and stifling atmosphere. Fleurange hastily threw back her veil, then took off her hat and unclasped her cloak, for she could not breathe; she felt nearly ready to faint from the effects of this sudden transition, but she almost immediately recovered. Clement was alarmed at first, but soon saw she was able to continue their sad search. As soon as their eyes became accustomed to the dim light around them, they saw the long row of pallets on which lay, in all the frightful varieties of suffering, nearly two hundred human beings whose mingled groanings rose on all sides like one sad cry of pain, enough to chill the veins with horror, and excite the pity of the most courageous and most hardened heart.

That of Fleurange beat painfully as they slowly advanced through the obstructed space. Clement was remorsefully regretting his consent to bring her to such a place, when all at once a moan, followed by some words indicative of delirium, checked every other thought, and kept them motionless where they stood. They listened—which of these unfortunate beings had uttered those words? They looked around as well as the poor light permitted, but on all these sick‐beds so close to each other they did not perceive one whose features bore the least resemblance to those of the unhappy man whose voice they thought they recognized.

“I beg you to lend me your light only for a moment,” said Fleurange, in a low, supplicating tone to an infirmarian to whom she had just heard some one speak in German, and who was rudely passing by her, lantern in hand.

The infirmarian stopped at hearing his language spoken, and looked at the young girl with surprise, then, as if softened by her aspect, he gave her the lantern, saying: “You can have it while I am gone to the other end of the ward; I will take it when I return.” As Clement took it, the light flashed across Fleurange’s face and uncovered head. Instantly there was a cry, an almost convulsive movement, and Gabrielle’s name was pronounced by the voice they had just heard. This indicated which of the miserable beds contained him whom they sought. They both approached with full hearts. By the aid of the lamp they gazed at the dying man. Was it really he?—was that Felix? His voice and words left no doubt, and yet there was nothing in that face, disfigured by agony and a horrible wound, to recall him whom they saw last in all the fulness of strength and the pride of youth. After his exclamation, he fell back almost lifeless, and Clement trembled as he bent down to ascertain if he still breathed. His heart was beating, though feebly and irregularly.

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

Felix opened his eyes. “What a strange dream!” murmured he. “It seems as if they were all here. That vision a moment ago, and now this voice—O my God, would I might never awake!”

Fleurange took the dying man’s hand, and bent over him to catch his words. Her features thus became distinctly visible in the light, and his eyes fastened with frightful tenacity on those of the young girl.

“It is impossible!” said he. “But what illusion is this which makes me see and hear what cannot be?”

“Felix,” said Fleurange, with a penetrating accent of sweetness, “it is not an illusion. We are here. God has sent us that you may not die alone without a friend to pray for you, without begging and obtaining pardon and peace.”

A ray of perfect clearness of comprehension now lit up his eyes, hitherto fixed or wandering. He seemed to comprehend, but did not reply. Clement and Fleurange were afraid to break the solemn silence. Felix’s eyes soon wandered from one to the other, and, taking the young girl’s hand and that of Clement, he pressed them together upon his heart, saying: “O my God! what a miracle!” Then he added in a feeble voice: “What a comfort that it is he, and not the other!”

They both understood his mistake, but were not equally affected. Fleurange slightly blushed, and withdrew her hand with a faint smile, but Clement’s face became almost as pale as that of the dying man. But graver thoughts prevailed over both at such a time. After a short silence, Fleurange again addressed Felix some words, but he made no reply, and his head, which she tried to raise, fell on his shoulder. He continued faint for some moments, then opened his eyes, and saw her beside him.

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

“Yes, I am here, Felix,” said Fleurange in a fervent tone: “I am here to pray with you. Listen to me,” continued she, speaking softly and very distinctly. “Say with me that you repent of all the sins of your life.”

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

“And if your strength were restored, you would make a complete and satisfactory avowal of them, with a sincere repentance. Do you understand me?”

The hand she held pressed hers. A tear ran down Felix’s cheek. A voice which was a mere whisper repeated the words: “A sincere repentance”—another faintness seemed to announce his end. “O my God!” said Fleurange, fervently raising her eyes to heaven, “if the sacred absolving words could only be pronounced over him!”

At that moment the infirmarian returned and abruptly took the lantern from Clement’s hand. “Excuse me, I need it for some one who has come to visit a patient.”

In the narrow space that separated the two rows of beds, there could be indistinctly seen a person of majestic, imposing appearance, whose long beard and floating hair, whose ample robes of silk and gold cross, clearly indicated his character; he was, in fact, a priest of the Greek Church. He had not, however, come to this sad place to exercise his ministry. One of the poor men suffering from the contagious disease was the object of his charity, and he had come to visit him. He was passing along without looking around, even turning his eyes away as much as possible from the sad spectacle that surrounded him, when Clement’s hand on his arm stopped him as he was passing Felix’s bed.

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

“I implore you,” said Clement, “to come to this dying man who is truly contrite for his sins, with a sincere desire to confess them if he had the strength. Have the kindness to give him sacramental absolution!”

In spite of the place, the hour, the awful solemnity of the moment, the young Catholic girl started at hearing these words; her large eyes opened with an expression of the keenest surprise, and turned towards Clement with a mute glance of anxiety. He understood her, and, while the infirmarian was interpreting his words which had been heard but not understood, he replied: “This is a priest, Gabrielle, invested with all the authority of Holy Orders. In the presence of death, we can avail ourselves of it, without regard to anything else.”

He knelt down. Fleurange did the same. The dying man clasped his hands, and, whilst the word “forgive” once more trembled on his lips, the Greek priest raised his right hand with a majestic air, and pronounced over him the merciful, divine words of holy absolution!

To Be Continued.

Cologne.

What is more familiar than the name of Cologne? What is more delicious than the perfume of the veritable Jean Maria Farina? What is more delightful than the receipt of a box, with the stereotyped picture on the cover of the Rhine lazily flowing under the bridges, of the cathedral looming up to the sky, of the houses clustering around it as though for protection?

No one need be ashamed to avow his or her love of it; it is acknowledged to be indispensable. Bishop or priest, sage or philosopher, can use it without being thought undignified. Imagine a pope, or cardinal, or bishop, or priest, or senator, or judge scented with “Mille Fleurs,” or “Jockey Club,” or “Bouquet de Nilsson”! The bare thought is revolting! To be sure, for some years, “Bouquet d’Afrique” has been the fashion among the “potent, grave, and reverend seigniors” at Washington who make our laws and amuse themselves by adding “Fifteenth Amendments” to the highly respectable and ever‐to‐be‐respected Constitution of the United States.

But that will pass away with Time, the healer and destroyer; the reconstructionist will make all right; the “Fifteenth” will be amended with the “Sixteenth”; and, with the sway of lovely woman, Cologne, without which no well‐bred, well‐dressed woman’s toilette is complete, will resume its reign over heads and hearts; and “Bouquet d’Afrique” will perhaps return to the hot and happy home where the indefatigable Stanley recently discovered the wandering, long‐sought Livingstone—who did not care to be found, as he certainly appeared perfectly content among dusky dark‐browed brothers and sisters, hunting lions and tigers, and imagining each little rivulet and lake the source of the Nile, or Congo, or Niger, or any other meandering river taking its rise in the great water‐shed by the Mountains of the Moon.

If mothers are to be judged by the character of their sons, the mother of Nero, in whose honor Cologne was named, could not have been the mildest and gentlest of her sex. Says Lacordaire, “The education of the child is commenced in the womb of the mother, continued on her breast, completed at her knees.” Sweet must have been the reveries, refreshing the instructions, edifying the conduct of Julia Agrippina, who brought into the world the finished despot that drenched the soil of Rome with the blood of the Christian martyrs, who persecuted unto death the heroes of the faith that now people heaven.

Cologne owes its origin to a Roman camp established by Marcus Agrippa. The Emperor Claudius, at the request of his wife, Julia Agrippina, daughter of Germanicus and mother of Nero, sent a colony of Roman veterans, A.D. 50, named the town after her _Colonia Agrippina_, and it then became the capital of the Province of Germania Secunda. Vitellius was here proclaimed Emperor of Rome, A.D. 69; Trajan here received from Nerva the summons to share his throne; the usurper Sylvanus was also proclaimed emperor here in 353; a few years later Cologne was taken by the Franks; Childeric made it his residence in 464; and Clovis was here proclaimed king in 508.

During the reign of Pepin, it was the capital of the kingdoms of Neustria and Austrasia. Bruno, Duke of Lorraine, was the first of its archbishops who exercised the temporal power, with which he was invested by his brother, Otho the Great. From that time the town increased rapidly in wealth and splendor, and shortly after became one of the principal emporiums of the Hanseatic League; the commerce of the East was here concentrated, and direct communication with Italy constantly kept up. In 1259, the town acquired the privilege by which all vessels were compelled to unload here and reship their cargoes in Cologne bottoms.

At this period it had a population of 150,000, and could furnish 30,000 fighting men in time of war. In the XIIIth century, there was a mutiny among the weavers; 17,000 looms were destroyed; the rebellious workmen were banished from the city; and that, together with the expulsion of the Jews in 1349, did great injury to the town, the number of whose inhabitants was reduced in 1790 to 42,000, of whom nearly one‐third were paupers. Then came the devastating wars which succeeded the maelstrom of the French Revolution, when in the general upheaval empires and kingdoms disappeared, new political combinations were made which changed the map of Europe, and the Rhine became the frontier of the French Empire.

Cologne was nominally French, but the hearts of the people were German—as German as the most ardent worshipper of the “New God,” as Von Bolanden calls the new Empire, the child of Bismarck and Von Moltke. After Waterloo, the Holy Alliance made another partition of the kingdoms and peoples, and Cologne shook off the French yoke, and returned to her national ways and customs. One great cause of its decay had been the closing of the navigation of the Rhine, which restriction was removed in 1837, and, since then, trade has greatly revived, and the town been much improved.

Many of the old streets have been widened and paved, and a considerable portion of waste ground covered with new buildings. The opening of the railways to Paris, Antwerp, Ostend, Hamburg, and Berlin has greatly added to its commercial prosperity, and Cologne bids fair to resume its former position among the chief cities of Europe. Cologne was formerly called the “Holy Cologne,” and the “Rome of the North”—titles which she owed to the number of relics and churches she possessed.

At one time, the city contained 200 buildings devoted to religious uses. These gradually diminished, until in 1790 their number was reduced to 137. During the French Revolution, they were shamefully plundered, the convents suppressed, and their property confiscated; so that at present there are not more than twenty churches and seven or eight chapels; but many other ecclesiastical buildings still remain, used as warehouses and chapels.

Maria im Capitol, so named from its having been built on the site of the Roman capitol, stands on an eminence reached by a flight of steps. The Frankish kings had a palace close by, to which Plectruda, the wife of Pepin, retired in 696, having separated from her husband on account of his attachment to Alpais, the mother of Charles Martel. In 700, she pulled down the capitol, and erected a church on its site, to which she attached a chapter of canonesses. Until 1794, the senate and consuls repaired hither annually on S. John’s day to assist at Mass, when the outgoing Burgomasters solemnly transferred the insignia of office to the newly elected, who were each presented with a bouquet of flowers by the abbess.

The convent no longer exists, but there is a large cloister of the XIth century at the west end of the church, which was restored a few years ago. In this church, there are mural paintings of the early Cologne school, representing the wise and foolish virgins, numberless saints, the raising of Lazarus, and the founders of the church with their children. As in duty bound, Plectruda is properly conspicuous; her effigy in basso‐rilievo beneath the great east window is a very interesting work of the Xth century, and, on one of the towers, her sculptured figure appears between two angels, who are conducting her to her eternal home.

All the churches are more or less interesting, none more so than that of S. Gereon, founded in the IVth century. S. Gereon was the commander of a Roman legion, and he and his companions, 700 in number, were murdered by order of Diocletian upon the spot where the church was built by the Empress Helena, the mother of Constantine.

The style is Byzantine, and very singular. The body of the church, preceded by a large portico, presents a vast decagonal shell, the pillars of whose internal angles are prolonged in ribs, which, centring in a summit, meet in one point and form a cupola, one of the latest examples known. A high wide flight of steps, rising opposite to the entrance, leads to an altar with an oblong choir behind it, from whence other steps again ascend to the sanctuary, a semicircular apse, belted, like the cupola, by an open gallery with small arches and pillars resting on a panelled balustrade.

The rotunda is surrounded by ten chapels, in which are the tombs of the martyrs. The walls are encrusted with their skulls, and, in the subterranean church, the pavement and walls are formed by the tomb‐stones covering the holy dust. In the lower church is the tomb of S. Gereon, and in one of the chapels is a mosaic pavement laid in the time of the Empress Helena. Behind the stalls of the clergy are hangings of Gobelin tapestry, portraying the history of Joseph and his brethren.

The baptismal font of porphyry, immensely large, was a present from Charlemagne; and, as the lid is too ponderous for any one to lift, there is a little machine that takes it off when required. We remained a long while in this very delightful church, and, by the time we left, what with Helen and Constantine, Diocletian and Charlemagne, we felt quite like an animated verd‐antique, so intensely Roman and Catholic had we become.

Afterwards we proceeded to S. Ursula’s, where the cruel Roman emperor was exchanged for the barbarian Huns. S. Ursula’s history was done in English by the old sexton, who finished every sentence by assuring us that S. Ursula and her eleven thousand virgins met with their untimely fate from the barbarian Huns, who massacred them in cold blood. We made a stride of a few centuries, became Gothic, and extended our hatred to the barbarian Huns. As in S. Gereon, the bones of the martyrs are built in the walls for a space of two feet the whole extent.

In the Golden Chamber we saw the shrine of S. Ursula, the relics of S. Margaret, a thorn from the crown of Our Lord, and one of the vases used at the marriage feast of Cana, that witnessed the first miracle of the God‐ man. Link by link we were carried to the days when Our Lord was incarnate on the earth; we do not need such testimony to assure us of the truth of our holy faith, but, when we touch the vase that has been touched by Our Lord, our senses are awed by the thought of the God‐like condescension of him who became man, who lived like us, who mingled in our joys and sorrows, that we might become greater than the angels.

The Cathedral of Cologne, the queen of pointed architecture, erected on the site of a church founded in 814 by Archbishop Hildebold, and more beautiful than even we could imagine it, familiar as we were with it by picture and description, was commenced in August, 1248, by Archbishop Conrad, of Hochstaden. The works were for some years pushed on with great activity under the direction of Master Gerard von Rile, a builder of whom nothing more is known than that he died before 1302.

In 1322, the choir was completed and consecrated; then the building went slowly on until 1357, when the works were discontinued for a long time. In 1796, the cathedral was converted by the French into a warehouse, and it had very nearly become a ruin in 1807, when the brothers Sulpice and Melchior Boisserée drew attention to it by their illustrated work on its history. In 1824, the work of restoration was commenced, but little progress was made until, in 1842, the idea of completing the cathedral was conceived, and an association was formed to collect subscriptions for this purpose; and now the entire edifice will soon be finished if the works are carried on as zealously as they have been of late.

The glorious roof, arching 150 feet in the air, is magnificent; every day new beauties are added; four hundred men are daily at work, the stones are all cut, and in ten years at least this triumph of genius will be ready to receive the homage of all true lovers of art. The shrine of the Three Kings is superb—gold adorned with precious stones. There are the heads of the three men who came in faith, and bowed in all their pride and majesty before the infant Jesus in the manger; their names, Gaspar, Melchior, and Balthazar, are encrusted in rubies above the crowns that encircle their brows. Their bodies were brought from S. Eustorgio, in Milan, by the Emperor Frederick Barbarossa, after the taking of that city, and presented by him to Archbishop Rainoldo, who deposited them in the ancient cathedral July 23, 1164; from whence they were removed into the present chapel in 1337.

Among the treasures of the cathedral is a splendid ostensorium, one of the finest in the world, presented by some sovereign; another, not so handsome, sent by Pius IX.; and the cross and ring, given to the present archbishop by Kaiser William; both are of diamonds and emeralds, the ring, an immense emerald, surrounded by four circles of diamonds. The man who showed the church prided himself upon his English; would call the archbishops architects: “This is the statue of Engelbert, the first _architect from_ Cologne.” And when we innocently inquired if the architects wore mitres and copes, he impressively repeated his remark; so we are still in doubt whether the archbishops built the cathedral or the architects dressed like bishops!

Wandering one day through the aisles of the cathedral, we paused for a while to gaze upon something beautiful that attracted our attention. It was behind the high altar; we were standing between it and the Chapel of the Magi, when, by chance, we looked down, and on the slab at our feet we saw in large letters, “Marie de’ Medici”—no date, no epitaph. So much for human greatness! Under that stone, trodden daily by hundreds, was the heart of Marie de’ Medici, one of the powerful family that gave to the church Leo X. and Clement VII., the descendant of Lorenzo the Magnificent, the widow of Henri Quatre, the mother of Louis XIII., the ex‐Regent of France. Banished from France, the inexorable hostility of Richelieu pursued her wherever she sought refuge. No crowned head dared shelter her.

One heart was true, one man was found who remembered in her adversity that she had favored him in the days of her prosperity. When, in the zenith of her power, she built the Luxembourg, she sent for Rubens to adorn it with the creations of his genius; she loaded him with favors, sent him on diplomatic missions to restore peace between Philip IV. of Spain and Charles I. of England. Both monarchs responded to her wishes, showered honors upon the artist‐diplomat, and Charles I. knighted him, and then presented him with the sword which had been used for the ceremony.

Genius is a power. Richelieu could command kings on their thrones, and the refugee queen was abandoned by all—by those who should have been bound to her by the ties of kindred, of position, by the claims of misfortune. England, Spain, Holland, refused her entrance; only in the free city of Cologne could she find sanctuary, and that sanctuary was the house of the noble, chivalric artist, Pierre Paul Rubens, whose brave heart quailed not before the wrath of the most powerful man of his age.

With loving care and respect he watched over her, soothed her in her dying agony, and held her in his arms when she breathed her last sigh. The house of Rubens still remains, and the room in which Marie de’ Medici died is preserved with the greatest care. When we visited it, we felt as though we were treading on holy ground, as in a shrine made sacred by a noble deed; for what more royal, more heroic, more Christian, than the brave, grateful heart that dared power to shelter misfortune?

Meanwhile that Marie de’ Medici lived and died in poverty in Cologne, Richelieu was at the apogee of his glory. King, nobles, courts, cowered beneath his glance. The conspiracy of Cinq‐Mars was quelled; his head had paid the penalty of his youthful folly. Richelieu, satisfied and avenged, left Lyons for Paris, carried on the shoulders of his attendants in a kind of furnished room, for which the gates of the cities through which he passed were demolished if they were too narrow to admit it. But the triumph was short‐lived. A few months after the death of Marie de’ Medici, her relentless persecutor followed her to the tomb, and her poor wearied body was removed to France and buried in S. Denis; but the heart was left in the Cathedral of Cologne—a mausoleum sufficiently splendid for any mortal dust.

Soon after leaving the house of Rubens, we came to another famous in Cologne; a large building, where, from one of the windows of the third story, two stone horses were contemplating the busy scene in the Neumarkt below; and then we heard the legend of the horses. Once upon a time this house was the residence of the wealthy family d’Andocht. Richmodis, the wife of Herr Mengis d’Andocht, died during the plague of 1357, and was buried with great pomp in the Church of the Apostles on the Neumarkt.

Her dressing attracted the notice of the sexton. He fancied he would like to have some of the gold and silver adornments; so the night after she was put into the vault he descended into it, opened the coffin, and took off some of the jewels. One of the rings would not move. To make the task easier, he cut her finger; she was only in a trance, and this summary process restored her; she sat up; the man rushed off affrighted. She managed to get out of the coffin. In his haste he had left his lantern behind; with it she made her way out of the church, and reached her home near by.

She knocked at the door; a servant opened it, and scampered off half dead with terror. She went to her husband’s room. He thought she was a ghost or devil; she told him she was his wife, as surely as that their horses would come up‐stairs and jump out of the window. As she spoke, the horses galloped up‐stairs, threw themselves out of the window; whereupon the husband acknowledged her to be his veritable wife. She soon recovered her health, lived for many years, and, to commemorate the wonderful event, the husband had the two horses done in stone and put in their respective panes of glass, where they have ever since remained, looking out of the window.

Now the house is a hospital, and we hope the patients are as much amused as we were at the effigies of the two well‐bred, obedient horses, who were as good at vouching for identity as Dame Crump’s little dog. In the Church of the Apostles, a faded Lent hanging is still preserved that was presented by Richmodis in gratitude for her wonderful deliverance from a living death.

The Rathhaus or Town Hall is a curious building, erected at different periods; the Hansa‐Saal is a fine room on the first floor, in which the meetings of that once powerful mercantile confederation were held; and at one end of it are nine statues holding escutcheons emblazoned with the arms of the Hanse Towns.

The _Musée_, a comparatively new creation, erected partly by the government, and partly by private subscription, contains many works of art. In the lower story are numerous Roman antiquities, found in or near Cologne; amongst them are busts of Cæsar, Germanicus, Agrippina, a statuette of Cleopatra, and a very fine head of Medusa, said to be larger and more beautiful than the Medusa Rondinini in the Glyptotheca at Munich. One gallery is filled with exquisite specimens of stained glass; the upper rooms are devoted to statuary and paintings, many of which are of the Düsseldorf school.

We were particularly struck with one, the “Triumph of S. Michael over Lucifer.” S. Michael is radiant, his sword flaming; and Lucifer, who is sinking into darkness, is terrible. There he is—no horned demon, but the beautiful fallen archangel, majestic and powerful; profound despair and gloom on his noble features, as the darkness overshadows him, and hell opens to receive him.

The people of Cologne are gay and sociable; in the afternoons, the Zoological Gardens are filled with children and nurses admiring the giraffes, elephants, and every other kind of animal belonging to earth, air, or water. An immense lion was a particular object of interest, as he had distinguished himself the day before we had the pleasure of seeing him by devouring his keeper. The Flora or Winter Garden is charming—a crystal palace, filled with fragrant plants, green vines garlanding the sides and roof, fountains playing, beautiful music well rendered by a good orchestra, and hundreds of people drinking coffee and smoking, who don’t bother themselves by receiving at home, but meet and gossip in the Flora, or the Opera House, to which they generally adjourn.

The Opera House is very pretty but miserably lighted, only two feeble gas‐ lights by the door. Prussian officers, however, abounded, and the glittering uniform shone in the _clair‐obscur_ like fire‐flies in Florida on summer evenings. Perhaps it was to add to the effect of “La Dame Blanche,” which was the opera we chanced to hear, that we were kept in such gloomy darkness; but, as the music was well executed, the time passed pleasantly.

One extraordinary event must be chronicled—we did not buy one bottle of Cologne in Cologne; we left the city of Jean Maria Farina, and only saw the outside of his shop. What with Gothic churches and relics, Roman towers and antiquities, time flew, and we found ourselves also flying off from Cologne on an express train, without one drop of the veritable _Eau‐ de‐Cologne_ in our possession. _Mirabile dictu!_

John.

In beauty, not above criticism; in courage, undaunted; in love, most generous and most forgiving; in patience, rivalling Job; in constancy, unswerving; in humility, without an equal.

After the above enumeration of qualities, it should be superfluous to add that John is a dog. It would be ridiculous to expect so much of a man. He is, moreover, a Skye‐terrier, well‐born and well‐bred.

To announce to John’s acquaintances that one was about to eulogize the dog would be to incur and deserve some such reply as that made by the Spartan to a rhetorician who announced his intention to pronounce an eulogium on Hercules: “An eulogium on Hercules?” repeated the Spartan. “Who ever thought of blaming Hercules?”

Our reply would be that we write, not for those who deny, but for those who never heard.

There is no shifting of scenes in our little drama. The unities are preserved with almost Grecian strictness; the writer, however, as chorus, claiming the privilege of being occasionally discursive.

_Scene._—A suburban summer residence in that most magnificent of seasons, autumn, “in that month of all months in the year,” October; furthermore, the most perfect of Octobers. The stone‐colored house is the only neutral bit in the landscape; all else is a glow of color. The fresh greensward recedes under flower‐bosses of solid brilliancy. A flower carpet, gayer than any loom of Turkey, Brussels, or France ever wove, lies under the clump of evergreens in a far corner of the estate. Tapestries of woodbine hang over balconies, and porches, and bay‐windows; and the noble trees that stand, two and two, in stately pairs, all about the place, and up the avenue, are a torchlight procession, which sunshine, instead of quenching, fires to a still more dazzling blaze. It is that picturesque time when ladies throw gay scarfs over the summer dresses they still wear; when the sky shakes out her violet mists to veil the too divine beauty of earth; that season of exquisite comfort when one has open windows and open fires; that delicious season when fruit is brought to the table still warm with the sunshine in which it finished ripening five minutes before. Above all, it is that season when people who are at all sympathetic are inclined to silence.

Mrs. Marcia Clay was not at all sympathetic. She was simply herself, a frivolous woman, with a strong will, and a Chinese wall of selfishness and self‐complacence built up on all sides of her. The soft “Hush!” on the lips of the Indian summer, when the soul of Nature plumes her wings for flight, she heard not. The suspense, the regret, the melancholy, the fleeting rapture of the season she perceived not. To her it was surely the fall of the year, when people get ready for the winter, lay in coal, buy new clothes, and go back to town.

Flounced to the waist in rattling silk, her fair hair furbelowed all over her head, and, apparently, pounds of gold hanging from her ears, thrust through her cuffs, dangling at her belt, strung about her neck, and fastened to the pin that held her collar, this lady sat in one of the pleasant parlors of her house, and talked as fast as her tongue could run.

The woman who listened was of another kind, one who might have come to something if she had been possessed of will and courage, but who, having a small opinion of herself, was only somebody by little spurts, which did no good, since they were always followed by unusual self‐abasement. She was not without a despairing sense of this incongruity, and had more than once bewailed in her own mind the fact that she was neither fish, flesh, nor fowl, but inclined to each in turn; had little wings which, as she spread them, changed to little fins, which, as she moved them, became little feet, that, when she would have walked, collapsed utterly, and left her floundering—a woman without moral vertebræ, who had been all her life the prey of people in whom the moral vertebræ were in excess. She was nothing in particular, physically, either, being gayish, oldish, tallish, weakish, and dressed in that time‐honored, thin plain black silk gown which is the infallible sign of genteel poverty, and which, at this instant, adorns the form that owns the arm that moves the hand that holds the pen that writes this history.

_Mrs. Marcia Clay._—“It is very provoking, my dear, but it can’t be helped. If I should intimate to him that our trunks are all packed to go in town, he would leave instantly. He is the most touchy of mortals. To be sure, I have invited him here again and again, but I expected him in summer‐time, not when we were on the point of moving, and had our very beds half made in the city. There’s nothing for it but to unpack, and pretend to be delighted. Fortunately, he amuses himself.”

The uncertain person in the black silk gown ventured to suggest that Mr. Bently might accompany them to town, and was met by a little shriek which made her jump.

“Fancy him in my blue satin or pink satin chamber! Why, my dear, he smokes, and—_chews! chews_, dear! Between you and me, he is a bear in his habits, a positive bear. If you will believe me, I have seen him wear slipshod shoes and crumpled linen. You should see him at home, in his den. An inky dressing‐gown that he wipes his pens on, old slippers with holes in them, books piled all about, and dust that you could write your name in! In that state he sits and writes hour after hour.”

Ah! Mrs. Clay & Co., who look at littleness through magnifying glasses, and are blind to all true greatness, the sole of this man’s slipshod shoe is cleaner than your tongue. There is no dust on his thoughts; there are no holes in the fabrics his brain weaves; and when he writes, far‐away lands that know you not, and kindred greatness nearer by, feel the electric spark that slips from his pen’s point.

“What a shocking person he must be!” says Miss Uncertainty, meaning to please. “I don’t wonder you won’t have him in town.”

“Goodness gracious, Miss Bird!” cried the lady, coloring up. “What can you be thinking of! Why, Mr. Bently is famous. He can afford to be eccentric. It is an honor to have him in one’s house. People have turned and looked at me when they heard that I am his cousin; and his name opens to me places that—well, everybody can’t enter. Then it is a very fine thing to have a gentleman in one’s parlors who can talk to those lions whom one doesn’t know what to say to, and who can tell what one’s pictures, and bronzes, and marbles mean, and translate from every language under the sun. I well remember a time when he won for me a perfect triumph over Mrs. Everett Adams. It was delicious. Mrs. Everett Adams is always picking up lions, especially learned and scientific ones, and, when Professor Porson came here, she monopolized him at once. You cannot conceive how odiously she behaved, nor what airs she assumed. One heard nothing but Porson, Porson, till I was sick of the name; and it was impossible to go anywhere, to theatre, opera, or concert, without seeing her sail down to the most conspicuous place, after everybody was seated, with Prof. Porson in her train. Well, one evening she brought him to our house, just to plague me, and we had half a dozen or so persons to meet him. It was an evening of torment, my dear. The professor was in the clouds, with Mrs. Everett Adams fluttering behind him, like a tail after a kite, and all the rest were in raptures, except me—I was extinguished. The professor knew what every bronze and marble was, and who made it, and if it was an original or a copy; and, in short, everything I had seemed as common as possible. As a last desperate resort, I brought out some old books in foreign languages that poor dear Clay had picked up. He was always collecting things of that sort. The professor turned them over with the tips of his fingers, and read a word here and there. Oh! he knew all about them. Yes; he had read them when he was a boy. But I had begun to suspect him. My poor husband used to say that, when a man will not own that there is anything he doesn’t understand, root and branch, he was always sure that that man was an impostor. So I took up two of the books that I saw he had passed over, and asked him to translate a passage for me. They looked about as much like a printed language as the figures on my carpet do. To my joy, he had to own that he couldn’t. They were Chaldaic, he said, and he had made but little study in that language. Mrs. Adams glanced angrily at me, and I smiled. Just at that moment, as good luck would have it, the door opened, and in came Cousin Bently. I flew at him with the books. Triumph, my dear! Never did I have such a rapturous moment. Cousin took the books up in his slow way, put up his eye‐glasses, and looked them over in such a superior manner that really my hopes rose. They were Arabic, I’ve forgotten what about, and he read out some passages, and translated them, all the company looking on. My dear, the Porson and Adams stock sank to less than one per cent. in an instant. The professor was red, and Mrs. Adams was pale. I could have hugged Cousin Bently on the spot, though his boots were not blacked, and his collar was in a positively shocking state.”

“How charming it must be to have him visit you!” says Miss Bird, wheeling about as the wind veered.

Poor thing! She did not mean to be insincere. She merely wanted to say the right thing, and didn’t care a fig about the matter, one way or the other.

“Charming!” repeated Mrs. Clay, with emphasis. “It gives a _tone_. Besides, it draws some people one likes to know. You should see Madame de Soi, the most exclusive of women, flutter round him like a butterfly round a—round a—well, really, I am at a loss for the word. It is impossible to call Cousin Bently a flower, unless one should make a pun about the seedy contents of his valise. I studied botany once, and I know a pun can be made of it. Madame knows no more and cares no more about his learning than a cat does, but she has tact, and does contrive to smile at the right time. I never could do that. When I smile, Cousin Bently is sure to push out his under lip, and stop talking. But she will look and listen with such rapture that you would positively think he were describing the dress the empress wore at the last ball; and sometimes she even says something that he will seem pleased with. That very evening of the Porson collapse she talked with him half an hour of _molecules_, whatever they are. I actually thought they were speaking of people. Fancy being called a molecule! Yes, Cousin Bently is a great credit, and a great convenience to me. Why, but for him, I couldn’t have gone to those stupid exclusive lectures of Mr. Vertebrare’s, where I yawned myself to death among the very cream of society.”

The lady paused for breath, and her companion, feeling obliged to say something, faltered out that she always feared those very clever persons.

“I should think you would after the experience you had with that dragon,” replied Mrs. Clay significantly.

Miss Bird colored, and was silent. “That dragon” was a rather difficult old lady, a Miss Clinton, with whom she had lived and suffered many years, and who had lately died.

“And so,” Mrs. Clay summed up, “I have Cousin Bently on my hands for a week or ten days, and must make the best of it. And”—suddenly lowering her voice—“speak of angels—ahem! Cousin Bently, allow me to make you acquainted with Miss Bird, an old schoolmate of mine.”

Miss Bird rose with a frightened air, dropped her eyes, blushed deeply, half extended her hand, and half withdrew it again, and stammered out, “Good‐morning, sir!” which was not a very felicitous greeting, the time of day being near sunset.

Mr. Bently acknowledged the introduction with rather a stately bow, gave the person before him a calm and exhaustive glance, protruded his under lip very slightly, without meaning to, and walked to the further end of the room.

“Why need people be such fools?” he muttered, half philosophical, half impatient. He had been, as all learned and even merely clever people must be, too much looked on as an ogre by the simple. It was rather provoking to see people shaking at his approach, as if he were going to compel them to talk Greek and calculus, or have their lives.

As the gentleman seated himself in an arm‐chair before a delightful bay‐ window, and facing the window, there was another addition to the company, and—enter our hero!

Reader, John!

A longish, curly‐haired quadruped with bright dark eyes full of merriment and kindliness, and teeth so beautifully white and even that it would be a privilege to be bitten by them. Of course he has undergone those improvements which man finds it necessary to make in the old‐fashioned plan of the Creator, and his clipped ears stand up pointed and pert, and his clipped tail is indeed less a tail than an epigram. But the bounding grace of his motions no scissors can curtail.

Do not imagine that John has entered the room properly, and stood still to be presented and described. Far from it. He bounced in through the window, as though shot from a mortar, and, while we have been writing this brief sketch of his person, has flown into the learned gentleman’s arms, kissed him enthusiastically a dozen times, pawed his hair into fearful disorder, made believe bite his nose and hands, with the utmost care not to hurt him in the least, pulled one end of his cravat out of knot, and threatened to overturn him, chair and all, by drawing back and rushing at him again like a little blue and yellow battering‐ram. His manner was, indeed, so overpowering that Mr. Bently had half a mind to be vexed, and could not help being disconcerted. His affection for dogs was entirely Platonic, and he had a theory that bipeds and quadrupeds should have separate houses built for them; but this creature had struck him as being the most honest and sensible being in the house, and had, moreover, taken to him.

Miss Bird looked askance at the scene in the bay‐window, and Mrs. Clay looked askance at Miss Bird, and wondered at her impudence and folly. Bird had blushed and dropped her eyes when she was introduced to the gentleman, and she was now watching him out of the corners of her eyes. Bird was an old maid, with a moderate annuity; Mr. Bently was an old bachelor, with next to nothing beside brains and a name. Bird must be set to rights. So much the lady’s actions told of her thoughts.

“I wish I dared send for Marian Willis here,” she whispered confidentially, watching the effect of her words. “Nothing would please me better than to bring those two together again. But Cousin Bently would suspect my drift, and, as likely as not, start off at once. Nothing annoys him so much as to see that any one is trying to get him married. Marian is in every way suitable, and between you and me, dear, I think they would both be glad to have a mediator, only they are too proud to own it. Everybody thought about ten years ago that they were engaged, and they certainly were in a fair way to be, when some lovers’ quarrel occurred, and they parted. You have never seen Miss Willis, have you?”

Yes; Bird had seen her at Miss Melicent Yorke’s wedding, and she was the grandest looking lady there. She wore a black velvet dress, buttoned up high with diamonds, and not another jewel about her. She had a pink half‐ open camellia in her bosom, and a wide‐open one in her hair. Clara Yorke said that the beautiful plainness of Miss Willis’ toilet made everybody else look all tags and ends. She gave the bride a rare engraving of some picture of The Visitation, which Miss Melicent didn’t half like, because the S. Elizabeth was on her knees, and because there was a crown carved in the frame just over the Virgin’s head. But the bridegroom had reconciled her to it, saying that motherhood is a crown to any woman. Mrs. Edith Yorke, Carl’s wife, who is now abroad, was very fond of Miss Willis, and used to call her “Your Highness.”

“Oh! their intimacy was because Mr. Carl Yorke was a Catholic,” interposed Mrs. Clay rather abruptly.

When Bird got talking of the Yorkes, she never knew when to stop; and the subject was not pleasant to her listener. Mrs. Clay had tried to be intimate with the family, and had signally failed. Always kind and courteous, there still seemed to be an invisible crystalline wall between them and her.

“Marian’s religion is her one fault. It may be possible that she and Cousin Bently disagreed about that, though it would be hard to find out what he believes, or if he believes anything. He defends every religion you attack, and attacks every religion you defend.”

“But do you think she would marry him?” asked Bird incredulously; and her glance toward the window became depreciatory and critical, instead of awful.

Mr. Bently, as a learned man, was to be regarded with fear and admiration; but as a bridegroom—that was another thing.

“Why, she is handsome and rich.”

“What if she is?” asked the other tartly. “It only makes her more suitable. But she is not rich, though she lives with a rich old uncle, who may leave her something. She is in every way suited to Cousin Bently. He would never marry an inferior woman.”

This last assertion Mrs. Clay made very positively, for the reason that she was mortally afraid it was not true. Her private opinion was that Mr. Bently must have been very lonely in his bachelor lodgings before he came to visit her, and that he might easily be induced to marry even Bird, rather than live alone any longer.

Meantime, the object of their conversation, having put the vociferous John away, and induced him to lie at his feet, instead of pervading his neck and face, sat gazing out through the window. He certainly was not an eminently beautiful man, neither was he a pink of nicety in his dress, though he abhorred untidiness in others, particularly in women. His form was rather fine, but his features were too strong for grace, his hair was growing gray, and his teeth were discolored by his odious beloved tobacco. There was something a little neglected in his appearance. Evidently he needed some one with authority to remind him, when occasion demanded, that his cravat was horribly awry, that he had forgotten to smooth his hair down since the last time he combed it up with his ten fingers, and that, really, that collar must come off. In fine, he needed an indulgent wife, who would look out for him constantly, but with discretion, never intruding the cravat and collar question into his sublime moments.

Was he conscious of something lacking in his life, that his expression was less the gravity of the man of thought than the sadness of the lonely man? Something ailed him—physical sickness, no doubt, for his face was flushed, and his eyes heavy—but some trouble of the mind also. He looked across the lawn, that was bounded by a dense line of autumn‐colored trees, with a sky of brilliant clearness arching over. Betwixt sapphire and jasper the low purple dome of a mountain pushed up, making a background for a shining cross that might be suspended in air for any support visible to him who gazed on it. But he had seen that cross before, and his mind, leaping over the few intervening miles, followed down from its sunlighted tip and touched a slim gray tower and a vine‐covered church, and, looking through the gay rose‐window over the chancel, saw a tiny lambent flame floating in and fed by sacred oil of olives. Mentally he stood before the church door, saw the grove of beeches that hid it from the road, saw through those heavy boughs the green slope of a lawn near by and the mansion that crowned its summit. But in one respect the eyes of the seer were less true to the present than to the past, for they beheld roses, instead of autumn colors, wreathing pillar, porch, and balcony.

In this house Marian Willis lived. He sat and recollected all his intercourse with her, from the first pleasant dawn of friendly regard and sympathy, growing up to something brighter and closer, yet scarcely defined, to its sudden extinguishment. His acquaintance with her had been like a day that breaks in silent and cloudless light, and is shut in by a cold and smothering fog before its noon. What had been expressed to her of all that sweetness he found in her society? What to him of the pleasure she seemed to feel in his? Nothing that had other utterance than silent looks and actions. What had separated them? A mist, a fog, an impalpable yet irresistible power. Some tiny wedge had been inserted that gave a chance for pride to rush in and thrust their lives apart. There had been a slight reserve that grew to coldness and thence to alienation. Who does not know how those many littles make a mickle? Possibly a certain gallant officer, just home from the wars, with his arm in a sling, and a sabre‐ scar across his temple, had had something to do with the trouble. Certainly the last mental picture Mr. Bently had carried away from his last visit at Mr. Willis’ was of this same officer walking in the garden with Marian Willis leaning on his sound arm, and listening to the tale of his adventures as women always do and always will listen to soldiers who bring their wounds to illustrate their stories.

On that occasion, Mr. Bently had returned to his cousin’s house and behaved in what he considered a very reasonable manner. He locked himself into his chamber, let in all the light possible, placed himself before the mirror, and critically examined the reflection he saw there. There was no glorious sabre‐wound across his temple, showing where he had once wrestled with death, and come off conqueror; but, instead, there were long, faint, horizontal lines beginning to show on his forehead—mementoes of the silent combat with time, and of anxious quest in search of hidden truth. There were no crisp, fair curls shining over his head; the brown hair was straight and short, and here and there a white hair rewarded the search for it. The soldier’s large violet eyes flashed like jewels; but these eyes in the mirror were no brighter than wintry skies, a calm, steady blue that a planet might look through, perhaps, but that were not used to lightning. The soldier was clad in a trim uniform that set off well a form of manly grace, the stripe that glimmered down the leg, the band, like a lady’s bracelet, that bound the sleeve, the golden eagle outspread on either shoulder, all helping to make a gallant picture; the raiment reflected with pitiless fidelity by the mirror before him was decidedly neutral. No one could call it picturesque nor even elegant of its kind. It was simply calculated to escape censure.

Having made a full survey and, as he thought, a fair comparison, this self‐elected judge then pronounced sentence on the person whose reflection he gazed at.

“You are a fool!” he said, with a conviction too deep for bitterness. “What is there in you that a fair and charming woman could prefer? Bah! She prizes you as she does those vellum Platos and Homers that she admires because others do, but cannot read a word of. When she sinks into her arm‐ chair for that hour of rest before dressing for dinner, does she take with her a book of Greek or of logic? No; she reads the poet or the novelist. You have nothing to do with her more intimate life.”

Thus had the scholar decided, gazing at his own reflection in the mirror, seeing there only the shell of the man, and that not at its best, at its worst rather. The kindling of intelligence, the scintillating of sharp intellectual pursuit, the soft radiance which dawning love gave him when he was shone upon by the beloved object—those he saw not. He saw only a fool.

So far, so good. But he had not finished the work. A fool may be miserable, may be ruined by his folly, even while owning it. He must not only prove the vanity of hoping, but the vanity of loving. He must remove the halo from his idol’s brow, not rudely, but with all the coolness and gentleness of reason. What, after all, were beauty and grace, a sweet voice and smile, and gracious speaking? He set himself to analyze them, physiologically, chemically, and morally.

So the botanist analyzes a flower, and when he has destroyed its ravishing perfume, and that exquisite combination which constituted its individuality—a combination man can separate, but which only God can form—he points to the fragments, and says, “That is a rose!”

But suppose that, even while he speaks, those withering atoms should stir and brighten, the anthers should gather again their golden pollen, and hang themselves once more on each slender filament, the petals blush anew, and rustle into fragrant crowding circles, and a most rosy rose should rise triumphantly before him!

Some such experience had Mr. Bently when he had finished his work of demolition. Turning coldly away from the ruins of what had been so fair, he walked to the window to take breath, and saw there before him the living woman complete, her soul welding with immortal fire every characteristic and mood into a being irresistibly lovely, baffling, and—disdainful. She stood in the garden where Mrs. Clay had purposely detained her beneath his window, and she stood there unwillingly. Only a social necessity had brought her to the house, and she had determined that she would not, if it could be helped, meet that gentleman who, from being a daily visitor of her own, had suffered three days to pass during which he had once or twice talked with her uncle over the gate, but had never approached her.

Since that hour when, looking from his window, he had seen her sail past without raising her eyes, Mr. Bently had been haunted at times by two antagonistic visions—the rose dissected, which he viewed with indifference, succeeded by the rose full‐blown, triumphant in unassailable sweetness.

He thought it all over now as he sat looking out of Mrs. Clay’s eastern bay‐window. And having thought it over once, it began to go through his mind again, and still again. The various scenes passed, one by one, slowly, like persons in a procession, and he gazed at them from first to last; and there was the first again! He had had enough of it, but it would not stop. His head was aching, and feeling somewhat light besides. He pressed his forehead with his hands, and tried to think of something else, even if it were no more pleasant subject than the cold he must have taken to make him so sore from head to foot. But still that procession moved with accelerating speed. He spoke to John, tired and annoyed himself a little with the creature’s antics, then leaned back in his chair, and let his brain whirl.

Certainly he was ill; but nothing else was certain. Whether to go or stay, to speak or remain silent, he could scarcely decide. When dinner was announced, instinct kept him conventional. He ate nothing, but he went through all the proper forms, with no more abstraction than might be attributed to his intellectual oddities. But dinner, with its inanities, over, he made haste to escape to his own room.

“Going out for a walk, cousin?” asked Mrs. Clay, as he passed her.

How the trivial question irritated him! He bowed, afraid to utter a word, lest it should be an offensive one. His nerves felt bare, his teeth on edge.

Miss Bird looked more deeply than her friend had, and in the one timid glance she gave the gentleman saw a painful trouble underneath his cool exterior.

“I hope he didn’t hear what we were saying of him before dinner,” she remarked apprehensively.

“No, indeed!” was the confident response. “He scarcely hears what you say to him, still less what is said of him.”

“But he looked displeased,” persisted the anxious Bird.

Mrs. Clay cast a sarcastic glance on her subordinate. “My dear,” she said with decision, “the less you occupy yourself with my cousin’s feelings, the better for you. Your solicitude will be quite thrown away.”

Bird sighed faintly, and resigned herself to being snubbed.

Mr. Bently walked up‐stairs slowly, dreading to be alone, and shut himself into his room; and, when there, desolation settled upon him. It is not pleasant to be sick in one’s own home, with loving and solicitous friends surrounding one with their cares, and taking every task from the weak hands; it is still less pleasant when, though friends are near, they are powerless to lift the burden which only those helpless hands can carry; but how far more miserable, how far more cruel than any other desolation on earth, is it when sickness falls upon one who must work, and the sick one is not only oppressed by the burden of duties unperformed, but is himself a burden, coldly and grudgingly tended, or tended not at all? Mr. Bently knew well the extent of his cousin’s friendship, and the worth of her Chinese compliments, and he would far rather have fallen in the street, and been left to the tender mercies of strangers, than fall ill in her house.

Morning came, and it was breakfast‐time, by no means an early hour. Mrs. Clay had put off the meal half an hour on her cousin’s account. “He has at least one polite habit—he does not rise early,” she said. “But then he is as regular as a clock in his late hour.”

He was not prompt this morning, however, for they waited ten minutes after breakfast was on the table, and rang a second bell, and still their visitor did not appear.

Miss Bird suggested that he had looked unwell the evening before, and might be unable to come down.

“Really, how thoughtful you are!” Mrs. Clay said with cutting emphasis. “I had quite forgotten. Perhaps, my son, you will go up and see if Miss Bird is right.”

“My son” objected to being made a messenger of. “If the old fellar wanted to sleep, let him sleep. Don’t you say so, Clem?”

Clementina always agreed with her brother; the two prevailed, and the “old fellar” was left to sleep, or toss and moan, or be consumed with fever and thirst, or otherwise entertain himself as he or fate should choose, while the family breakfasted at their leisure.

It is scarcely worth while to put Clementina and Arthur Clay in print. They are insignificant and, in a small way, disagreeable objects, and their like is often met with to the annoyance of many. The mental ignorance and lack of capacity which we lose sight of when they are overmantled by the loveliness of good‐will, in such as these become contemptible by being placed on pedestals of presumption and ill‐nature, and hateful when they are set as obstacles and stumbling‐blocks in the way of souls who would fain walk and look upward.

Breakfast over, and no Mr. Bently appearing, Mrs. Clay felt called on to make inquiries, and, accordingly, dispatched a servant to her cousin’s door, while she herself listened at the foot of the stairs. She heard a knock, but no reply, then a second knock, followed by the servant’s voice, as if in answer to some one within.

“Paper under the door, sir? Yes, sir!”

She was half way up the stairs by this time, and snatched the slip of paper which the man had found pushed out under Mr. Bently’s door. “What in the world can be the matter? Where are my eye‐glasses? Cousin Bently is such a frightful writer that, really—”

While the lady is adjusting her glasses, and her children and companion are gathering about her, we will read this document, for there will be no time afterward. It is short, and is strongly scented with camphor.

“I am ill, and, it is possible, may have small‐pox. It has been where I was a fortnight ago. Keep away from me, and send for a doctor.”

Confusion ensued. Screams resounded from the parlor; orders and counter‐ orders were given, only one fixed idea penetrating that chaos—to get away from the house as quickly as possible. Carriages were got out, silver and valuables piled into them by Bird, who alone would go upstairs, and who was made to do everything, and in less than half an hour the whole family started for the city. The servants, all but the gardener, had already fled.

“But who is to take care of Mr. Bently?” Bird asked, pausing at the carriage door.

“I shall give the gardener orders to get a doctor and nurse,” Mrs. Clay said impatiently, fuming with selfish terror.

“But I’m not afraid,” Bird hesitated. “I’ve been vaccinated. And it’s hard to leave him alone.”

“Nonsense!” cried the lady. “I shall allow nothing of the sort. It is not necessary, and, besides, it is not proper. Do get in, if you are going to town. It really seems to me, Miss Bird, that you are altogether too much interested in Mr. Bently.”

Then, at last, Bird perceived what was in the speaker’s mind, and, as most women would in such circumstances, laid down her better impulses at the feet of meanness. Crushed and ashamed, and, at the same time, weakly and despairingly angry, she took her place in the carriage, and listened in silence to the lamentations and complaints of her companions.

“How could Cousin Bently do such a thing? How could he come to me when he knew he had been so exposed?”

That Mr. Bently had only learned from the paper of the evening before to what he had been exposed, and had only thought during the night what might be the meaning of his illness, the lady did not inquire into.

At the garden gate stood James, the gardener. Mrs. Clay stopped long enough to give him hurried directions to get a doctor and nurse, and do all that was necessary for the invalid, then ordered the coachman to drive on.

“I hope John isn’t with us,” one of the young ones said presently. “He was round Cousin Bently all day yesterday.”

No; Bird, recollecting that fact also, had shut John into one of the chambers, and left him there. She ventured to hope that he would not be left to starve, but no one responded to her merciful wish.

The cause of all this terror and confusion had seen the departure of the family without being surprised at it. He had not undressed, but had lain on a sofa all night, and, when morning came, had written the warning which proved so effectual, and then sank into an arm‐chair near the window, longing for air. He expected the family to keep away from him, and was neither sorry nor indignant that they had removed themselves still further. Of course a doctor would be sent, and of course there was some one to take care of him. He sat and waited for that some one to enter. Perhaps it was James. He saw the gardener shut and fasten the gate after the carriage went out, and he heard the locking of the stable door. He waited, but no one came. Well, the house must be attended to first, and he would be patient, though thirst, and alternate fever and chills, and racking pains were tormenting him. He was annoyed, too, by John’s efforts to escape from the next room, and would have gone to release the creature but for the fear of spreading contagion.

A distant door opened and shut; he heard a distant heavy step, and thanked God that relief and companionship were at hand. But the sounds ceased, and no one came near him. He saw James, the gardener, laden with packages, hurry down the avenue, and disappear into the public road, and a thrill of fear shot through him. The scene outside swam before his eyes, and grew dark for a moment. Could it be that they had all gone away, and left him to die alone? No; he could not believe it! James had perhaps gone to bring the doctor. He would wait patiently, since wait he must.

An hour passed, and no one came. There was no sound in the house but that occasional whining and barking from the next room; no sound outside except when a carriage rolled swiftly by in the road. He saw no person coming. It was impossible to endure that thirst any longer. He went into the bathroom, and wet his hands and face, and drank of the tepid water there. His head reeled at sight of the stairs, and he did not dare to attempt to descend. Returning to his chamber, he fell on to the sofa, and, for the first time in his life, fainted; coming back to life again as though emerging from outer darkness, but not into light—into a sickening half‐ light, rather. So hours passed, and he knew without a doubt that he was utterly deserted, and that a lonely and terrible death threatened him. Could he do nothing to avert it? He recollected that Mrs. Clay had a medicine closet in the bathroom. Possibly, if he could reach it, something might be found there to relieve, if not to cure, him. What mountains molehills can change into sometimes! This man, so strong and full of life but a day before, now lay and gave his whole mind to planning how he should save himself a few steps in going to the bathroom again, how he could avoid the stairs, lest he should fall, and whether he could this time cross the corridor to release that troublesome, whining dog. Whenever, weary and confused, he lost himself a moment in a half sleep, that whining and scratching assumed terrible proportions in his imagination, and became the fierce efforts of wild beasts to reach him. He started up now and then, with wide‐open eyes, to assure himself that he was not in a menagerie; to fix in his mind the picture of that airy chamber, with its clear tints of green and amber, its open windows showing the long veranda outside, and the bright perspective of foliage and sky.

But when his eyelids drooped again, and he sank back into half sleep and half fainting, back came the painful phantoms to torment him till they were once more chased away for a time.

Toward evening he roused himself to make that difficult pilgrimage of fifty paces in search of healing and refreshment, bathed eagerly his face and head, and found his cousin’s medicine closet. But when he had reached that, his strength was nearly exhausted. He had only enough left to take down the laudanum bottle, and get back to his room with it. Laudanum might dull this pain, and quiet the excited nerves. Once more John must wait. He could not stop to release him.

The room in which the dog was confined had a window on the balcony that ran past Mr. Bently’s room. That window was open, but the blind was shut, and John, despairing of escape through the door, had turned all his efforts toward unfastening this blind, and had several times been near success, when the spring, flying back, had defeated him.

The invalid’s bath of cold water had refreshed him somewhat. He hated to take the laudanum. He had never been an intemperate man, and had always shrunk from swallowing anything which could in the least degree isolate his mind from the control of his will. He would bear the pain a little longer.

He lay there and thought, and visions of happy homes rose up before him. At this hour of early twilight, the lamps were being lighted, or people sat by firelight, and children, grown languid and sleepy with the long day’s play, leaned silent on their mothers’ laps. At this hour, men of thought, intellectual workers, laid aside the weightier labors of their profession to indulge in an exhilarating contention of wits, so much happier than other workers, in that their recreations do not retard, but rather accelerate their work. It is but dancing at evening with Terpsichore, or pacing with Calliope along the margin of the same road which he had travelled by day in a dusty chariot, or walked encumbered by his armor. In their lighter intellectual contests, what sparks were sometimes struck out to live beyond the moment that gave them birth! What random beams of light shot now and then into seeming nothingness, and revealed an unsuspected treasure!

All these scenes of social comfort and delight rose before the sufferer’s mind with tantalizing distinctness, fairer and fuller in the vision than he had ever known the reality to be. He felt like a houseless wanderer who, freezing and starving in the street, sees through lighted windows the warmth and joy of the home circle.

Mr. Bently was not a pious man. He had a deep sentiment of reverence, and a firm belief that somewhere there is an inflexible truth that deserves an obedience absolute and unquestioning. But controversy had spoiled him for religious feeling, which is, perhaps, too delicate for rough handling, and in the clash of warring creeds some freshness and spontaneity had been lost to his convictions. Reaching truth, winning battles for truth, he had been like a traveller at the end of a long journey, when he scarcely cares in his weariness for the goal attained, but must needs eat and sleep. He had spent too much time and strength in wiping away the mire flung on the garments of religion to be any longer quick in enthusiastic homage. “Pity ’tis, ’tis true.” The butterfly you would save from the net loses the down from its wings with your most careful handling; the friend you defend from calumny you dethrone even while defending. The feeling that dictated that brutal egotism, “Cæsar’s wife must not be suspected,” dwells in a less arrogant form in most human hearts, and rare indeed is that soul which sets its love as high, after even the most triumphantly refuted accusation, as it was before.

Desertion and imminent death chilled this man’s heart, and he had no mind to turn to God, save in a cold recognition of his power and wisdom. Love entered not into his thoughts, but despair did.

The pain increased, the dizziness came back. He stretched his hand for the glass and vial of laudanum, and tried with a shaking hand to pour out what he could guess to be an ordinary potion. There was no reason why he should suspect that that bottle might have been standing in the house so long as to have made even the smallest dose of its contents deadly. As he measured, and tried to recollect how much he should take, pouring out unknowingly what would have been for him Lethe indeed, a louder rattle and bang at the blind of the next room proclaimed the success of the four‐ footed prisoner. There was a scampering on the veranda, a dog’s head, eager and bright‐eyed, was thrust in at the window of the sick‐room, then, with an almost human cry of joy, John flew at its occupant.

Away went bottle and glass, breaking and spilling—no laudanum for Mr. Bently that day. Down went Mr. Bently among the sofa pillows, prostrated by the unexpected onset; and love, and delight, and absolute devotion, in the form of an uproarious Skye terrier unconscious and uncaring for risks, nestled in the breast of the deserted man, were all over his face and neck, and through his hair, and speaking as plainly as though human speech had been their interpreters.

When the man comprehended, recovering from his first confusion, reason and endurance stood aside and veiled their faces, and a greater than they took their place.

Through a gush of tears which were but the spray of a subsiding wave of bitterness, this soul raised its eyes, and beheld a new light. It lost sight of the Almighty in a vision of the Heavenly Father.

The flight that followed was painful, but not unsoothed. The dog, perceiving at once that his friend was ill, became quiet. He lay with head pressed close to the restless arm, and, if the sick man moaned, he answered with a pitying whine. Once he left the room, and wandered through the whole house in search of help, whined and scratched at every closed door, and, finding no one, came back with an air of distress and perplexity. Later, when Mr. Bently seemed very ill, John ran out onto the balcony, and barked loudly, as if calling for relief.

Morning came again, and the sick man’s pain gave place to a deathlike faintness, resulting from lack of nourishment. For thirty‐six hours nothing had passed his lips but water, and that no longer ran from the faucet when he tried it. He crept down‐stairs, stair by stair, holding by the balusters, like a little child. There was no water to be seen in the dining‐room, and he did not know where to find any. He reached the parlor, lay down on the floor, and prayed for death or for life—anything to put an end to that nightmare of misery. It seemed that death was coming. His hands and feet grew cold with an unnatural chill, and, though the morning sunshine poured through the windows, all looked dim to his eyes. His senses seemed to be slowly receding, without pain, without any power or wish on his part to recall them. He lay and waited for death.

And while he waited, as one hears sounds in a dream he heard a door open and shut, then a quick, light step that ran up‐stairs. John, standing over his friend, left him, and rushed to the parlor door, barking wildly, but was unable to get out, the door having swung to. In vain he tried it with his paws, and thrust his small nose into the crack. It was too heavy for him to move.

Suddenly, while Mr. Bently gazed with languid, half unconscious eyes at the creature, the door was pushed wide open, and a woman stood on the threshold. She was neither young nor old, but simply at the age of perfection, which is a variable age, according to the person. Her face was a full oval, but white now as hoar‐frost. All its life seemed to centre in the large hazel eyes that were piercing with a terrified search. She wore her fair hair like a crown, piled high above the forehead in glossy coils like sculptured amber. Over one temple a black and gold moth was poised, as though it had just alighted there, its wings widespread. The long black folds of a velvet robe fell about her superb form, sweeping far back from her swift but suddenly arrested step. Scintillating fringes of gold quivered against the large white arms, edged the short Greek jacket, and ran in a single flash down either side of the train. A diamond cross lay like a sunbeam on her bosom, a single diamond twinkled in each small ear.

There was but an instant’s pause, then she crossed the room quickly, and knelt by him.

“My God! my God!” she murmured, and lifted his head on her arm. “What fiendish cruelty!”

Her touch and voice recalled him to himself. He tried to put her away. “Leave me, Marian, I beg of you! Do not endanger yourself for me!”

But even while bidding her go, every nerve in him grew alive with the joyous conviction that he would not be obeyed, and that, danger or no danger, she would not desert him. Here were strength, help, and the power to command. She brought the world with her, this queenly woman, who had not even snatched the gloves from her hands since last night’s ball, but had hurried to seek news of him, after the first confused rumor, to call doctor and nurse, to rush to him herself with all the speed her panting horses could make.

“Leave you? Never!”

He asked no questions, but resigned himself. How delightful the sickness, how sweet the pain, that led to this! How thrice blessed the desertion that gave her to him!

In half an hour, the doctor had come and given his decision. Mr. Bently’s illness was merely a violent cold with fever, and a few days of careful nursing would make all right. In another half hour, he was established in a pleasant chamber in Mr. Willis’ house, with a nurse in close attendance, the whole family anxiously ministrant, John an immovable fixture in the sick‐room; and, later, Mrs. Marcia Clay besieging the house for news of poor dear Cousin Bently, and protesting and explaining to the very coldest of listeners, declaring that nothing but her duty to her family, etc.; and what was the meaning of that broken bottle and glass, and ineradicable laudanum stain on the carpet in her house? Was it possible that Cousin Bently had thought of taking any of that terrible stuff that she meant to have thrown away ages before? And would they bring down John? Arthur had asked for him.

Some one went to Mr. Bently’s room for John, but came back without him. The invalid was reported to have flown into something like a passion on learning the messenger’s errand, and to have held the dog firmly in his arms.

John was his! No one else should have him. Whatever crime it might be called to refuse to give him up—stealing, embezzling, false imprisonment—he was ready to be accused and convicted of it, and would go to jail for it with the dog in his arms.

Mrs. Clay was enchanted to be able to oblige her cousin in such a trifle, and would he speak freely when he wanted anything? and then went home and told all her family in confidence that Mr. Bently was a raving maniac.

Reader, according to our promises at the beginning of this history, we should stop here. The scene has changed, the time already exceeds twenty‐ four hours, and only the characters remain the same. But we have not done. There is something more which we are pining to tell. Shall we stop, then, and perish in silence, rather than transgress rules made by a people “dead and done with this many a year,” whose whole country, with themselves on it, could have been thrown into one of our inland seas without making it spill over? No! Perish the unities!

_Scene II._—Large parlor, rosy‐tinted all through with reflections from sunset, from firelight, and from red draperies. After‐dinner silence pervading, open folding‐doors giving a view through a suite of rooms, in the furthest of which an old gentleman sleeps in his arm‐chair. Or, perhaps, it is a picture of a library, with an old gentleman asleep in it. The stillness is perfect enough for that. Mr. Bently, convalescent, first dinner down‐stairs since his illness, stands near a window looking out, but watchful of the inside of the parlor, and of a lady who sits at an embroidery‐frame near the same window. The lady is superficially dignified and tranquil, but there is an unusual color in the cheeks, and a slight unsteadiness in the fingers, which tell her secret conviction that something is going to happen. This is the first time the two have met since Miss Willis found the deserted man lying half senseless on Mrs. Clay’s parlor floor.

He is thinking of that time now, and that an acknowledgment is due, and wondering how it is to be made, half a mind to be angry, rather than grateful, for the service. Such is man. All the bitterness of his lonely life rises up before him. Gray hairs are on his head, lines of age mark his face, but his heart protests against being set aside as too old for anything but dry speculation and love of abstract truth.

“I have been seeking for some proper terms in which to express to you my grateful sense of your humanity in coming to me when I was left sick and alone, but I cannot find them,” he said at length, facing her.

“There is no need to say anything about it,” she replied quietly, setting a careful silken stitch. “I could not have done otherwise.”

Having begun, the gentleman could not stop, or would not.

“I am sure you meant well, but did you do well?” he went on. “Could you not have been content to send the doctor, without coming yourself? Did you reflect that you were apparently incurring peril, and that for a man who had a heart as well as a head, and, worse yet, for a man whose heart had for years striven vainly to forget you? You have deprived me of the shield and support of even attempted indifference. I can no longer try to forget you, or think of you coldly, without the basest ingratitude.”

Will the reader pardon Mr. Bently for expressing himself so grammatically? It was through the force of a long habit, which even passion could not break. It is true that, according to Gerald Griffin, Juno herself, when angry, spoke bad Latin; but then, Juno was a woman.

_Allons, donc._ We are ourselves interested in this conversation, and are pleased to observe that, though the speaker’s moods and tenses are not flagrant, his eyes and cheeks are.

The lady glanced up swiftly with that smile, half shy, half mirthful, with which a woman who knows her power, and means to use it kindly, receives the acknowledgment of it.

“Why should you think coldly of me, or forget me?” she asked.

Mr. Bently met her glance with stern eyes. “Does a man willingly submit to slavery?” he demanded. He had not suspected Marian Willis of coquetry.

She looked down at her work again, the smile fading, but the mouth still sweet, slowly threaded her needle with a rose‐pink floss, and said as slowly, “I do not wish you to forget me.”

One who has seen the sun strike through a heavy fog, stop a moment, then fling it asunder, all in silence, without breath of breeze, but making a bright day of a dark one, knows how Mr. Bently’s clouded face cleared at those words, and the look of her who spoke them.

No more was said then. Enough is as good as a feast, and both tasted in that moment the full sweetness of a happiness the more perfect because apparently incomplete.

On one point our mind is made up—this story shall not end with a marriage. A marriage there was, at seven o’clock one spring morning, in the little suburban church, with only three visible witnesses; and the marriage feast was—be it said with all reverence and adoration—manna from heaven, the Bread of Angels!

Mrs. Clay was, of course, shocked at this affair. Where was the _trousseau_, where the fuss, the presents that might have been, the rehearsal at a fashionable church, the organ music, the crowd of dear criticising friends, the reception, cake and wine, journey, what not—all the parade, weariness, and extravagance which have so often changed a sacrament into a ceremony? Where, indeed? They had no existence outside of the lady’s disappointed wishes.

She did not even see what she called this “positively shabby affair,” and we will not dwell on it. Turn we to the final scene.

Does the reader object that John bears too small a part in the story named for him? On the contrary, the whole story is because of John. You have, perhaps, seen a painting of the procession at the coronation of George IV., pages and pages of magnificent persons, names, and costumes, the brilliant pageant of the long‐extended _queue_, all because of one person in it. The figure is rather large, apparently, for use in this place, but only apparently; for John’s record is better than any king’s, in that it is unstained.

A year has passed. In the midst of a fair area of gardens and trees stands a pleasant house. Only a window or two are open, for the spring is not yet far advanced. Underneath a large old pine, tree not far from the porch, a hole has been dug, and at one side of it stands Mr. Bently, spade in hand, and at the other his wife. This little pit is lined with green boughs, and the lady stoops and carefully and soberly adds one more. On the heap of earth thrown up rests a box.

This much is visible to a young man who comes strolling up the path from the gate. He pauses, and looks on in astonishment. He recollects of having heard somewhere that Cousin Bently’s dog John was accidentally shot, and that Mrs. Bently cried about it. Can it be possible that they are making a funeral over John? That would be too funny.

Mr. Bently stooped, took the box in his arms, and placed it carefully down among the green boughs. Standing upright then, he wiped his eyes, and muttered a trembling, “Poor fellow!”

“Good‐morning!” said a brisk voice at his elbow. “I’m sorry Johnnie met with a mishap. Are you burying him here?”

The vapid, mean, supercilious face gave them both such a shock that they reddened and frowned. No one could have been less welcome at that moment than Arthur Clay.

Mrs. Bently answered his question with a brief, “Yes.”

“Oh! well, there are dogs enough in the world,” said the young man, meaning to be consoling.

“There are puppies enough!” muttered Mr. Bently, and began shovelling the earth savagely into the grave.

“Please go into the house, and wait for us, Arthur,” the lady said, with polite decision. She had no mind to have this last touching rite spoiled by such an intrusion.

But young Mr. Clay was in an obliging mood. “Thank you; I’d just as lief stay, and rather. I never attended a canine funeral before.”

There was a momentary silence, then Mrs. Bently spoke again, with still more decision and far less suavity: “On the whole, you must excuse us from seeing you any longer this morning. If you had gone to the door, the servant would have told you that we do not receive any one to‐day.”

The young man gave an angry laugh. “Oh! certainly! I wouldn’t for the world intrude on your sorrow. Good‐morning! It’s a pity, though, that dogs are not immortal, isn’t it? You might have John canonized.”

Mr. Bently flashed his eyes round at the speaker. “What!” he thundered, “_you_ immortal, and _my_ DOG NOT!”

If they had been two Parrott guns, instead of two eyes and a mouth, Mr. Arthur Clay could not have retreated more precipitantly.

The grave was filled in and covered over with boughs, two sighs were breathed over it, then the couple walked, arm in arm, slowly toward the house.

“He was a perfect creature!” Mr. Bently said, after a silence.

“Yes!” assented the wife. “Only he would bounce at one so.”

“Marian,” said her husband solemnly, “if it hadn’t been for John’s habit of bouncing at his friends, you would have had no husband.”

It was well meant, but unfortunately worded. The lady pouted, being by no means an ideal, perfect, pattern woman, but only a natural and charming one, with varying moods and whims playing, spraylike, over the deeps of principle and religion. “Don’t be too sure of that!” she made answer to him.

Mr. Bently never bristled with virtues when his wife made such remarks. He smiled now, full of kindness. “I meant to say that I should have had no wife,” he corrected himself.

At that, the pout, which was only a rebellious muscle, not a rebellious heart, disappeared. “It means the same thing, you most patient of men!” exclaimed his wife fervently.

They reached the porch, and stood there a moment, looking back to the mound under the pine‐tree.

“It is a comfort to think,” said the wife, “that for one year of his life we made him such a happy dog.”

Then they went in, and the door closed behind them.

The International Congress Of Prehistoric Anthropology And Archaeology.

From La Revue Generale De Bruxelles.

The International Congress of Prehistoric Anthropology and Archæology held its sixth meeting at Brussels, in 1872. The idea of this congress originated in Italy. Some eminent Swiss, Italian, and French naturalists, assembled at Spezzia in 1865, resolved to hold the first session the following year at Neufchâtel. This meeting, entirely confined to explorations, created no sensation out of the scientific world, but it was agreed there should be another at the time of the International Exposition at Paris in 1867. The congress, thenceforth established, appointed a committee to organize the next meeting. More than four hundred savants responded to the invitation. At Paris it was decided to meet again the next year at Norwich, at the same time as the British Association for the Advancement of Science. The programme of questions proposed for discussion at Norwich presents a striking similarity to that at Paris. The congress held at Copenhagen in 1869 was distinguished by a more local and practical character than the preceding. Finally, the Congress of Bologna, in 1871, enlarged still more the extent of its programme; according, however, the first place to objects that particularly interested Italy.

The programme of the Congress of Brussels was, so to speak, determined by M. E. Dupont’s important discoveries in the caverns of the province of Namur, and the questions were drawn up from the Belgian point of view, in order to give our savants an opportunity of acquainting foreign scientific men with the researches and facts relating particularly to our country. Similar proceedings had taken place at Copenhagen and Bologna. But the programme of Brussels by no means excluded points of general interest. Here is the list of those proposed:

I. What discoveries have been made in Belgium to attest the antiquity of prehistoric man?

II. What were the manners and pursuits of the people who lived in the caverns of Belgium? Did their manners and pursuits vary during the quaternary epoch? What analogy is there between their manners and pursuits, and those of the troglodyte population in other parts of Western Europe and of the savages of the present day?

III. What were the pursuits of the people who inhabited the plains of Hainault during the quaternary epoch? Can it be proved they held any communication with their contemporaries of the caverns of the provinces of Liége and Namur, or with the quaternary peoples of the valleys of the Somme and the Thames?

IV. What characterized the age of polished stone in Belgium? What was its connection with previous ages, and with the age of polished stone in Western Europe?

V. What were the anatomical and ethnical characteristics of man in Belgium during the age of stone?

VI. What characterized the age of bronze in Belgium?

VII. What characterized the appearance of iron in Belgium?

Excursions to the caverns of the valleys of the Lesse, the flint‐works of Spiennes and Mesvin, and the entrenched camp of Hastedon near Namur, formed a practical demonstration of the problems discussed at the meeting.

Many illustrious co‐workers responded to the invitation of the Committee of Arrangements. England was represented by Messrs. Prestwich, Owen, the great palæontologist, Dawkins, Lubbock, Franks, the Director of the Department of Antiquities and Ethnography at the British Museum, etc.; France, by her most eminent anthropologists, archæologists, and geologists, Messrs, Quatrefages, Broca, Belgrand, Hébert, De Mortillet and Bertrand of the Musée de S. Germain, General Faid’herbe, the Marquis de Vibraye, Cartaillac, De Linas, Doctors Lagneau et Hamy, one President and the other Secretary of the Society of Anthropology, Deshayes, Gaudry, Gervais, the Abbés Bourgeois and Delauny, one Superior and the other Professor at the College of Pont‐Levoy, Oppert, the celebrated explorer of Khorsabat, and many others, among whom we must not omit the inevitable Mlle. Clemence Royer, at least as a curiosity. The northern countries sent the founders of prehistoric archæology in the North—Messrs. Worsaœ, Engelhardt, De Wichfeld, Steenstrup, Waldemar‐Schmidt, from Denmark; Messrs. Hildebrand, Landberg, Lagerberg, Nillson, D’Oliviecrona, from Sweden; Italy was brilliantly represented by Messrs. Capellini, Fabretti, Biondelli, Count Conestabile, Gozzadini, etc.; Spain and Portugal by only a few; Holland by several, among whom was M. Leemans, Director of the Museum of Leyden; Austria by Count Wurmbrand; Germany by the Baron de Ducker, Professors Fraas, of Stuttgart, Schafthausen, of Bonn, the celebrated Virchow, of Berlin, Lindenschmidt, of Mayence; Switzerland by Desor, one of the founders of prehistoric archæology. Belgian science was represented in the committee by Messrs. d’Omalius d’Halloy, the venerable President of the congress, Van Beneden, De Witte, Dupont, with the élite of our savants, attended by a constellation of archæologists _de circonstance_ belonging to the various orders of the literary, artistic, and political world, and even the commercial; for philosophy does not daunt M. Jourdain in these days. As for the rest, it was a spectacle of no slight interest to behold the extraordinary concourse of hearers that thronged the sessions at the ducal palace, attentively listening to discussions sometimes very abstract, and again participating in the excursions of the learned assembly with a genuine interest apart from the mere pleasure of the excursions themselves. In proportion as man adds to his knowledge of the globe he inhabits, instead of being satisfied, the greater ardor and interest he manifests to know more. “The surface of both land and water explored in every sense of the word; mountains measured; oceans sounded, and their secrets brought to light; inorganic substances and organized bodies analyzed and described; plants, animals, and the human races studied under every aspect; historical traditions investigated and revised; the dead languages brought into use, and the words derived from them traced back to their original roots—all this is not enough. Knowing what he is, and with a thousand theories as to his destination, man wishes to pierce the mystery of his origin; he asks whence he came, and how he began the career so laboriously pursued, and into which he was thrust by a destiny of which he had no consciousness.”(219) The truths that we grasp in our day were perhaps only guessed at by the ancients. Lucretius has drawn a very correct picture, for those days, of the wretched condition of the earlier races, their struggles with the elements, and even the primitive weapons of stone which they wrought before the age of bronze and iron. But this is only a poetical conception to which must be attached no more importance than it merits. The science of prehistoric ages then had no existence. This science, scarcely known twenty years ago, has now quite a literature of its own, several reviews, and an annual International Congress (in future it will be biennial), splendid museums in all our capitals, and a society whose labors have contributed not a little to so prodigious a result—the Society of Anthropology.

Some persons are troubled at the discussion of grave and delicate questions that seem to set revelation and science at variance. As for us, who can never admit the possibility of a conflict between the Bible and nature—those two divine revelations—or that they ought ever to be completely separated, we deeply regret the complete absence of our clergy at these great sessions, while those of France and Italy were represented in a brilliant manner.

“I am well aware,” says M. Chabas, in an able preface, “that the materialistic tendency of savants of very considerable attainments in anthropology and other branches of prehistoric research, withholds many men whose concurrence would be of value to science from entering the arena where such points are discussed.” But timid minds are becoming more reassured. Therefore, as the Abbé Bourgeois happily remarked at the Congress of Paris, “We shall perhaps have to add to the antiquity of man, but we ought also to detract from that of fossils.” Besides, hitherto, in spite of so much research, man alone has been found intelligent and with a moral sense of his acts; and in the animal kingdom there is not a single proof to confirm even remotely Lamarck’s theory of transmutation revived by Darwin. When so many are appealing to science to the exclusion of God from the universe, it would be well for others to endeavor to make him manifest by the aid of science.

“What!” exclaims Mgr. Meignan, in his brilliant work on _The World and Primitive Man according to the Bible_, “ought the exegete to make no account of the progress of human knowledge? Can the savant find neither profit nor light in the wisdom of Holy Writ? We think otherwise. The theologian who first studies nature will be better enabled to explain certain passages of the Bible; and the naturalist and archæologist, in their turn, will find it advantageous to study the real meaning of Genesis.” The human mind enters upon a course of examination more or less legitimate in subjecting religion itself to the trial of controversy; it is almost a duty imposed on the conscience of all who are not vainly endowed with reason to enable themselves to give a reason for the belief that is within them. “The task of the apologist,” says the eminent prelate just quoted, “is never at an end in our restless age.” The disagreement that some seem to apprehend only exists in superficial or sceptical minds.

If the Bible is not a scientific revelation, neither does it contradict science, and especially in the bold outlines drawn by Moses. Science, as it progresses, sets up its landmarks, so to speak, beside the immutable bounds of faith; it is so with the laws of light, as well as the fundamental principles of geology. Revelation assigns no limits to the antiquity of the world, and allows _the beginning_ in which God created it to recede to as remote a period as is wished, and geology corroborates the Scripture account of successive creations. Is not the unity of origin of the human species, distinctly declared in both Testaments, connected with all the hypotheses that have excited so much opposition in our day? I do not mean the unity of the human species, a doctrinal question very different from the other, and not necessarily connected with it. But the unity of origin of the human race is now taught and demonstrated by the greater part of those versed in natural history; it is a scientific truth. As to the existence of man in the tertiary epoch, it is far from certain, though sustained by many highly respectable men.(220) M. Evans, the Secretary of the Geological Society of London, whose name is an authority on things pertaining to anthropology and palæontology, expressed himself in these terms at a meeting of the British Association at Liverpool last year [1871]: “We cannot,” said he, “possibly make any prediction as to the discoveries that still await us in the soil beneath our feet; but we certainly have no reason to conclude that the most ancient traces of man on the earth, or even on the soil of Western Europe, have been brought to light. At the same time, I must confess that the existing evidence of man in the miocene period, and even in the pliocene, in France (it will be seen further on that this has since been asserted in Portugal), appears to me, after the most careful examination on the spot, very far from convincing.”

Besides, the word _prehistoric_ has only a relative exactness of meaning. In Belgium, prehistoric man comes down to the century before the Roman Conquest. A vast number of the monuments and remains so discussed in our day might be included in the historic period. In most cases, too absolute a signification is given to the word prehistoric, conveying an idea of remote antiquity far beyond the bounds of chronology. It is under the influence of this preconceived opinion that the most distinguished and independent investigators have allowed themselves to be carried away with the apparent revelation of an entirely new world. In hearing of the millions of ages attributed to quaternary man, one feels greatly behind the times, and asks himself anxiously if there really is a science that has a good right to make man so old, and that affords means of ascertaining, as has been stated, what our ancestors were observing in the heavens on the 29th of January, 11,542 years before Christ. This feeling of astonishment must be still livelier in those for whom the insoluble problems of antiquity extend back to less than two thousand years. We do not know the site of _Alesia_, and we pretend to know the habitat and manners of villages of more than three hundred thousand years before the downfall of the Gallic nationality! It should be confessed that the science which has so recently sprung up, and which has for its object the study of human labor anterior to the use of metals, is neither so firmly established nor so positive in its deductions that we should blindly accept such bold theories. This is one of the reasons that should encourage more men of serious pursuits to take a part in these debates, as to which it is allowable to hope that the truth will some day be discovered at an equal distance from any exaggeration.

We shall have occasion to return to these questions which occupied the Congress of Brussels. This preamble appeared necessary as a justification for confining ourselves to a plain, simple analysis of the proceedings of the congress—others can review them better than we.

We will only add one word more. The field for discussion had been prepared in a wonderful manner by the recent publication of the excellent work in which the learned and active director of our Royal Museum of Natural History has condensed his researches.(221)

The opening session took place the 22d of August. The day was spent in receptions, speeches of welcome, replies, the installation of the board, and other official courtesies which we spare the reader. The following days there were two sessions a day. The morning of the 23d of August was devoted to the first question in the programme. There was no one better fitted to develop it than M. Dupont, the Chief Secretary of the congress, and the most active of its organizers. He had already given a clear outline of its history in his discourse at the first session of the day before. It was started in Belgium in 1829, and kept up by the researches of Schmerling, who may be regarded as the Champollion of prehistoric anthropology; but our illustrious fellow‐citizen was not encouraged in his discoveries, and it may be said that he was, to a certain degree, a martyr to the scientific prejudices of his time. His labors, occurring at a time when Cuvier’s authority was at its height, could not counterbalance the influence of that great genius, who declared that man could not be found among fossils’ bones, and that the vestiges of the human race in the caverns came under the general rule. No one then could have dreamed of referring these remains to the epoch of the mammoth, and it was scarcely admitted, till within a dozen years, that man was contemporary with the animals of the geological periods which preceded ours. Schmerling, but little befriended by circumstances, was deceived as to what caused the introduction of this _débris_ into the caverns. He attributed it to sudden inundations. Some years later, Mr. Spring opened the way to the true theory, which allows the reconstruction of the ethnography of geological epochs; but he could not continue his researches, and it was not till 1861 that Lartet’s report concerning the caverns of Aurillac at length established a collection of decisive facts. In 1863, M. Dupont was appointed to explore the caverns of the province of Namur, which gave promise of discoveries of unusual interest; it was important that our country, after having taken so large a part in establishing the first principles of this new science, should not remain inactive in the movement to which it had led. The immense result of researches continued without relaxation for seven years, summer and winter, and the valuable remains thus found, which are the ornament of our principal museum, prove that the direction of the task could not have been confided to better hands.

M. Dupont, laying aside the arbitrary classifications that had hitherto been adopted for determining the antiquity of remains found in caverns, introduced the geologic method in his researches, which is founded upon principles almost incontestable and evidences of indubitable truth. The chronological data furnished by this method are generally of mathematical exactitude. “With this point to start from,” says M. Dupont, “I was sure of clearly determining the fauna and ethnographical remains of each epoch to which the objects discovered in the various subterranean explorations belonged.”(222) In pursuing the application of this method, our young and already illustrious savant was enabled to show the evolution of physical and biological phenomena, and to reconstruct the ethnography of the age of stone. Whatever may be thought of the reality of the facts brought forward, it must be confessed that no ordinary mind could have formed such bold conceptions.

After a communication from Dr. Hamy on the flint‐works of France and England at the time of the mammoth, the Abbé Bourgeois discussed the question of tertiary man. The learned professor’s clear, fluent language, the distinction of his manners, and his open, animated countenance so completely won the goodwill of the audience that thenceforth, whenever he spoke, his appearance in the tribune was hailed with unanimous applause.

The Abbé Bourgeois and M. de Launay, his colleague, are the true heralds of tertiary man. The chronological discussion they so boldly excite seems to embarrass them but little; on the other hand, they almost banish the hope some still seem to cling to of finding the man‐monkey. In 1866, M. Bourgeois described and presented to the Academy of Sciences some wrought flints found in the tertiary deposits in the commune of Thenay near Pont‐ Levoy (Loir‐et‐Cher). M. Desnoyers had already, in 1863, pointed out bones found in strata incontestably pliocene, on which were striæ, or very distinct and regularly marked incisions. Worked flints are beginning to be found, we are assured, in the bottom of the calcareous deposits of Beauce; that is to say, in chalk. They are identical in form with those found on the surface; as in other places, there are utensils for cutting, piercing, scraping, and hammering. Many of these instruments have been injured by the action of fire. Finally, says the Abbé Bourgeois, “I find in them almost every proof of man’s agency, to wit: after‐touches, symmetrical grooves, grooves artificially made to correspond with natural ones, and especially the multiplied reproduction of certain forms. This is a peculiar, unheard‐of fact of the highest importance, but, to me, an indubitable one.” M. Bourgeois exhibited to the competent judges assembled at Brussels what he considered the proofs of the authenticity of his discovery. To him they are convincing, but what he seeks, above all, is truth, and he asked that a special committee be appointed to elucidate the question. This committee pronounced a verdict two days after, without deciding the point. Of thirty‐two specimens presented for examination, some appeared to them evidently wrought, but most of them were unanimously rejected. There was no difference of opinion as to M. Bourgeois’ sincerity of belief, but they were divided as to the authenticity of the deposit. Those who have seen the place had no doubts; the remainder were incredulous. M. Capellini proposed that a new committee be appointed to make researches on the spot. The general conclusion was that no solution is at present possible.

The existence of prehistoric man in Greece next became the subject of lively discussion, giving rise to the most contradictory opinions. The conclusion was that there are no decided proofs. The same doubt was manifested with respect to a skull from California, said to have been found in tertiary formation. It is not even certain it is a human skull.

The second session of the day opened with an account from M. Rivière of the discovery of a complete skeleton in a grotto at Menton, found among the remains of various animals of the quaternary epoch, such as the lion, bear, rhinoceros, etc. Then M. de Mortillet gave a detailed description of the fauna, and the utensils, arms, pursuits, manners, and even the first manifestation of art, of man in the quaternary period, and he proposed a still further subdivision of the classes than is now admitted. The speaker mentioned a very singular circumstance calculated to excite reflection—an inexplicable hiatus between the last period of the age of cut stone and the age of polished stone, in which new races appeared of greater industry and more intelligence, agriculture was developed, the industrial pursuits were extended, and art disappeared. It is the era of lacustrine villages and of dolmens. M. de Mortillet’s sketch of prehistoric civilization was picturesque but far from convincing.

The Abbé Bourgeois did not think M. de Mortillet’s classification correct, because the progress of civilization in France and Belgium was unequal. “The Belgians,” he said, “were more advanced.” And the orator added with charming bonhomie: “I cannot say it is otherwise now.”

M. Fraas, professor at Stuttgart, stated that he had made some explorations in the grotto of Hollenfelz near Ulm, in Würtemberg. The _Homo unius cavernæ_ was refuted in his conclusions by M. Hébert, the celebrated professor at the Sorbonne, and by other savants. M. d’Omalius was of the opinion that two geologists of different countries, desirous of identifying beds contiguous to their fields of exploration, were never able to agree. Between two strata there are always deposits that partake of the distinctive characteristics of both.

We pass from the grave to the entertaining. The following day, at seven o’clock in the morning, all the learned assembly, glad, it may be imagined, to get away from the pretentious paintings of the ducal palace, took flight by steam for the valley of the Lesse. We would be the first to confess that, if the country excited the sincere admiration of the excursionists, the latter were equally a delightful source of curiosity to the native inhabitants. They will not readily forget the picturesque sight of our long caravan traversing the good town of Dinant all decked out with flags, parading in elegant equipages lost among the _coucous_, _fiacres_, and _calèches_ of wondrous construction, or perched on the imperials of the most extraordinary vehicles, omnibuses, and _pataches_ truly prehistoric, filing along the banks of the Meuse towards the valleys amid laughter, jests, joltings, and the vociferations of our _Automedon_. Charming landscapes, but detestable roads. This region has been so often described that I need not attempt to depict it; it is with the pencil and brush it should be undertaken. Sometimes the road winds around with disagreeable undulations through the deep ravines bordered by apple‐trees whose fruit‐laden branches sweep the imperials of the carriages, endangering the silken hat; sometimes rolling over broad grassy roads walled in by immense cliffs crowned with ruins and verdure, or affording vistas through the neighboring valleys, lit up by the sun streaming through the woods with a mild radiance that recalls the Elysian Fields of mythological memory. At length we come to the Lesse, which bars the way with its clear, rapid current. The carriages have to ford the capricious and petulant waters of the little winding torrent. The horses sheer in the very middle of the stream, causing a deafening noise of laughter, shouts of alarm, and blows of the whip. All ends by crossing without any great difficulty, but the same scene is reproduced five or six times with varied incidents; for there are that number of fords to cross. It was in one of these places, where we were obliged to cross the river in boats in order to reach the grottoes, that we saw the overloaded skiff capsized that bore among others M. d’Omalius and Mlle. Royer. The apostle of woman’s emancipation clung with shrill screams to the neck of a small gentleman, her _chevalier servant_ for the time, and, when she found a footing with the water up to her chin, she contributed somewhat to save her assistant by keeping his head out of water—a fine opportunity for quoting La Fontaine, with a kind variation: “That is nothing; it is not a woman that is drowning.” The nonagenarian president of the congress was taken out safe and sound, and it was with extreme difficulty he was induced to change his _chaussures_, but nothing could prevail upon him to accept dry garments. Happily, the weather was superb, and the shipwrecked travellers could get dry in the sun.

We returned by way of the plateaux that overlook the valley. Nothing could be imagined more fantastically beautiful than that immense panorama bathed in the purple light of the setting sun. The visitors, under the guidance of M. Dupont, had been through all the principal caverns described in his book. His learned explanations were greatly relished, and added a keen interest to an excursion of which the unexpected and the amusing had heightened the charm. We will not speak of the banquet that crowned so delightful a day, or of the ovations that were lavished on the savants and others. For such details, we refer you to the newspapers that published the reports.

To Be Concluded In Our Next Number.

The See Of Peter.

Not unto hirelings, Prince of Shepherds, leave This distant flock. The wolf, long kept at bay, No longer in sheep’s clothing seeks its prey, Nor prowls at midnight round the fold’s low eave, Its weak, unwary victim to deceive; But rampant in the flock at noon of day, Careering leaps, to scatter, mangle, slay, While from afar the banished shepherds grieve. How long must sycophants wax blandly wise, And meek‐faced aspirants rebuke the cries Of outraged faith! On Peter, “Feed my sheep, My young lambs feed,” the charge benignant lies, And we whose vigils cheat the night of sleep, On Peter, still, calm eyes expectant keep.

Atlantic Drift—Gathered In The Steerage.

By An Emigrant.

To most of the sons and daughters of Columbia the few days they pass in returning from the Old Country represent but a period of wearisome delay—an interval sometimes nauseous and always irksome between the pleasures of travel and those of their own fireside, passed perhaps in recollection of the pleasures of Paris, the classic grandeurs of the Eternal City, or the picturesque beauties of Switzerland and the Rhine; not unfrequently, perhaps, by our belles, whose elegance and social value have received their last gilding in the grand tour of Europe, in anticipation of the effect of their costumes at Newport or Saratoga, or of their adventures and experiences in the great circle of their country friends. All that wealth and skill can do is lavished on the accommodations of ocean steamers, and nothing is spared to make the traveller independent of the caprice or ill‐temper of the watery god; and nowadays a passage from the Mersey to our Empire City is to the ordinary passenger almost as comfortable and quite as devoid of unusual interest as a sojourn of so many days at the St. Nicholas or the Fifth Avenue. There is, however, another class of voyagers whose hard‐earned savings form the staple of the receipts of the owners of these splendid vessels; they usually belong to a sphere where literature hardly penetrates and whence come few who wield a ready pen; hence perhaps the general ignorance that seems to prevail as to their treatment and accommodation. The cabin passenger sees them only in squalid groups, encumbering the decks of the great ship, beyond the middle enclosure reserved to the saloon; and if he dives into the close and half‐lit steerage, a very brief glance round its dim precincts satisfies his curiosity. Believing, however, that many of our adopted countrymen will feel some interest in knowing how the great army of emigrants who flock in hundreds of thousands to our shores fare on their ocean transit, one of us lifts a voice from the steerage to relate some of the realities of life in an emigrant ship. Naught have we extenuated or aught set down in malice, and, such as it is, our little narrative is a true history of personal and actual experience.

To the reader it matters little what ill‐fortune cast from his quiet anchorage a London clerk who had already seen three decades, and whose life had hitherto run in the tranquil groove of uniform official duty, sufficiently well remunerated to furnish the comforts of a middle‐class English home. Unable to regain a similar position in his native land, he goes to seek his fortune in the West, and, thither wending, finds himself in the steerage of one of our principal ocean steamers. Candor requires this avowal, for those interested in the great liners think they dispose of the numerous complaints as to their treatment of their emigrant passengers, by retorting that they provide for the working‐classes, and not for clerks out of place or penniless gentlemen. Hence what is here stated as to their discomfort deals not with the writer’s own feelings, but speaks of what he saw endured by others, and he gives voice not merely to his own opinions, but to the sentiments of the mechanics, artisans, and farm laborers who were his fellow‐voyagers.

Every emigrant has to provide himself with bedding, plate, basin, drinking and water can, and a knife and fork. Our first experience of emigrant life consisted in the purchase of these articles at a Liverpool slop‐shop; some ten shillings covered the entire outlay, except for the blanket, the most indispensable of all; for this purpose, the dealer persuaded us to buy a horse‐rug, which he solemnly assured us was worth double the money across the Atlantic: as a copy of the _Times_ would give about as much warmth and shelter as the common covering sold with the bed, we invested in it. An addition to our comfort it certainly has been in the bunk, and in the long nights in the emigrant trains, and it still remains our property; no market have we been able to discover for the article, and we conclude that a certain spice of Americanism had communicated itself to the mercantile mind of the seller. Many of the inmates of our steerage dispensed with all or most of these domestic utensils. One gentleman’s luggage, whose world‐ wide travels we may hereafter refer to, consisted of a limited brown‐paper parcel; in his subsequent oceanic career his Irish suavity usually procured him the loan of one of the tins of an acquaintance; that failing, he borrowed any neighboring utensil whose owner was not for the moment at hand; or, driven to his last resource, abjured coffee or soup and ate his portion of meat on a piece of brown paper. Some had but one vessel which served indifferently for a drinking‐can, soup‐basin, plate, tea‐cup, or wash hand‐basin, while a few comfort‐loving people, more frequently, however, in the after or family steerage than in our bachelor quarters, carried heavy loads of comfortable bedding and neatly‐arranged baskets of table‐ware.

Nearly all this apparatus of bedding and tin‐ware is thrown overboard or given to the crew when the vessel arrives at its destination; only the frugal Germans carefully preserve their vessels, and, shaking out its straw or moss contents, preserve the ticking of the bed either as a wrapping for their baggage or some ulterior purpose. It certainly seems strange that an expenditure of from two to three hundred pounds should be incurred by every ship‐load of emigrants for articles of such brief utility. Could not this outlay be converted to the benefit of the ship‐ owners by the permanent provision of requisites of this description at a moderate charge?

The great landing stage at Liverpool on the morning of our embarkation was crowded with some two thousand persons—the passengers of three mail steamers, their friends, and the swarm of porters, carters, and pedlers in attendance on them. Everything was confusion; here mothers seeking a stray little one, there the husband anxiously gathering together his motley property of boxes, bedding, cans, baskets, and packages of every description, as they were roughly tossed out of the cart from some boarding‐house. The boxes had to be placed in one tender, the passengers and lighter luggage in another; porters drove greedy bargains with females helplessly encumbered with immovable boxes. Women with baskets full of articles for sale—combs and brushes, knives, scissors, and soap—pushed their way here and there. To single men, careful of small change, it was a problem how to move the box or trunk in one direction and yet secure the safety of the other articles while doing so. We despaired of solving the problem, and trusted to the honesty of a badge porter, who undertook for sixpence to place our box on the luggage tender; afterwards, nervous as to the actual presence there of our little all, we spent two weary hours in watching the baggage discharged into the hold. A thousand trunks and chests of every conceivable size, shape, color, and dimensions passed down the hatchway before us—handsome American boxes, ribbed and gay with bright nails; immense iron‐bound chests of unpainted deal, containing the whole household goods of some Swedish or Norwegian family, directed in quaint letters to some far‐off town in Minnesota or Wisconsin; flimsy papered trunks, with sides already creaking and gaping, threatening to disgorge their finery before they touch the ground in Castle Garden; and German packs of strong ticking or canvas about the size of a small haystack—and, with a sigh of relief, we at last saw our property shot with a crash into the hold. Nearly two long hours did we spend on the open stage under a drizzling rain, that soaked the beds and blankets before the tenders moored alongside; then all made for the gangways, tugging their luggage with them; produced their tickets as they passed on, and pushed, tumbled, and scrambled pell‐mell on board; a similar scene was enacted at the steamer’s side; and when at last we reached her spacious decks we felt like soldiers passed unscathed through some hard‐fought field; not all unscathed, however; a considerable number of missing tins, blankets, and even beds attested the severity of the struggle and gave zest to the satisfaction of the more fortunate.

Arrived at last on our floating home for the coming fortnight, we pushed our way into the steerages to find our berths and enter into possession: and here let us try to describe. The steamer was a magnificent vessel, advertised to be of 3,700 tons, and celebrated for the luxury of her saloon accommodation and her almost unrivalled speed—qualities, as experience taught us, attained somewhat at the expense of the comfort of her emigrant passengers. Right aft the forecastle or forward part of the deck was roofed over with what sailors call a whale‐back, to the entrance of the forward steerage; a small deck house, with doors on each side, and on one side a small closet with a half door and a few racks for clothes served as a deck bar; behind it, that is, towards the stern, was the forward _fresh_ water pump; walking still sternwards, we next encounter another small house containing the wash‐house for the forward steerage, entered from below, and two or three cabins for some of the officers or petty officers opening on the deck; on one side of this was a hot water tap; a few feet further is the main deck house, extending about half the length of the ship; in the street‐like passages between its sides and the bulwarks—open iron railings in our vessel—are the doors to the galleys, boilers, engine‐rooms, officers’ berths, and saloon, which, unlike most other steamships, is in this situated amidships; from the saloon a handsome double staircase led on to the deck above, which, however, like the tops of all the other deck houses, was tabooed ground to the emigrants. At the end of the main deck house was the entrance to the forward or sternmost steerage, and at the side of it the after fresh water pump; still further aft another deck house contained the wash‐house belonging to this steerage, and, as in case of the forward steerage, entered from below, and one or two officers’ berths, and provided outside with a second hot water tap; still further, the stern deck house contained the wheel house, with the engine for working the rudder, the butcher’s shop, ice and meat house, and vegetable storehouse; and between its semicircular end and the bulwark round the stern ran a low gallery, always considered among us as the most desirable place to settle for the day. We were free to ramble or squat ourselves on the deck where we listed, except the extreme forecastle forward of the entrance to the sailors’ cabin; there an incautious intruder paid his footing with the penalty of a bottle or two of beer to the nearest sailor who could catch him. Under the whaleback, also, either by custom or some rule of the ship, was forbidden ground to children or the fair sex, and always the chosen resort of old hands who liked to smoke a quiet pipe sheltered from the wind, chat with those of the crew who were off duty, and be comfortably near the deck bar.

Enter the forward or bachelors’ steerage—the after one being reserved to married couples and single women; leaving the bright day, we can hardly distinguish the objects in the dim light, and feel our way down the first flight of steps; this brings us on the main deck; here it is not open to the sides of the ship, along which run the berths of the saloon passengers. Entered from the saloons at the fore part, where they terminate by the hospital, two neat rooms, each with three or four bunks with bedding, wash‐basins, etc., similar to those of a saloon berth, and in one of which, in the absence of patients, our two stewards sleep; and at the other or after end a narrow flight of steps leads up to the wash‐ house on deck. The main deck is lighted only by the stairs and the hatchway; when the wooden grating covering the latter is in its place, it is dim; when it is covered with tarpaulin to prevent the entrance of the rain or spray, too dark to see. We have still another flight of steps to descend to reach the cavernous abyss of the steerage itself, which is situated between‐decks; when our eyes grow accustomed to the obscurity, we see a central open space about ten feet wide, running from end to end; in this are three narrow wooden tables with benches, two lengthwise and one crosswise, each capable of seating about twenty people; on each side are the bunks, reaching to the roof, entered by narrow streets or passages leading off on either hand, and again benches in the central space all round the outer side of the bunks.

Each street of bunks contained twenty upper and lower rows of five each, on either hand; the inmates therefore, lay side by side, parallel with the ship’s length, with their feet to their own street, and their heads adjoining those of their neighbors in the adjoining street. The bunks themselves consisted simply of shelves of unpainted boards, with an opening of about an inch between each, and were about six feet and a half wide, and divided into the spaces for each bunk, and fenced at the foot by upright boards about a foot high; in short, an emigrant’s bunk means a slightly fenced off space of hard board rather more than six feet by two. The lower row are about two feet from the ground; the upper about three feet above the lower, and the same distance from the roof. They are not attached to the side of the ship, but to a framework a few inches from it, the interstices of which served to stow hats or tins. Inside this coffinlike area of the bunks you stow bed, bedding, cans, and all smaller _impedimenta_, while such boxes as found their way down are pushed under the lower berths, piled in corners of the central space, or serve in the streets as seats or footsteps to the upper berths. In our steamer the bunks seemed to have been just put up; they were free from vermin, the timbers had nothing dirtier about them than sawdust; indeed, as we believe, the number of steerage passengers who cross eastwards is much less than in the other direction, the greater part of the boards are often knocked down on the ship’s arrival in New York, and the steerage filled with cargo, and then re‐erected when she is again prepared for the westward trip. The berths next to the central space were the most in request, on account of their being nearer the fresh air, and the lower range everywhere objected to; but nearly all the tickets had a number affixed, and no liberty of choice was permitted. Ours was in the upper berth in one corner, and consequently very far removed from any ventilation; as a slight compensation, being next to the side of the ship, we could look through the little window over the surging water, with which it was almost level and frequently covered. The gaps between the planks were very annoying, as small articles readily fell through them, and if they fell beneath the lower range it was too dark and the space too narrow to readily recover them. From about nine till twelve every day the steerage was closed, all the inmates sent on deck, and the floor brushed and laid down with fresh sawdust; this process, we think, was confined to the central space and the streets, and did not extend to the spaces underneath the bunks; and it was daily inspected or supposed to be inspected by one of the doctors, of whom there were two on board.

The wash‐house to the forward steerage was of decent size, with tiled floor, and contained eight closet pans, five wash hand‐basins, each with a tap of cold water and one with a hot water tap, and four sinks, also with salt water taps: putting aside the absence of any privacy, the arrangements were suitable, and the fittings generally clean; but, as in so many other instances, the carelessness or inattention of the crew made the admirable equipments of the ship almost useless. Except early in the morning there was rarely any water in the taps, and in the hot water cistern, which also supplied the hot‐water tap outside, often none for two or three days: the engineer, the steward told us, would not waste the steam by putting his cistern into communication with the boilers; and then often, when turned on, the tap poured out so much more hot steam than water that one was likely rather to get scalded hands than a full can.

The after‐steerage was similar in character to that of the single men, but much larger, occupying both the main and between‐decks; the married men and women slept on one side, the single women on the other; their privacy being supposed to be secured by a canvas curtain let down at night the whole length of the cabin. In the other lines, we believe the men and women, married or single, are quite separated, but ours put it forward as one of their attractions that husbands and wives are berthed together; as this simply means that their bunks are allotted side by side, the wife is really no more berthed with her own husband than with the spouse of her next neighbor. Many of the more respectable women complained much of being misled by the announcement, and of their being unable to undress to rest during the whole of the voyage, as they might have done if a cabin had been really and exclusively reserved for children and females. To the after steerage two wash‐houses were attached, one for the women with closed private closets, and one for the men similar to ours.

The routine of one day’s life may serve for all. As the mornings were generally damp and chilly, like most in our steerage we slept till towards eight o’clock, and did not rise till breakfast was announced; as dressing consisted in knocking off the rugs and donning coat, waistcoat, and boots, it was not a long process; then we scramble down into our street, seize our can and wait; in our corner we are too far removed from the tables—which would not seat half the number the cabin contains—to try to obtain seats at them; so we sit in the bunks on the chests in our street, or stand till the steward comes round to the entrance, and sings out, “Who is for coffee?” Each holds out or passes on his can, and he ladles into it about a pint of a boiling hot decoction, sweetened but without milk, and bearing a distant but still recognizable relationship to the article one had hitherto known under the name. A few minutes afterwards he comes round with the fresh bread, and over its distribution there were always much squabbling and bad language, partly because the bakers disliked the trouble of baking more than the strictly necessary quantity, and were given to restricting both the number and size of the loaves, and partly because many could neither eat the waxy potatoes nor hard sea‐biscuits; so that all sorts of tricks were resorted to to secure additional loaves for their dinner or tea. Of all the articles of diet the warm fresh bread every morning was decidedly the favorite, and any shortcoming in its supply more resented than any other infliction; both in size and quality the loaves varied very much according to the caprice of the bakers, but they were generally good. Great pyramids of butter were placed in tins on the tables; most of the men would not eat it on account of its tallow‐like flavor; for our own part, on obtaining our coffee and bread, we cut the latter open, put a lump of butter to melt inside, and pressed it together to distribute it equally as it melted, and then proceeded on deck, and under the influence of the keen sea air rarely failed to eat with a good appetite this not very luxurious fare in some quiet corner out of the wind. After breakfast, warmed with the steaming coffee, we obtained a can full of fresh water from the pump, produced the toilet requisites from our satchel, and in one corner of our street performed our ablutions; we always took as near an approach to a sponge‐bath as circumstances permitted, and found the practice more refreshing even than sleep. Though the steward never interfered with me, it was, however, we believe, against the rules to wash elsewhere than in the wash‐house, or to use fresh water for the purpose. The first day or two we had to wash in the wash‐house before breakfast, but the crowd there for various purposes was so great and there was so little convenience for putting down the different articles that we gave it up; and after breakfast there was rarely water for the purpose.

The decks always presented a more crowded and busy appearance in the forenoon than in any other period of the day; the steerages were empty, and all their inmates perforce on deck, huddled here and there, wherever the deck houses offer shelter from the winds, in compact groups three or four deep. The German and Scandinavian mothers perform the ablutions of their numerous families deliberately and in public—an amusing, if to some disgusting, process; first, the white‐headed urchin is held between his mother’s or perhaps his eldest sister’s knees, and his poll carefully and methodically examined with the fingers—not a comb, and any strangers summarily executed. Then he is taken to the scuppers by the side of the ship, his head held over a tin of hot water and lathered till he is red in the face and his eyes full of soap; then washed and taken back again, his head combed down into smoothness, and released for the day with a weight off his mind, the process being varied in the case of a little girl by the plaiting of her long flaxen locks into ribbon‐adorned tails. The majority, however, treated their abode on shipboard as a time when the ordinary rules of civilized life were temporarily suspended, and eschewed washing, shaving, and all the vanities of dress until they again felt themselves on terra firma.

Dinner took place at twelve; we mustered as for breakfast, but with a more careful marshalling of cans, for two, if not three, were necessary, and a sharp watch was requisite to prevent some hungry but tireless prowler from summarily appropriating the nearest ware; first came the soup, dealt out as the coffee at breakfast—a hot compound with a faint reminiscence of gravy and mutton bones, some grains of barley, and fragments of celery and cabbage; sometimes, instead, a thick mixture of ground peas; such as it was, with plenty of salt which one of our street usually fetched from the table for the general benefit, it was the most reliable part of the dinner; it was always drinkable, and many came down to obtain it who would taste no other article provided by the ship beyond the soup and bread. Next came the meat, cut up into chunks in an immense tin, and shovelled out by the steward with a saucer on to the tin plates. Sometimes it was eatable; say, perhaps, on five out of the ten days a hungry stomach and a stern will could manage it; and once or twice we had fresh beef as good, allowing for the roughness with which it was served, as any one could desire; the salt junk and salt fish, however—and the latter, in deference to the feelings of the Catholic passengers, always appeared on Friday—were vile; the junk could not be cut with a knife, and had to be torn into shreds along the grain, while the fish in taste and smell was simply abominable.

The potatoes were one of our standing grievances; as there were but two stewards to assist some hundred and sixty people, they had to form a course of themselves, or the meat got cold while waiting for them; and instead of being boiled, they were steamed by some hasty process into the taste and consistency of a tallow candle. To the natives of the Emerald Isle, accustomed to consider their potato the _pièce de resistance_ of their humble fare, this misusage of their favorite food was particularly aggravating, and their complaints were loud and endless. Boiled rice was generally served after the potatoes with coarse sugar or treacle; as long as the latter lasted it was palatable, but the sweetening generally bore the same relation to the rice as did Falstaff’s bread to his sack, and our ingenuity had to be taxed to procure a double or treble allowance of the sugar by changing places while the serving took place or holding the plate over the shoulders of the steward who carried it. On Sundays plum duff, a heavy pudding pretty liberally supplied with raisins, was dealt out, and to stomachs accustomed to steerage fare seemed something faintly approaching the luxuries of the table appropriate to the day. The tea, which took place at five, may be dismissed in two words: taste it had none, and its smell was beastly; however, it was always boiling hot, and in the cold, damp evenings anything warming was grateful. With it we had biscuits and butter.

Without a detailed notice of that indispensable and omnipresent article the sea‐biscuit, any account of our food would be incomplete; a barrel of them always stood at the head of the staircase on the main deck, and any one could help himself as often and as liberally as he thought proper; they formed our sole fare at tea, and our _dernier ressort_, when the dinner was, as it usually was every other day, altogether uneatable. More fortunate than most of our fellow‐passengers, we could combine recreation and humble fare by gnawing at their hard sides. Of wooden consistency they certainly were; to make any impression on their hard edges it was necessary first to break them with a smart blow of the fist, put a piece between two sound molars, shut your eyes, hold fast to one of the stanchions of the bulwarks, and bring your jaws together with a determined and persevering grind! The result, to our taste, was not unsatisfactory; they were perfectly sweet, and when once pulverized not ill tasted; and on several occasions, when we found the other provisions inedible, two or three biscuits, washed down with a bottle of porter, served us for a tolerable meal. Few, however, shared our liking or would touch them, except at the last extremity, and by those whose teeth were not in first‐ rate order they were unassailable. As a souvenir, we pocketed a couple on leaving the ship, and as we munched them on the following night on the platform of the emigrant car jolting along the side of the broad and mist‐ clad Hudson, hoped that Dame Fortune would never reduce us in the Far West to more unpalatable fare.

On the whole, it was possible to subsist on the ship’s provisions, particularly when the transit was regarded in a purgatorial or penitential sense; and that statement, too, must be qualified by the admission of the necessity of malt liquor: without two or three bottles of beer or porter a day, we could not have survived; they served as a tonic, which made greasy meat digestible, and biscuits possible to swallow; few, however, lived entirely on the steerage fare, nor must it be supposed that the grumblers or discontented were generally those who had, as it is termed, seen better days. Men of that class were slow to complain, because ignorant of what they ought to tolerate or endure in their altered circumstances. It was the well‐to‐do artisans or workingmen who showed the greatest disgust and were the bitterest in their complaints. Many families were provided with well‐filled baskets of good bread, ham, and bottles of preserves, and had their own store of tea and sugar, for which they obtained hot water from the galley; while others bought the whole of their food.

Buying, begging, and stealing food was one of the most interesting and to some the most engrossing of occupations; it required a little money, a deal of diplomacy, and very hardened feelings, and was accomplished in very various ways. At the commencement of the voyage, little cliques were formed of four or five people, who made up a purse of two or three pounds for one of the cabin stewards, who in return sold to or stole for them a regular supply of cabin provisions; we were asked to join a little party of this sort, but declined; nor did we observe much of their subsequent fortune, except that they professed to have plenty of good food, and seemed to spend most of their time in watching for the opportunity when their steward could safely convey it to them; others peeled potatoes or apples and carried water for the galleys, and got fed in return; some reduced it to a system, bought meat from the butchers, and got it cooked in the galley, or, for a consideration, got liberty to go in at an idle time and cooked it themselves; the ordinary way, however, was to buy a bottle of beer at our deck‐bar, hand it in to one of the cooks with a tin, and ask him to give you something, the best time being immediately after breakfast, when the hot scouse or Irish stew—far better food than any provided for us—was served out for the sailors’ breakfast, or after the saloon dinner; you then slunk about the galley door, cursed for being in their way by all the cooks except the recipient of the beer, until that gentleman saw the head cook or chief steward out of the way, filled the tin with anything at hand—generally scouse in the morning, cold beef and chicken in the evening—shoved it under your coat, and told you to clear out instantly. One’s feelings suffered much in this process; but a few days of steerage fare blunt the sensibilities and whet the animal appetite to an extent that requires to be experienced to be appreciated.

Another want that is keenly felt in consequence of the salt food and dry biscuit is that of something green or succulent. One craves an apple or an orange or lemon; and so well aware were the experienced travellers among us of this want that fresh fruit generally occupied a large space in their well‐stuffed baskets. We had only the slender resource of pulling pieces of celery through the grating of the vegetable store, peeling them and eating them as an addendum to the coffee and bread of our breakfast. Unfortunately either the demand for that cool vegetable was unexpectedly great in the saloon, or we emigrants were too successful in extracting it through the bars of the always open store; for before the voyage was half over the supply was exhausted, we then had raw carrots and onions from the same source, but the result was not satisfactory.

Many of the passengers who had no money suffered much from their inability to cope with our daily fate. One young man of about twenty‐two or three years of age particularly attracted our attention. Short and slight, of perfectly gentlemanly manners and quiet address, he had little of the typical American about him, though as we afterwards learned from himself he belonged to a Western family engaged in commerce and of considerable means. Some strange star must have presided over his birth, for he had the rarest of all dispositions in the New World, a dislike to traffic and money‐making, and an unconquerable yearning for a life of literary labor. He was returning westward after residing in Dresden and Florence, full of enthusiasm for Goethe and Schiller, Tasso and Dante, and proudly conscious of a vocation himself as a dramatic poet. He had shot, he said, in the lakes of Minnesota, hunted in the Adirondacks, become familiar with the most beautiful and intellectual of the European capitals, and now felt that his endowment for his career was enriched by the novel experiences of the steerage of an emigrant ship. Fine conceptions, except perhaps among saints or hermits, do not thrive on an empty stomach.

Our poet looked daily more pallid and spiritless. He listened uninterestedly to everything except prospects of better fare or prophecies of the speedy diminution of the irksome voyage. One night one of the cooks in the emigrant galley gave us a tin crammed to overflowing with fragments of meat and fowl, and, additionally armed with a bottle of porter and a biscuit, we had settled in a quiet leeward corner to make a hearty supper, when we thought of the famishing poet. We found him tending a little singing‐bird he was taking out with him, and invited him to share our meal; and the enjoyment with which he ate the broken meat—a biscuit serving for a plate, and a clasp‐knife for an instrument—was quite refreshing. We took alternate pulls at the porter, and felt pleased with ourselves and the world. His inner man refreshed, our poet became another person. The charm of his conversation well repaid our little sacrifice, and we talked art and literature, music and the drama, until the loneliness of the deck, the chill night breeze, and the bright moon mounted high in the star‐spangled heaven warned us of the approach of midnight. A few hours after we had landed in New York, we met our poet in Broadway, in all the elegance of clean raiment, and happily conscious of a well‐lined purse. Though our rough garb assorted ill with his gentility, he insisted on our drinking glasses together to the memory of our meeting. As we drank, he expatiated on the advantages of a varied experience of the many‐sided life of our poor humanity. Nevertheless, we opine, to cross the Atlantic in the steerage of an emigrant ship with an empty pocket, is one of those phases of existence which he will never voluntarily again investigate. Another instance of suffering was that of an Englishman—a quiet‐visaged, silent man, past middle age, whose velveteen coat and corduroy trowsers bespoke him a ploughman or gamekeeper from some Old World country neighborhood. He had with him his little daughter, a fair‐ haired, sweet‐faced little girl of about twelve, genteelly dressed. Neither he nor his child could eat the ship’s food, and the little girl used to sit all day quietly pining by her father’s side. They met, however, worse fortune on shore. Bound to some town in Ohio, he was apparently ignorant that a long journey separated it from their landing‐ place, and landed in Castle Garden penniless. Too shy or too proud to beg, the man and his little girl starved for a day, until some fellow‐passenger accidentally found out their condition and supplied them with food.

No account of a sea voyage would be faithful without noticing the dread malady, the sufferings of which form the traveller’s introduction to the domain of Neptune; but it is a life over which we must perforce draw a veil. To the voyager who has a comfortable berth, every convenience that wealth can produce, attentive stewards, and the command of each luxury that his fancy or fears can suggest, the horrors of sea‐sickness are sufficiently nauseous. What they are in the steerage of an emigrant ship, where your pangs are intensified by the maladies and filth, the groans and curses, of some scores of other victims, can be better imagined than described; it is too disgusting. For the first two or three days, to eye, ear, and nose our steerage was insufferable; there was no remedy but to avoid it as much as possible, and either abandon the meals altogether, or rush down, snatch a hasty portion of whatever came nearest to hand, and beat a hasty retreat to the fresh air of the deck before your rising gorge added you to the ranks of the inconsolable.

But this rough initiation had its practical advantage. Many of the younger passengers of the better class at the commencement of their voyage endeavored to keep up appearances in spite of all difficulties, and to present themselves on deck fresh from a careful toilette and in all the neatness of clean linen and well‐arranged dress; but, when they had once succumbed to the qualms of the malady, their vanity went overboard. Languid and weary, they crowded on deck, unwashed and uncombed, muffled in a waterproof, or huddled in twos and threes in a corner in the warm folds of a blanket or horse‐rug; and as their spirits revived they thought no more of struggling against adverse circumstances, and were content to “peg along” (pardon, kind reader, the expression) until their feminine instincts revived at the welcome sight of the wished‐for land.

To Be Concluded In Our Next Number.

A Daughter Of S. Dominic.

If she had been condemned to have her life written, and been given the choice of a name under which to appear before the world, this would probably have been the one she would have taken. But who could have persuaded the humble child of the grand S. Dominic that such a fate was in store for her, or induced her humility to accept it? Well, it matters little to her now whether men speak of her or for her, she is alike beyond the reach of their hollow praise and their jealous criticism. But to us it matters much. The teaching of such a life as Amélie Lautard’s is too precious to be lost; it is a lesson to be sought out and hearkened to, for it is full of beauty, and light, and encouragement to those whom she has left behind.

Amélie was born at Marseilles on the 12th of April, 1807. Her father was a medical man, eminent in his profession, an honorable man, and a good Christian. She lost her mother at the age of seventeen. Early in life she met with an accident which injured her spine so seriously as to render her by degrees quite humpbacked; the progress of the deformity was slow and very gradual, but even when it had grown to its worst it never looked grotesque or repulsive, nor did it, strange to say, take away from the singular dignity of her appearance or from the grace of her movements. In person she was tall and dark, not handsome, though her features had so much charm and expression that most people considered her so. Her intelligence was of a very high order, and pre‐eminently endowed with that delightful and untranslatable gift called _esprit_. From her earliest childhood she began to develop an angelic spirit of piety and a sensitiveness to the sufferings of others that is generally the outgrowth of maturer years. The sufferings of the poor claimed her pity especially, but not exclusively. The range of her sympathies was wide enough to embrace every kind and degree of sorrow that came within her knowledge. This characteristic of her charity, as rare as it is attractive, may be considered as the keynote of her life, and explains, humanly speaking, the extraordinary influence she exercised over all classes indiscriminately.

After her mother’s death Amélie became the chief delight and interest of her father, and she repaid his tenderness by the most absolute devotion. Offers of marriage were not wanting for the accomplished and _spirituelle_ young lady, but Amélie turned a deaf ear to them all; filial duty as much as filial love had wedded her to her father, and she declared her intention never to separate from him, or let any other love and duty come between those she had vowed unreservedly to him. It was probably at this period of her life that she bound herself exclusively to the service of God by a vow of perpetual virginity.

During many years Dr. Lautard’s health was such as to require constant and unremitting care. Amélie nursed him with the tenderest affection, never allowing her devotions or her work amongst the poor to interfere with her first duty to him. He expired in her arms, blessing her and declaring that she had been the model of filial piety, the joy and solace of his widowhood. Amélie generously made the sacrifice of this one great affection to God, she drank the chalice with a broken heart, but with an unmurmuring spirit, and entered bravely on the new life that was before her. Hers was to be the mission of an apostle, and she must go forth to it unshackled by even the holiest and purest of natural ties. She had long been a member of the Third Order of S. Dominic, to whom from her childhood she had had a great devotion. To her previous vow of virginity she now added a vow of poverty, which, in the midst of abundance, she observed rigorously to the end of her life. Dr. Lautard, knowing her propensities, and suspecting rightly that, if her fortune were left completely in her own power, she would despoil herself of everything and leave herself without the means of subsistence, tied it up in annuities which could not be alienated. But while binding herself henceforth to the practice of the most rigid austerities, Amélie did not break off from her accustomed intercourse with her friends. She continued to receive them as hitherto in her father’s house. Dr. Lautard used to say that hospitality was a virtue which it behooved Christians living in the world to exercise towards each other, and he imbued Amélie with the same idea. Mindful of his precepts and example, she went on inviting her friends, and enjoyed having them with her, and surrounding them with attentions and seeing them well and hospitably served; at table she endeavored to disguise her own abstinence under a semblance of eating, or would sometimes apologize on the plea of her health, which had always been extremely delicate, for not setting them a good example.

Some rigid persons, unable to reconcile this frank and genial sociability with the crucifying life of penance and prayer and unremitting service of the poor and the sick which Amélie led, ventured to remonstrate with her on the subject. She replied with unruffled humility that it was a pleasure to her to continue to cultivate the friendships contracted for her and bequeathed to her by her father, and that she felt satisfied there was nothing wrong in her doing so, and that it did neither her nor them any harm; on the contrary, hospitality was often a means to her of doing good; a worldly man or woman who would fly from her if she approached them with a sermon, accepted an invitation to dinner without fear or _arrière‐ pensée_, thus enabling her to bring them under desirable influences in a way that awoke no suspicion and roused no antagonism, and often led to the most salutary results; a friendly dinner was, moreover, not unfrequently an opportunity of bringing people together and reconciling those who were at variance; in fact, Amélie pleaded so convincingly the cause of Christian hospitality as it was practised in the Rue Grignan, that the critics withdrew thoroughly converted and rather ashamed of their censoriousness. This thirst for doing good was, moreover, so unobtrusive and so free from anything like an assumption of superiority, that it was impossible to resent it; the tact and simplicity that accompanied all her efforts to benefit others prevented their ever being looked upon as indiscreet or meddling. She had a way of rousing your sympathies in a charitable scheme, or your indignation against some act of injustice or cruelty, and drawing you into assisting in the one or redressing the other without your suspecting that she had laid a trap for you; never preaching, never dictating, she had that rare grace, whose absence so often foils the most praiseworthy intentions, of doing good without being disagreeable. Her conversation was so sympathetic, and, owing to her mind being so abundantly stored by reading under her father’s direction, could be, when the opportunity occurred, so brilliant, that the most distinguished men delighted in it, and flocked to the Rue Grignan, counting it a privilege to be invited to its unpretending hospitalities. Amongst the many illustrious men who admired Amélie’s _esprit_ and virtues and who courted her co‐operation in their apostolic labors, one of the most prominent was the Père Lacordaire. The history of their first work in common deserves special record, not only because of its being associated with “the cowled orator of France,” but because it is peculiarly identified with the history of Provence, that land so dear to us all as the birthplace and cradle of the devotion to S. Joseph. “Beautiful Provence! It rose up in the west from your delightful land like the cloud of delicate almond blossoms that seems to float and shine between heaven and earth over your fields in spring. It rose from a confraternity in the white city of Avignon, and was cradled by the swift Rhone, that river of martyr‐ memories, that runs by Lyons, Orange, Vienne, and Arles, and flows into the same sea that laves the shores of Palestine. The land which the contemplative Magdalen had consecrated by her hermit life, and where the songs of Martha’s school of virgins had been heard praising God, and where Lazarus had worn a mitre instead of a grave‐cloth, it was there that he who was so marvellously Mary and Martha combined first received the glory of his devotion.” We all know the passage by heart, but we quote it not so much for its sweetness as because it so appropriately introduces the story of the work in question, viz., the restoration of the pilgrimage of Ste. Baume, a pilgrimage once so celebrated throughout Christendom, but of late years fallen into neglect and almost total oblivion. Tradition tells us the story of its origin, its growth, its glories, and its decay. Its origin dates from a little bark that eighteen centuries ago came floating down the sunny waters of the Nile and rode into the blue Mediterranean, freighted with a legacy from Palestine to France, bearing in its frail embrace none other than the family who had their dwelling on the shores of the Lake of Galilee, and whose names have come down to us with the halo of that simple and unrivalled title, “Friends of Jesus of Nazareth.” Villagers and the simple folk of the place welcomed the exiles more kindly, let us hope, than Bethlehem had welcomed the Virgin Mother and reputed father of their Friend some five‐and‐thirty years before; at any rate, Lazarus and his sisters remained in Provence. The people gathered round the dead man whom Jesus had wept over and raised to life, and hearkened to his teaching; he planted the cross upon their soil, and sowed the seeds of the Gospel in their hearts, and in return they thanked him as the Jews had thanked his Master, by putting him to death. Lazarus opened the first page of the martyrology of France. Martha on her side withdrew to Avignon, where, on the ruins of a pagan temple situated on the Rocher des Doms, she built a Christian church, and dwelt there in the midst of a school of virgins, teaching the Gospel. She died at an advanced age, venerated as a saint, and renowned as much for her sublime gift of eloquence and her bountiful hospitality as for the austere sanctity of her life. We are not told how far, if at all, Magdalen shared the apostleship of her brother in Marseilles; the only trace of her that remains in that city is an altar in the vaults of the Abbey of S. Victor. These vaults are like catacombs, and the most ancient monument of Christian faith that Marseilles possesses. The legend says that Magdalen, immediately on landing on the shores of Provence, took up her abode upon the rocky heights of Ste. Baume and lived there for thirty years, her life divided between agony and ecstasy, between tears that had never ceased to flow since that day when at Simon’s house she broke the alabaster vase over the feet of Jesus, and heard from his lips those words that have been the strength and the hope of sinners ever since: much had been forgiven her because she had loved much, and kept long vigils that were but a continuation of her faithful watch under the cross and at the door of the sepulchre. It seems strange, when we think of it, that she should have left the country where Jesus had lived and died, the home at Magdala that he had hallowed so often by his presence, and whose friendly hospitality had often been a rest and a comfort to him in his weary journeys round Jerusalem; that she should, above all, have torn herself from the companionship, or at least the neighborhood, of his Mother and the disciple whom he loved; for surely the one remaining solace of her purified passionate heart must have been to speak of her brother’s Friend and her own dear Saviour with those who had known and loved him best, to revisit the places he had frequented, the site of his miracles and his sufferings, and that hill of solemn and stupendous memories where she and they had stood together in a common agony of woe, hushing their breaths to catch the last throb of his sacred heart. But perhaps this voluntary exile from those beloved associations was the last sacrifice, the crowning act of renunciation, that Jesus asked of her before he bade her farewell? Perhaps he expressed a wish that she and Lazarus should be in a humble way to the West what Mary and S. John were to be to the East, and that they should forsake the land and the friends of their youth and go forth bearing the good news of his Gospel to France? He had raised her once to the rank of an apostle that morning after the resurrection, when he gave her a message to the disciples and bade her go and tell them and Peter that he was risen, and before ascending to his Father he may have told her once more to go and be the harbinger of his resurrection to disciples who knew him not and were yet dwelling in darkness. We shall one day know, please God, what her motive was, but meantime we may reverently conjecture that there was some such understanding between Our Lord and Magdalen which induced her to leave the country that was so full of the fragrance of his divine humanity, and where his Immaculate Mother still lingered in childless desolation. Magdalen came to Provence, and withdrew to a wild and barren spot, upon a mountain called, in memory no doubt of her first interview with Jesus, Ste. Baume; it rises above a valley that runs towards the Alps from the busy city of Marseilles. Here she dwelt in solitude, communing only with her Saviour, and shut away from cruel men who had crucified him. Many and beautiful are the legends grouped by the simple piety of the inhabitants around the lonely watcher of Ste. Baume; they tell you still in reverent and awestricken tones how seven times a day the saint was rapt into ecstasy, and carried from her cave in the mountain side to the summit of the mountain, and held there suspended between heaven and earth by angels, but seeing more of heaven than of earth, and hearing the music of the angelic choirs. The peasants show you, even in these unmystical days of ours, the precise spot of an abrupt sally of the mountain where the angels used to come every day at their appointed hours to commune with the penitent and lift her off the earth. For thirty years she lived here in penance and expectation, then the term of her exile closed, the day came when she was to be set free from the bondage of the flesh, and admitted once and for ever into the presence of her risen Lord. Perhaps Jesus himself whispered the glad tidings to her in prayer; or perhaps it was only the angels who were charged with the message; but anyhow, tradition tells us—and who dreams of doubting it?—that Magdalen knew by divine inspiration when the hour of her death was at hand, and that she was filled with a great longing to receive the body and blood of her Redeemer before entering his presence as her Judge. S. Maximin, who had been the companion of Lazarus and shared his labors and his pilgrimage, dwelt in the narrow plain which forms the base of the three adjoining mountains, Ste. Baume, St. Aurelian, and Ste. Victoire—Ste. Victoire under whose shadow Marius fought and defeated the Teutons and the Cimbrians. The dying penitent was unable to traverse herself the distance that separated her own wild solitude from the hermitage of S. Maximin, so the kindly angels came and performed a last office of love for the friend of their King, and bore her across the hills and the floods and the valleys to the oratory of the saint: he too had been warned, and was ready waiting for her. He heard her confession, pronounced again the words of pardon that had been spoken first to her contrite soul by Jesus himself, and gave her the holy communion. Then she died, and S. Maximin laid her in an alabaster tomb that stood ready prepared for her in his oratory. The piety of the faithful surrounded the tomb with enthusiastic reverence and devotion; pilgrims flocked from all parts of the world to venerate the remains of the queen of penitents, and to visit the grotto where she had lived and the oratory where she died. Cassian, the monk, who was himself a native of Marseilles, after graduating in the school of the Egyptian anchorites, returned to his native city, and raised the Abbey of S. Victor over the crypt where Lazarus slept. Ste. Baume and St. Maximin soon drew him with irresistible attraction; he founded two noble monasteries there, and he and his monks kept vigilant guard for a thousand years, from the IVth to the XIIIth century, over the ground where Magdalen had wept, and over the tomb where she rested. At the beginning of the VIIIth century, the Saracens invaded the fair land of Provence, and for nearly three hundred years it was a prey to their devastating fury. During this long period of invasion, the Cassianites, terrified lest the precious remains of Magdalen should be discovered by the enemy and desecrated, thought best to remove them from the place where they were known to be to one of greater secrecy and safety. They took the body, therefore, out of its famous alabaster tomb and laid it in the tomb of S. Sidonius, having previously translated elsewhere the relics of the holy bishop. With a view to future verification, the monks placed on the coffin an inscription testifying to the two translations, and narrating the manner of their accomplishment and the circumstances which led to it. The entrance to the crypt itself was then walled up with plaster, and overlaid further with a quantity of rubbish. But six centuries were to roll over the arid heights of St. Maximin before the entrance was to be broken open and the written testimony of the Cassianites invoked. When the wars of the Saracens were over, and men began to breathe in peace, and turn their thoughts once more to the worship of God and the veneration of his saints, the fact of the translation of the body of Magdalen from its original resting‐place to the sarcophagus of S. Sidonius had faded from their recollection; it was only repeated in a vague sort of way that the illustrious penitent had been removed to a place of safety, which was supposed to be at a distance; some local coincidences pointed to the Abbey of Vezelay as the spot which had been privileged to receive and shelter her. By degrees this belief took root in the public mind, and the stream of pilgrims began to flow once more and with renewed enthusiasm towards the venerable old Abbey of Burgundy; crusaders met there to invoke before starting for the defence of the Holy Sepulchre the protection of her whom the evangelists had handed down to us as the heroine of the Sepulchre; kings and prelates, warriors and poets, sinners and saints, flocked to the supposed tomb of Magdalen, “till,” in the words of a chronicler of the time, “it seemed as if all France were running to Vezelay.” God is slow to tell his secrets. It was not until the close of the XIIIth century that the illusion, which had evoked so much piety and so many manifestations of faith from Christendom, was dispelled, and the truth revealed. This is how it happened. We will translate from the Père Lacordaire, whose _Sainte Marie Madeleine_ has supplied us almost exclusively with the foregoing details:

“S. Louis had a nephew born of his brother, Charles of Anjou, King of Sicily, and Count of Provence. This nephew, who was likewise called Charles, and who on the death of his father became king of Sicily and the county of Provence, under the title of Charles II., had for S. Magdalen a tenderness which he inherited from his race, and which, though common to all the chivalry of France, attained in him the highest degree of ardor and sincerity. While he was still Prince of Salerno, God inspired him with a great desire to solve the mystery which for six centuries had hung over the grave of her whom he loved for the sake of Jesus Christ. He set out therefore to St. Maximin without any display, and accompanied only by a few gentlemen of his suite, and having interrogated the monks and the elders of the place, he caused the trenches of the old basilica of Cassian to be opened. On the 9th of December, 1279, after many efforts which up to that time had been fruitless, he stript himself of his chlamyde, took a pickaxe, and began to dig vigorously into the ground with the rest of the workmen. Presently they struck upon a tombstone. It was that of S. Sidonius, to the right of the crypt. The prince ordered the slab to be raised, and it was no sooner done than the perfume which exhaled from it announced to the beholders that the grace of God was nigh. He bent down for a moment, then caused the sepulchre to be closed, sealed it with his seal, and at once convoked the bishops of Provence to assist at the public recognition of the relics. Nine days later, on the 18th of December, in the presence of the archbishops of Arles and of Aix, and of many other prelates and gentlemen, the prince broke the seals which he had prefixed to the sarcophagus. The sarcophagus was opened, and the hand of the prince, in removing the dust which covered the bones, encountered something which, as soon as he touched it, broke with age in his fingers. It was a piece of cork from which fell a leaf of parchment covered with writing that was still legible. It bore what follows: ‘L’an de la Nativitè du Seigneur 710, le sixième jour du mois de Décembre, sous le règne d’Eudes, très pieux Roi des français, au temps des ravages de la perfide nation des Sarrasins, le corps de la très chère et venerable Marie Madeleine a été très secrètement et pendant la nuit transféré de son sépulchre d’albâtre dans celui‐ci, qui est de marbre et d’où l’on a retiré le corps de Sidoine, afin qu’il y soit plus caché et à l’abri de la dite perfide nation.’(223) A deed setting forth this inscription and the manner of its discovery was drawn up by the prince, the archbishops, and bishops present, and Charles in great joy, after placing his seals again upon the tomb, summoned for the fifth of May of the following year an assembly of prelates, counts, barons, knights, and magistrates of Provence and the neighboring counties to assist at the solemn translation of the relics which he had been instrumental in raising from the obscurity of a long series of ages.”

The news of the event was hailed with a shout of joy by all Christendom; kings and prelates vied with each other in doing honor to the new‐found treasure; gold and precious stones poured in in quantities to adorn the shrine which was destined to replace the alabaster tomb of S. Maximin. “When the appointed day arrived,” continues the Père Lacordaire, “the Prince of Salerno, in the presence of a vast and illustrious assembly, opened for the third time the monument which he had sealed, and of which the seals were certified to be intact. The skull of the saint was whole except for the lower jaw‐bone, which was wanting;(224) the tongue subsisted, dried up, but adhering to the palate; the limbs presented only bones stripped of the flesh; but a sweet perfume exhaled from the remains that were now restored to light and to the piety of souls.... The fact had already been made known of a sign altogether divine having been seen upon the forehead of Magdalen. This was a particle of soft, transparent flesh on the left temple, to the right, consequently, of the spectator; all those who beheld it, inspired at the same moment by a unanimous act of faith, cried out that it was there, on that very spot, that Jesus must have touched Magdalen when he said to her after the resurrection, _Noli me tangere!_ There was no proof of the fact, but what else could they think who beheld on that brow so palpable a trace of life which had triumphantly resisted thirteen centuries of the grave? Chance has no meaning for the Christian; and when he beholds Nature superseded in her laws, he ascends instinctively to the Supreme Cause—the Cause that never acts without a motive, and whose motives reveal themselves to hearts that do not reject the light.... Five centuries after this first translation, the _noli me tangere_, as that instinct of faith had irrevocably named it, subsisted still in the same place and with the same characters; the fact was authenticated by a deputation of the Cour des Comptes of Aix. It was not until the year 1780, on the eve of an epoch that was to spare no memory and no relic, that the miraculous particle detached itself from the skull; and even then the medical men who were called in by the highest authority in the county certified that the _noli me tangere_ had adhered to the forehead by the force of a vital principle which had survived there.”

The piety of Charles of Anjou raised a stately temple to the penitent of Bethany on the site of the oratory of S. Maximin. Boniface VIII., who had beheld with his own eyes the miraculous presence of the _noli me tangere_, endowed the basilica munificently, and authorized the king to transfer the custody of the relics from the Order of Cassianites, who had formerly held it, to that of the Sons of S. Dominic, since become renowned through the world under the name of _Frères prêcheurs_. A great number of popes visited the shrine, and every king of France held it a duty and a privilege to come to S. Maximin and Ste. Baume, and invoke the aid and protection of the saint; up to Louis XIV., hardly a sovereign neglected this public tribute of respect and devotion to her; but with the _Grand Monarque_ the procession of royal pilgrims came to an end. The red tide of revolution arose, and waged war against men’s faith, and destroyed its most touching manifestations and its noblest monuments. It broke, however, harmless, at the foot of S. Maximin. Not a stone of the grand old pile was touched, not an altar profaned, not even a picture stolen from the mouldy and unguarded walls; the most precious part of its treasure, the relics of Magdalen, which had been carefully concealed, were found intact, and duly authenticated as before. Ste. Baume was less fortunate; the storm that respected the tomb showed no mercy to the grotto which had witnessed Magdalen’s ecstatic communings with her Lord; the hospital, the convent, and the church adjoining it were completely destroyed; nothing remained but a barren rock and a portion of the neighboring forest. In 1822, a partial restoration was effected; the vast and massive monastery was replaced by a temporary building of the lightest and cheapest materials, little better than a lath and plaster shed, to keep the monks under cover; the grotto itself, once so sumptuously adorned by the piety of pilgrims, was left in a state of nakedness and neglect, its costly lamps once abundantly fed with aromatic oils were gone, their lights extinguished, like the faith that had kindled them. The church was rebuilt in the same superficial style as the convent, and solemnly reconsecrated in the presence of forty thousand souls assembled in the forest and down in the plain. But the material temple, great or small, is more easily rebuilt than the spiritual one; the temple of stone was raised up again, but where was the temple of the spirit which had animated it? Where was the architect who would rebuild this, who would collect the scattered fragments, and breathe upon the dead bones, and make them live, and bind them as of yore into a body of devout and simple‐hearted worshippers? Many, remembering the bygone glories of Ste. Baume, wished that a prophet would arise and work this wonder in Provence. Perhaps the wish took the form of a prayer in some loving hearts, and so brought about its accomplishment. The valiant‐hearted son of S. Dominic, the Père Lacordaire, was to be the prophet of their desires. He rose up and upbraided the people of Provence for their ingratitude to the memory of their illustrious patroness, and for their decayed faith, and exhorted them to stir up the dead embers of a devotion that had formerly been the edification and joy of Christendom to repair and beautify the deserted grotto of Mary Magdalen, and rekindle its lamps, and restore the pilgrimage of Ste. Baume in its ancient fervor. The work was one that appealed strongly to the sympathies of the Marseillese; but this was not enough to ensure its success. In order to make the sympathy effectual, the Père Lacordaire needed a helpmate who would go about amongst the people and put their good‐will into a practical form for him—some one who would second his exertions by docile and zealous and intelligent co‐operation. He looked around him, and his choice fell upon Amélie. He knew her, and thought she was of all others the person best suited to his purpose. It was no easy or pleasant task the setting on foot of a movement such as this; the preliminaries were sure to be full of difficulties, often of the sort that make self‐love wince and smart; there was plenty of ridicule in store, a goodly harvest of sneers and snubs to be garnered at the outset, rude opposition to be endured from those who had no faith at all, and chilling indifference from those who looked upon anything like a return to the forms and symbols of the middle ages as poetic enthusiasm not practicable in the XIXth century. It was just the kind of work to put the daughter of S. Dominic to. She did not disappoint the Père Lacordaire; but responded as promptly to the call as his own fiery spirit could have wished. It was in Amélie’s house that the eloquent Dominican inaugurated the _œuvre_ of S. Baume, and told the story of the great penitent’s life and death. From the salon in the Rue Grignan the burning words of the orator went forth to all Provence and stirred many hearts. A committee was soon formed for raising the necessary funds towards the restoration of the grotto as a preliminary to the reopening of the pilgrimage. The Père Lacordaire, as if the more prominently to record the services Amélie had rendered in the work so far, and to associate her name with its progress, desired that the meetings should be held at her house; and so they were, and continued to be regularly until she left Marseilles for Rome. She lived to see their joint labors crowned with success; the grotto assumed gradually something of its ancient beauty; an inn was built on the plain at the foot of the mountain for the accommodation of travellers who came from a distance, pilgrims were once more seen toiling in great numbers up the steep paths of the forest leading to the grotto, and filling the glade with the sound of canticles, and the feast of S. Magdalen, the 22d of July, was again celebrated with something of the pomp and fervor of olden times.

But events of this stirring and, so to speak, romantic interest were rare in Amélie’s life. Her path lay rather along the valleys than upon the heights above. The doors of the Rue Grignan were often open indeed to the wise and learned, and occasionally to the great ones of the earth; but the visits of these were few and far between compared to those of the poor and humble, who besieged it at all hours of the day and night. The poor looked upon it as a centre of their own, where they had a right to come at all times and seasons and make themselves at home. They did this at last so completely that Amélie was sometimes obliged to slip out by a back door in order to escape from their precious but pitiless importunity. But no importuning, however persistent or unseasonable, could ruffle her unalterable sweetness, or surprise her into a sharp answer or an abrupt ungraciousness of manner. Hers was the charity that is not easily provoked: it made her stern to self, but long‐suffering towards others, slow to see evil, softly forbearing to the weaknesses of all.

This home work was only an episode in her everyday labors. There was not a mission, or a hospital, or a refuge, or a good work of any sort in the town, that she had not to do with in one way or another. Just as we often hear it said of a woman of the world, “She is of every _fête_,” so it used to be said in Marseilles of Amélie, “She is of every charity.” One of the most venerable fathers of the Society of Jesus declared that it was chiefly to her zeal and intelligent exertions that the Jesuits owed the establishment of their mission at Marseilles. The Père de Magdalon looked upon her as his right hand; he enlisted her co‐operation in all his undertakings, and he used to say that it was to her he owed in a great measure the success of the Maison de Retraite of S. Barthélémy, the last work of his apostolate, and which he lived to see blessed with such abundant fruits. The _Filles de la Charité_ were long the special objects of her liberality and devoted exertions; then came the Sisters of Hope, whose services to the sick are so praiseworthy, and whose presence amongst them was hailed so gratefully by the Marseillese. When the _Petites Sœurs des Pauvres_ were in any difficulty, they looked to Amélie to help them out of it, and they speak with effusion still of the many proofs of generosity they received from her, and of her unfailing readiness to assist them whenever they appealed to her. She seemed to hire herself out as a beast of burden to do the work and the bidding of every one who wanted her. When there was a question of establishing the _Frères Prêcheurs_ at Marseilles, she multiplied herself tenfold. No obstacles could deter her in the service of the sons of her beloved S. Dominic; she found a house for them, and paid all the expenses of their installation. But whatever the work was that came under her hand, she did it, and as promptly and earnestly as if it were the one of all others she most delighted in; there was no exclusiveness, no narrowing of her sympathies to an _idée fixe_ either in piety or in charity; those who had the privilege of being her fellow‐laborers for many years declare they never once knew her charity to flag or fail to answer a fresh demand upon it; the supply was inexhaustible, and seemed to increase in proportion as it spent itself. Her health was wretched and kept her in almost constant physical pain; yet her activity was extraordinary, and, considering the chronic sufferings she had to contend with for the greater part of her life, the amount of work she contrived to get through may be regarded as little short of miraculous. She rose habitually at five, spent several hours in prayer, and assisted at the Holy Sacrifice before beginning the active duties of the day. These lay wherever there were sick to be tended, and sorrowing ones to be comforted, and sinners to be converted. She was a member of the Congregation of S. Elizabeth for visiting the hospitals, and gave a good deal of time to this work, for which she had a particular devotion. Her gentleness and singularly attractive manner fitted her especially for dealing with aching bodies and sorrowing hearts, and it was not a very rare thing to see Amélie succeed in melting the heart of some obdurate sinner with whom the entreaties and repeated efforts of the chaplain and the nuns had failed. The same sympathetic responsiveness that she threw into so many different good works marked her intercourse with individuals; those whom she was tending or consoling or advising always felt that for the time being they were the chief object of interest to her in life, and that she was giving her whole heart to them. She made this impression perhaps more especially on the poor, to whom the sympathy of those above them has such a charm and such a gift of consolation. An amusing instance of it occurred once in the case of an old woman whom Amélie had been nursing for some time; she put so much goodwill into all she did, and performed the offices of a sick‐nurse so affectionately, that the poor old soul believed she had inspired her with some unaccountable personal attachment; she returned it enthusiastically, and was never tired testifying her gratitude and love. One day, however, Amélie arrived in the poor little garret—tidy and clean, thanks to her—but, instead of being welcomed with the usual smiles and embraces, the old woman set her face like a flint, and preserved a sullen silence. For some time she obstinately refused to say what was amiss with her, but finally, shamed by the coaxing and evident distress of her nurse, she confessed that the day before she had had a bitter disappointment. “I thought,” she said, “that you loved me, but I find I was under a delusion; you don’t care a straw for me; they tell me you do for every sick body in the town just what you have been doing for me.” It was with great difficulty that Amélie was able to console her and obtain her forgiveness for being so universal in her charity.

But though her creed dealt in no exclusions, there were two classes of her fellow‐creatures who above the rest had a decided attraction for Amélie: these were prisoners and soldiers. She yearned towards the former with the true spirit of him who loved the publicans and sinners, who gave the first‐fruits of his death to one of them on Calvary, and who prayed for them all with his last breath, saying: “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do!” The wonders that Amélie worked in the gloomy cells of the Fort St. Nicholas, the sudden and admirable returns to God that she obtained from the condemned, are not to be counted; not by men, at least. Day after day she was to be found in the midst of them, teaching old men their catechism, comforting and exhorting all, preparing them for death, washing and dressing their sores, combing their hair, performing cheerfully and affectionately the most disgusting offices. Her labors in behalf of the troops are perhaps the most remarkable part of her life. She had for many years been very zealous in her endeavors to promote religious instruction amongst the soldiers, but her mission in this direction dates chiefly from the Crimean war. During this brilliant campaign, which brought so much glory and cost so much blood to the Allied armies, the thought of the sufferings of the soldiers in the trenches and on the battle‐fields filled Amélie’s heart to the momentary exclusion of all other interests and preoccupations. Her whole time was spent working for them, and begging and praying for them. She inspired all who came near her with something of her own ardor and tenderness in the cause. She set up societies among her friends for making clothes and lint for the sufferers, and for collecting money to procure all that could comfort and alleviate them. Her efforts were crowned with abundant success. Now, as on many other occasions, money flowed in to her from all sides, sometimes from strangers at a distance, for the fame of her charity had spread much further than the humble daughter of S. Dominic herself suspected, and many benevolent people who wished to give, and knew not how to apply their offerings, sent them to her, satisfied that they would be well and wisely employed. The way in which large sums of money sometimes dropped into her lap, as it were from the sky, at some opportune moment when she was in dire want of it for some case of distress, led many of her humble _protégés_ to believe that it came to her miraculously. But, while mindful of their bodies, Amélie’s first solicitude was for the souls of the brave fellows who were going out to face death in the service of their country; while working so hard to procure all that could heal and solace their temporal sufferings, she was laboring still more assiduously in behalf of their spiritual interests. Nor did her efforts confine themselves exclusively to the soldiers, they extended to the officers as well, and much more difficult she often found them to manage than the rough‐and‐ ready men under their command. Many a droll story is still told at Marseilles of the tricks by which they sometimes evaded her attempts to catch them in her zealous toils and make them remember that they had another enemy to fight and to conquer besides the soldiers of Holy Russia. Once two young officers of good family and fortune, whose lives were not the most edifying to the community, were pointed out to Amélie by one of their brother officers, a fervent Catholic, as fitting subjects for her zeal. He undertook to bring them to the Rue Grignan under the pretence of introducing them to an old and charming friend of his, if Amélie would promise to try and convert them. She promised of course to _try_, and the two scapegraces made their appearance, never suspecting that a trap had been laid for them. The conversation dwelt upon the great topic of the day, the war, Amélie carefully avoiding the most distant allusion to the spiritual condition of her visitors. The young men were charmed with her affability and _esprit_, and, when she asked them to return with their friend in a few days and dine with her, they accepted her invitation with delight. During dinner their hostess alluded to the numerous pilgrimages that were being performed every day to Notre Dame de Garde; few of the soldiers or sailors started for the Crimea from Marseilles without climbing up the hill to salute Our Lady and ask her blessing on their arms. The young men confessed that they had never made the pilgrimage and evinced little admiration for their more devout comrades; Amélie seemed surprised, but not at all scandalized, at the frank admission, and proposed that they should both make the pilgrimage next morning and hear Mass there with her at eight o’clock. They assented with ready courtesy, inwardly treating the expedition as a harmless joke, and took leave of their hostess, very much delighted with her, and not much terrified by the salutary projects that might be lurking in her breast with regard to the morrow. They were at the bottom of the hill punctually at half‐past seven, and toiled up to the church, where they expected to see Amélie already on the lookout for them. But they looked round the church and saw no sight of her. Taking for granted that she was not there, and that something had interfered to prevent her keeping the appointment, they took themselves off with the comfortable feeling of having done their duty, and behaved like gentlemen, and come safe out of it. The morning was raw and cold, and they were both tired after the long pull uphill, so on their way down they turned into a little dairy where hungry pilgrims were comforting themselves with cups of coffee. There was a good fire in the place, and they sat down to enjoy it, and dawdled a good while over their hot coffee, wondering what kind trick of Fortune had prevented the enemy from appearing in the field; when lo! looking up suddenly, they beheld the truant peering in at them through the window. The pair started as if they had seen a ghost. But Amélie knew human nature too well to press her advantage at such a moment; she smiled, shook her finger threateningly, and went her way down the hill, leaving the two young men less triumphant than she had found them, and very anxious to clear themselves of having broken their word to a lady, and eager to redeem it a second time if Amélie desired. She did desire it, and it was not long before one of the two blessed her for having done so. He was ordered off with his regiment soon after, and before setting sail ascended once more to the shrine of Notre Dame de Garde in a different spirit and with a very different purpose.

Her intercourse with the troops during this period gave Amélie an insight into the deplorable ignorance in matters of faith that existed in the majority of them, and the absence of all religious instruction in the army; it filled her with surprise and grief, and she determined to set to work and bring about a change in both.

Reforms are proverbially difficult, and in any branch of the public service pre‐eminently so. But difficulties only stimulate strong hearts to more strenuous efforts. Amélie was, owing to her high intelligence, her well‐known virtue, and her widespread relations, better calculated than most people perhaps to succeed in the undertaking; besides, whatever the obstacles were, she never reckoned with human means when God’s work was to be done; she called him to the rescue, and left the issue in his hands. It would be impossible to recount all she did and suffered in this most arduous undertaking, the journeys she took, the petitions she drew up, the letters she wrote, the disappointments and antagonism that attended it in the beginning, and the physical and moral fatigue that it involved all through. The frequent and successive journeys of eighteen hours to Paris and the same back would have been a serious trial of strength to a strong person; but to Amélie, whose health was extremely delicate, and who hardly ever knew the sensation of being without pain, most frequently acute and intense pain, the wear and tear of those journeys in the sultry heat of summer and the bitter cold of winter alike must have been terrible. But she made small account of her body, she drove it on like a beast of burden, goading it with the ardor of her spirit, and never gave in to its lamentations until it positively refused to go on. Her own shortcomings were, however, the lightest portion of her difficulties. She had obstacles to overcome on every side, especially in quarters where it was most essential for her to find approval and assistance. Silvio Pellico said it was easier to traverse a battle‐field than the antechamber of a king, and the same may be said most likely of the antechamber of a minister. At least Amélie found it so. Many a brave spirit might well have given up in despair before the contemptuous rudeness and petty opposition of small functionaries, and the inaccessible coldness of great ones, and the disheartening predictions of well‐wishers who had gone through similar experiences, and knew what it was to want anything, even in the natural course of things, done at the War Office; but Amélie’s courage never flagged for a moment. By degrees her perseverance began to meet with some signs of success. It was known that one military man in high repute supported her views, and was doing his best to enable her to carry them out; this converted others. Several who had in the first instance treated her project as impracticable, or unnecessary, or simply absurd, one after another came over to her; it was not always because she convinced them, but she won them; they might resist her arguments, but it was impossible to come often in contact with her without feeling the contagion of her earnestness and sincerity of purpose. Her labors were finally crowned with abundant success. She obtained all the concessions she asked, and every facility for carrying them out and improving the spiritual condition of the soldiers. One of her chief anxieties had been for the condemned prisoners in the Fort St. Nicholas. She obtained permission for one of the dungeons to be turned into a chapel there, and it was henceforth her delight to go there on the great feasts and decorate the altar, and make it gay with lights and flowers for the captives. A chaplain was appointed to the fort, and he was allowed every facility for the exercise of his ministry.

The little _enfants de troupe_ whose youth recommended them to Amélie’s solicitude were provided with the needful means of religious instruction by the establishment of a school, over which she herself presided from time to time, cheering on the pupils by good advice, and occasional presents to the most industrious and deserving. General de Courtigis, who commanded the garrison for many years at Marseilles, and left behind him a memory respected by all good men, had been from the first a staunch ally of Amélie’s in her endeavors to introduce a Christian spirit amongst both the officers and men. At her suggestion he organized a military Mass every Sunday at the Church of S. Charles, and there a great number of men, with the general at their head, assisted regularly at the Holy Sacrifice. It was a great treat to Amélie, whenever she could find time, to go and assist at it with them. She enjoyed the martial appearance and reverent bearing of the soldiers with a sort of motherly pride, and the sharp word of command, and the clanking of the bayonets when they presented arms at the solemn moment of consecration, used to send a thrill of emotion through her frame that often melted her to tears.

“Oh!” she was heard once to exclaim, on coming out of S. Charles’, “what a grand and consoling spectacle it is, to see our soldiers publicly worshipping God! One feels that they must be invincible in battle when they set out with the blessing of God on their arms.”

The troops, on their side, repaid her interest in them by the most enthusiastic affection. They used to call her _notre mère_ amongst themselves, and it delighted Amélie to hear a grizzly old veteran address her by this familiar name. Sometimes the brave fellows’ gratitude expressed itself in a way that was rather trying to their adopted mother. A regiment which had been quartered at Marseilles, and received many proofs of zeal and kindness from Amélie during its stay there, happened to hear, when passing through Lyons some years later, that she was stopping there. They started off at once in full force, and gave her a military serenade under her windows. Amélie, of course, showed herself at the window, and acknowledged the honor, but this did not satisfy the soldiers: nothing would do them but she should come out and shake hands with every man in the regiment.

Much as Amélie shrank from public notice or praise, her humility could not prevent her extraordinary exertions in behalf of the troops, and the success which had attended them, from shining out before men. The nature of the undertaking had necessarily brought her in contact with the most influential military men of the day, both at Marseilles and in Paris. These gentlemen had ample opportunity to appreciate her character and judge of the value of her services; and though so many had opposed her in the beginning, when they saw her labors triumphant, success raised her so highly in their estimation that they thought it would be becoming to offer a public tribute of their esteem and gratitude by decorating her with the Cross of the Legion of Honor. Accordingly, a letter was despatched one day from the War Office, informing the quiet, unpretending friend of the poor soldier that the government, to testify their approval of her conduct, invested her with the most honorable mark of distinction it was in their power to bestow. Amélie received the announcement at first as a joke. The idea of her going about the world with the Cross or the red ribbon fastened to her black gown, and being greeted with the military salute and presented arms to whenever the symbol caught the eye of a soldier or a sentry, while she threaded her way through the busy streets of Marseilles, struck her as so altogether comical that she could only laugh at it. But neither the authorities nor her friends saw any laughing matter in it; the latter combated her refusal so strongly that Amélie was perplexed; she knew not how to reconcile her deference to their wishes with what appeared to her little short of an act of treason to Christian humility and common sense; they argued that, by accepting the Cross, she would excite a good feeling in the minds of many towards the government, a result which in those turbulent and antagonistic times was always desirable, and, in the next place, it would invest her with a half‐official position in certain circumstances that she might find very useful to others in her relations with minor functionaries. This last consideration had some weight with Amélie; she turned it to account, though not in the way her friends desired. She wrote to the minister, declining gratefully an honor which she did not feel qualified to accept, but requested that he would reward what he was pleased to call her services by granting her a _droit de grace_. This would entitle her to present petitions for a commutation of sentence in case of military prisoners, and even on certain specified occasions to commute the sentence herself. The privilege was granted at once, and, if ever virtue had a sweet reward in this world, it was when Amélie exercised it for the first time in favor of one of the captives of Fort St. Nicholas. Her friends rejoiced with her, and almost forgave her for refusing the sterile honor of the Cross of the Legion of Honor. They never knew, so carefully did her humility keep its secret, that the government, when granting her the _droit de grace_, exacted as a condition that she should submit to become a member of the Legion of Honor. It was years after that a friend, who had heard something in high quarters which aroused his suspicions, and who was intimate enough with Amélie to take the liberty of catechising her on the subject, asked point‐blank if she was decorated, and under promise of secrecy learned the truth.

To Be Concluded In Our Next.

The Progressionists.

From The German Of Conrad Von Bolanden.