The Cosmopolitan 1887-04: Vol 3 Iss 2

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THE COSMOPOLITAN. APRIL, 1887. THE BARON VON GOLDSTETTEN. By C. VAN NIEVELT. PART ONE. OVERED with snow, and broken down with fatigue, I knocked at the door of the hospice of the Grimsel which was already closed for the night. It was about the mid- dle of October, and the night was falling rapidly. : ‘Just in time,’’ says the host, helping me to strip off my wet clothing. ‘‘ Where do you come from ?”’ “From Meiringen. I hoped to pass to- day at Maienwand, but the snow prevented me from walking fast. And now it is too late to continue the journey, eh ?”’ “Tt would be impossible. The snow is falling like a perfect avalanche ; the road is impracticable already ; it would bedangerous at night, even with a guide. You ought to thank Heaven that this old barrack still exists.”’ “Certainly ! It is in weather like this that one recognizes the value of your hospice. Are there any other strangers ?”’ ‘Not one. You are probably the last. To- morrow we close up for the winter.”’ ‘What? If Ihad arrived here to-morrow in storm and snow, I would have found nothing ?”’ ‘No, but you would have tocontent your- self with our winter establishment. A straw bed, the simple fare of the keeper of the house, the telegraph office closed, no read- ing-room, the shutters to—in a word, a littl Siberia.”’ 4 “Ah, well! To-day make good cheer for the last time. Show me the menu. And, if your business permits, my good host, you will have, perhaps, no objection to keep me company in emptying a bottle of wine. The evening is long, and solitude engenders melancholy.”’ The menu was very meager, so that that of the winter could not help being frugal indeed. I doubt even if there was a pot to boil the victuals. However, the wine arrived . in good season, and my Amphytrion seemed very well disposed to try a taste of it. Scarcely were we seated comfortably before the roaring fire, when another hand knock- ing at the door caused the wide corridor to resound. ‘* Par Dieu !"’ cried the host, ‘‘ who can be there again? Another stranger?’ And he started up to receive the new arrival. A moment afterwards a personage ap- peared in the hall, the stature and age of whom I was unable to discern at first, for he was wrapped to the ears in shawls and plaids, although he had removed his hat and cloak, which were covered with snow. Standing near the door, and turning his back on me, he spoke to the host in a low voice. I must have been the subject of the conversation, for from time to time he turned his head ever so little to cast a furtive glance in my direction. Then he ordered several dishes; but the host answered that to his great regret there were no longer any provisions in the hospice, and when finally exasperated, he demanded what he could get, the laconic response was made, as in my case: “Ham and eggs, and potatoes.’’ ‘*Well,’’ he exclaimed in a tone of ill-

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7O humor, preparing to retire to his room, ‘‘Fetch the ham and eggs. And can I at least get something passable to drink ?”’ ‘“Yes, monsieur, no fear!’’ asseverated the host. ‘‘If the provisions begin to be scarce, our cellar is still very well furnished. My present bill of fare, I know, bears a strong resemblance to the prospectus of a new stock company, but the wine-carte is authentic from the Affenthaler to the Veuve Cliquot. I beg you, sir, put it to the proof.’’ The stranger returned to the hall in about half an hour. His first act was to follow my example and to inscribe his name in the stranger’s book. He wrote rapidly, then drew up to the fire, spread his legs, lifted the skirts of his coat, and warmed his back, humming the last waltz from Strauss. While pacing up and down waiting for my dinner, I could read very easily his firm and beautiful signature : ‘‘A. baron von Gold- stetten, banker, Frankfort-am-Main.’’ At the same time I examined furtively, by the feeble light of a kerosene lamp, the individ- ual that bore this title. He was of medium size, slight, with shoulders a little too high. His face be- trayed at the first glance—more than the name and profession—his Jewish origin. His manners were in full harmony with the lineaments of his face; each instant he changed position, resting now on the right foot and now on the left. He stopped sing- ing soon, then began again. He took his portfolio from his pocket, and put himself to arranging his papers, to pocket them again two minutes after. In a word, he had the busy and nervous manners of the Semitic race, which form so great a contrast to the calm and grave methods of the Ishmaelites, their near relatives. I was able to observe him more at my ease when, our frugal meal having been served, we sat underthe lamp, v7s-d-vis. He did not seem yet to have reached his fortieth year, although the numerous wrinkles between his eyebrows and at the corners of his eyes, and his hair and beard sprinkled with gray, made him look older. It is impossible to say that his face was absolutely handsome, for it lacked the expression of virility, the frank look, the lineaments clearly defined and at the same time soft, that attest strength of character and nobility of soul. But he possessed in the highest degree that peculiar THE COSMOPOLITAN. beauty that may be called the beauty of in- telligence. His high but narrow forehead, shaded with dark and curling hair, the perfect oval of the cheeks of a pale, yellowish color, the pointed chin, the lips fine and mobile, the strangely marked aquiline nose, and the dark eyes, now veiled, now sparkling—in short, his entire physiognomy was a product of our present civilization, which, destitute of principle, yet full of sensibility, gives birth (especially among the sons of Abra- ham) to cosmopolitan natures, complex, sensual, egotistical, such as are in sym- pathetic harmony with the multiple and often contradictory instincts of our time. The conversation of the Baron von Gold- stetten confirmed what his title lead me to assume ; that is to say, that he belonged to the aristocracy of his people, and that he possessed all of their characteristic traits : a haughty familiarity, a frankness allied to suspicion, refinement, effrontery, and calcu- lated finesse. After a few minutes we began to converse ; first hesitatingly, with long pauses, like persons trying to read each other’s char- ,acter ; then the conversation became freer and more flowing. We were alone. Our host having judged his company superfluous had retired, after having uncorked a bottle of Chablis for my companion. As to the half-sleeping waiter, thinking his attentions not sufficiently appreciated, he had taken himself off alsp. The storm howled with- out. The two men, escaped from the fury of the tempest, could not help appreciating their harbor of refuge, and feeling the need of communicating to each other their im- pressions on this subject. . ‘A veritable peasant’s repast,’’ began the baron. At the same time he smelled at the ham suspiciously, and pushed away the fried potatoes, contenting himself with theeggs. ‘*T thought one could find comfortable quarters here,’’ he said. ‘‘A good appetite is the best relish,’’ I answered, blushing foolishly at the avidity with which I cast myself on my meager fare. ‘I thought I was hungry too,”’ he replied, lighting a cigar and pouring out another glass of wine, ‘‘ but it seems it was only a delusion. Perhaps, too, this nourishment is too primitive for my stomach, however

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THE BARON VON GOLDSTETTEN. 71 famished it might be. If I had known it, I would have had my servant bring along a lunch from Meiringen. Accursed be Bae- deker not to have informed me of what I should find to eat in this rookery !”’ This epicureanism, this gasconade about the servant, this display of bad taste, dis- pleased me very much. He noticed it, and added quickly : ‘‘ When a man is suffering from dyspepsia it is hard to please him in the way of food. Luckily for me, a glass of good wine can sometimes replace a dinner. And the grape of this Chablis must really have ripened on the sunny hills of Burgundy. Will you permit me to offer you a glass? A cigar also. Do you smoke ?”’’ And he presented a case well filled with cigars. ‘‘A thousand thanks. This small wine of the country is very satisfactory ; and after dinner I prefer my pipe and my Dutch tobacco to every thing else.’’ He looked at me in much astonishment, like a man unaccustomed to see his wine and his puros- disdained. But @ propos of my pretended predilection for the Porto Rico of Reyanaan, he began immediately to speak of Holland, where he had relatives noted in the world of science and finance, of which he spoke with an intimate knowledge surprising in a foreigner. I communicated to him my astonishment. “One would say that you had passed a good part of your life in Holland. A Ger- man rarely knows so well how to appreciate the good and bad qualities, the manners and the institutions, of the little nation at the mouth of the Rhine.’’ He smiled bitterly. ‘““A German!’’ he repeated. ‘‘ You call meaGerman. I have no objection, though Ido not aspire to appropriate to myself this title that many refuse me. I am German, it is true, by birth and early education. But Ihave been just as much (on the contrary) Dutch during my sojourn in Holland, Eng- lish during my years of apprenticeship in London, Russian at St. Petersburg, French at Paris, Belgian at Brussels, and Spanish at Madrid. A citizen everywhere, a citizen no- where! Name me, if youcan, acity of Europe —a large city—where I have not been !”” This challenge, a little bitter, a little touched with braggadocio, must have been partly supported by fact. I saw this when he began to talk in a very entertaining manner of his various voyages; his recitals, his anecdotes, showed a rare acquaintance with all countries and places. One saw in him a man, who, not confining himself to the names of hotels and theaters, and to the secrets of fables d’héte, had sought to pene- trate under the surface of things, and had succeeded in seizing the romantic side of what he had observed. What struck me the most in his manner of speaking was an absolute absence of na- tional predilection. No one people of Europe appeared to interest him more than another; he considered the entire world like a vast field for financial enterprise, endowed a little everywhere with the same fertility. But, however, as I have said already, he showed himself susceptible of certain im- pressions, and possessed at the same time the faculty of appreciating the beautiful in life, and of enjoying it. Yet the beauties of nature were indifferent to him ; he scarcely spoke of the magnificent countries through which he must have wandered ; but he did not conceal from me his passion for music and the arts ; he cited his favorite poets with taste and enthusiasm, and became warm in his discussion ef certain social questions. And finally, what gave to his conversation a dramatic vivacity, and lent at the same time to his person the fascination of something profound and enigmatic, was the efferves- cence of his spirit, passing sometimes from a cynical gaiety to a sadness and inquietude that he could not conceal, and that he com- batted in vain with his mocking philosophy. ‘*T have passed in travel,’’ said he, ‘‘the larger half of my thirty-eight years. When I think of my voyages, I see defile before me scenes, faces, meetings, vexations. But little adventure, and almost nothing strange ! The total impression is, leaving out the di- versity of embellishment, an awful monot- ony in European life. Perhaps one would find some stir of emotion in the mountains of Montenegro, or among the Corsicans, those devotees of the Vendetta. But go from Archangel to Cadiz, and from Glasgow to Athens, and you will find the same ordinary humdrum: waking in the morning and breakfasting, striving to gain a little money, dining, seeking some kind of amusement, and going to bed. Looking at things in

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72 THE COSMOPOLITAN. this light, I cannot say that I travel for amusement. Traveling has become for me, however, a natural necessity. I am un- married. I have my bank at Frankfort—a bank—ah ! who does not know the bank of Goldstetten & Co.? I have there my offices, my villa, my carriages, my pictures, my box at the opera, my friends—what prince of royal blood can boast of having greater advantages? But that does not content me. After two weeks I can stand it nolonger. I must take up again my pilgrim’s staff, and put myself ex voute. To go whither? It makes no difference, so that I am in motion, I feel myself goaded, spurred, whipped. Onward, onward ever! Everywhere in the world, around the world! No repose, no- where to feel at home! Forward without purpose, to goI know not whither! Farther, farther still, even to eternity !”’ ‘ He had raised his voice gradually, his features became terribly contracted, he beat the air with his closed hands ; despair, fear, frightful consternation, shone in his widely opened eyes ; and at the same time his linea- ments took an expression strange and old, so that his wrinkled visage seemed suddenly like that of an aged man of eighty years, whose hair alone remained young. At the same instant he commanded himself with an effort, shook his head, pressed his arms against his breast, passed his hands over his face, and, after having emptied his glass in one drapght, resumed ina tone of affected gaiety : ‘* And now we must amuse ourselves here by dying of hunger like bears in their cave. In the name of all that is silly, M. Mueller, what decided you to pass the night in the hospice of the Grimsel at this season of the year ?”’ ‘* A caprice,’’ I answered, a little confused, for he was watching me with strong curi- osity. ‘‘ A caprice. My business calls me to Geneva, and I could not resist the desire to take a look in the beginning of winter at those Alps that I have traversed so many times in the middle of summer. If the snow had not interfered I should have continued my route by way of Maienwand, so as to descend to-morrow the Valley of the Rhone as far as the first railroad station. But now, Baron, I must ask you in my turn what can have brought you on this inhospitable route ?”’ ‘*Me, eh? Let us say another caprice. Two notional men, having the same notion ! Yours is clearly a poetic character; none but poets would prefer a journey afoot from Amsterdam to Geneva, through this snowy Tartarus, to a comfortable passage by rail, via Bale-Berne-Lausanne. As to my mo- tive, if that can interest you. Permit me! Did you not just say that you were here be- fore ?’’ ‘*Ves, I have visited the Grimsel more than once, as well as this melancholy hospice.”’ ‘*Melancholy! oh, yes, very melan- choly,’’ interrupted the baron. ‘I am here for the first time, and the snow has shut off the view. But, however, I thought I rec- ognized through the whirling snow, on that barren rock, one of the most startling illus- trations of Dante’s Inferno by Doré. B-r-r-r. What an uproar in the chimney! The weather must beawful! If they would bring us another light— The darkness in this gloomy apartment— Come, M. Mueller, absolutely, you must help me to empty this bottle. Let that sour liquid of yours alone ; I don’t like tolook at it. Why waste com- pliments? Tell me, is there nota little lake near here ?”’ ‘‘ Ves, behind the house, the little lake of Grimsel, formed, according to the legend, from the tears shed by the Wandering Jew.”’ ‘“You hesitate. Why? Goon! Iama Jew, of course ; every body knowsit. But I do not belong to those children of Israel : who blush for their nation.’’ ‘Well, formed from the tears shed by Ahasuerus.”’ ‘‘Ah! The legend ?’’ repeated the baron, in atoneless voice and with an expression of vivid interest; ‘‘the legend! Is there one really ? Do you know it? Please tell it, then. I wish to hear it. My caprice, do you know! My journey is singularly con- nected with that story. Tell it !’’ Here is the story that I told for his edifica- tion : ‘‘When Ahasuerus in his wandering (a little while after his curse) was passing over the Alps for the first time, he chose the route of the Grimsel. The Rhone and the Aar, free even to their sources as they spring from the flanks of the mountain, were flowing rapidly; and, just as to-day on the smiling banks of the Rhine, there lived along those new-born

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THE BARON VON GOLDSTETTEN. 73 streams a happy people. On the sunny slopes flourished the vine ; the oak and the beech felt their foliage softly agitated by gentle winds, and multitudes of birds made the dense woods resound with their songs. Thriving villages were everywhere to be seen, half-hidden in orchards. The inhab- itants were hospitable. Wherever the un- happy traveler knocked at the door, he was received with open arms, and invited to re- fresh himself with the wine the hills pro- duced so abundantly. But he was not per- mitted to stay in this delightful country. He had to continue his eternal journey to- wards the north. ‘Several years had passed, and for the second time he who never had any rest found himself on the southern side of the Alps. He called to mind the happy people that formerly he had met with in the middle of the mountain, the cordiality. with which they had received and refreshed him, and the beauty of the valleys through which he had wandered. ‘Once more,’ thought he, ‘I would like to ease my sorrow by a view of that charming country!’ But a somber presentiment oppressed his breast while ascending the Maienwand. Thick mists hid from his eyes the surrounding landscape. ‘When he arrived at the summit of the mountain, the clouds were suddenly dis- sipated by a violent gust of wind from the side of the Valley of Hasli. He looked about him, and believed that he had gone astray. Dark pines covered the precipitous flanks of the mountain, and creaked under the stress of the tempest that lashed their lofty tops. Ravens with their hoarse voices, and owls fleeing the light, accompanied with their croakings the howling of the tempest in the somber crevasses. He sought a human habitation, for along time in vain. At last he found some scattered hovels. The char- coal-burners who inhabited them—well dis- posed men, but taciturn and stern—gave him what they possessed themselves — black bread and sour beer made from the seeds of the pine. “And once again after centuries the Wandering Jew took the same road into the mountains. The path, formerly well worn, was now covered with the debris of rocks. Neither the song of birds nor the croak of the raven struck his ear. Everywhere the Silence of death ; no sound save the cry of the timid marmot. The slopes, formerly covered with vines, were at present covered with snow ; the wide ravines were filled with glaciers, and above this dismal and savage region soared upward in their inaccessible majesty the peaks, beaten by the icy wind. And Ahasuerus did not see a single trace of living beings. The accursed man was the sole creature of his species in this place, which seemed accursed like himself. ‘*He seated himself on a stone ina hollow, where rocks environed him on all sides. And he wept. And his tears flowed a long time ; and when he arose, relieved, to de- scend into the Valley of Hasli, and seek more habitable regions, his tears had formed a little lake. The water of this lake has re- mained warm like the first tears of Ahasuerus, in spite of the glaciers that surround it. And he prophesied that he would return to the Grimsel a fourth time ; and thena single glacier would cover all that yet remained of fertile field and green meadow between the Lake of Brienz and the highlands of Valais. He would then make his pilgrimage on per- petual snow to seek the place where he would at last find what is denied him here below— rest—rest for his worn-out body.”’ I ceased. My companion had listened with attention. ‘It is so,’’ said he slowly. ‘‘ Your story, monsieur, agrees perfectly with mine; prob- ably we have imbibed it at the same source. To tell you the truth, it is only a short time ago that I first became accidentally acquaint- ed with this legend, and it interested me so much, struck me so, that I immediately put myself ex route to seek out and fathom its meaning in the place itself. But you are pale, agitated ; what is the matter ?”’ ‘‘Nothing; but in this legend there is so much melancholy, a sadness so profound, something so human, that I am always af- fected by it, however never so much as at thishour. Why? Because my eye followed Ahasuerus in these savage places ; because I could see the poor man dragging himself through thesnow toward that door that dared not open for him ; see him fall fainting on the border of the lake and weep, weep, sob- bing on the bare face of the rocks that were more compassionate than God, who had condemned him to an infinity of insupport- able misery. Pardon my emotion.’’ ‘*Pardon you!’ hecried. “If you knew

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74 THE COSMOPOLITAN. how I sympathize with you— is only a legend.”’ ‘Of course !” ‘*T mean the last prophecy has not been accomplished.’’ ‘*T do not understand.”’ ‘Well! Does the ice cover to-day the Valley of Hasli as far as the Lake of Brienz?’’ ‘‘On the contrary, the glaciers have re- treated considerably in the last few years, here as elsewhere.’’ ‘Then I repeat, the prophecy was false. For to-day Ahasuerus has returned to the Grimsel for the fourth time.’’ ‘* How ?”” ‘*Listen!: We are alone. The solitude, the late hour, the elements let loose around us, and something in you—in you who do not know me, but who seem to sympathize with the personage of the legend and with me—all this urges me to give you my con- fidence. Iam Ahasuerus !’’ He spoke these words quite low, bending toward me, but immediately he resumed the erect position. I remarked for the second time the horrible wrinkles of unnatural age on his face ; his form swayed, his eyes glit- tered with somber fire, his head fell on his breast, and softly, while emphasizing each syllable, he repeated : ‘Tam Ahasuerus.”’ In life so many kinds and degrees of in- sanity are met with, one sometimes doubts if there is any one in the world (not except- ing himself) whose brain is perfectly in order. Is it not true that each one of us finds at some time in a hidden corner of his spirit the germ of a passion, of an emotion, of a hallucination, which might, by increas- ing, overcome his reason? A sad question, whose solution must be sought for some- where else, and that I introduce solely to ex- plain why Idid not at once take the baron von Goldstetten for a madman escaped from an insane-asylum. I did not doubt for an instant, even after his strange declaration, that this man was endowed with much good sense and knowledge. He might have a lesion of the brain, be the victim of a dis- ordered passion, be the prey of a fancy or of a hallucination that had mastered him for a moment through the influence of our con- versation, and of the place where we were. But he had not lost his reason; that was But yet, this evident. His conduct was strange, all the same, very strange. He Ahasuerus? It was true his name be- gan withan A. Why could not his name be Ahasuerus as well as Abraham! But the Ahasuerus of whom we were speaking—the ancient, the eternal, the shoemaker dwelling of old on the road to Golgotha—what con- nection could there be between him and this king of the stock exchange, this Frankfort exquisite? What an impossible pretext he had invented to account for his unforeseen arrival at this out-of-the-way hospice! And what a contradiction between the serious poetry of his explanation and his affected disdain of the dishes that were offered him, his rhodomontade about his wealth ; finally, the levity, the sarcasm, the worldly cynicism of his discourse! On the other hand, why had he undertaken this winter journey to the Grimsel, that could not offer many charms either to his effeminate body or to his tastes cultivated under the stimulus of a voluptuous manner of living? The con- tractions of his face, his accesses of bitter melancholy, his profound emotion while telling me his secret, as well as certain al- lusions to his restless and wandering habits of life—all seemed to me a problem, an enigma. After having given utterance a second time to his strange confidence, the baron put aside his chair, took his hat, paced up and down the room with rapid strides, and then, turning toward me and trying to smile, he said : ‘*You will excuse me, monsieur ; I suffer sometimes from certain hallucinations when I am very much fatigued. The journey, the exaltation, have over-excited my nerves. I am going to try tosleep a little.”’ With these words he retired to his cham- ber, and I soon followed his example, hav- ing nothing better to do. But I could not sleep. It was partly owing to my excited imagination, and also because of my companion’s restlessness. Those who have passed the night at the hospice of the Grimsel know that the bed- rooms, arranged in a very primitive manner, are separated only by very thin wooden partitions, so that all that is said or done in one room can be heard distinctly in the others. Von Goldstetten’s apartment was divided from mine by an empty cell. The

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THE BARON VON GOLDSTETTEN. 75 result was that I heard in spite of myself (but I confess, not without curiosity) the con- versation held between him and another in- dividual, probably his valet de chambre ‘‘Has the guide been informed ?’’ asked the voice of the baron. ‘‘ Not yet,’’ was the answer. ‘‘Go, then, and tell him that I wish to de- part to-morrow at day-break. At what time does the sun rise at present ?”’ ‘* Atabout six o’clock, Herr Baron.”’ “All right. Tell him to wake you pre- cisely at five. You will then knock at my door, but gently ; do you understand ?—with- out making a noise to wake the other stranger. The waiter is to have my coffee ready, and see to it that the baggage is in order. Idonot want to have to waita single moment. I must be under way before six o'clock. Do you understand ?’’ ‘*T understand, Herr Baron.’ ‘‘And, wait, Johann. Go and find out whether saddle-horses can be obtained in this place. That would make it quicker. I have had enough of climbing the mountains. Hurry! Iam waiting. Be back instantly.”’ The servant withdrew, and returned to say they could not use horses on account of the snow. ‘All right !’’ answered Von Goldstetten. “Then we will wind up the excursion on foot! Johann, how is the weather? Calmer, it seems to me.”’ ‘Yes, Herr Baron. The clouds have en- tirely disappeared, and the storm is over. We have first quarter this evening. In a little while the moon will be shining above the mountains. Have you any other orders ?”’ “Yes. Listen ! Ask the guide the dis- tance from here to—’’ The rest of the sentence was pronounced in a lower voice, and did not reach my ears. ‘It is useless,’’ was the answer. ‘‘It can be seen through the window. It is not more than thirty paces from the house.”’ ‘What !’ exclaimed Von Goldstetten, “that black pool down yonder? Is that really the lake of the Grimsel? You are sure of it, Johann ?”’ ‘Perfectly sure, Herr Baron. The guide himself told me while he was returning with a bucket of water he drew from it.’’ ‘Was the water lukewarm ?’’ ‘“No; cold as ice! my hands.”’ ‘*Ha! ha! ‘*T do not think so. notice it in my coffee.’ ‘In your coffee! Well !’’ After a pause, I heard Von Goldstetten’s voice again : ‘** Johann !”’ ‘** Herr Baron !’’ ‘*T wish to go out.”’ ‘*Go out! At this hour?’’ ‘*Give me my hat and my cloak and plaid, and get ready toaccompany me. The guide can stay where he is.’’ ‘* But, Herr Baron, it is freezing and snow- ing ; itis blowinga gale! You will catch cold! It will be your death !’’ ‘‘Hold your tongue, you fool! The weather could not possibly be finer, and I shall neither catch a cold nor my death ! Can we go out by the back door ?”’ ‘Yes, but not return.’’ ‘* Then go out and tell the waiter to lock the door behind us, and to open it again when we knock.”’ ‘* What will he think ? I give him ?”’ ‘*Tell him I have a headache, and must have fresh air, or that Iam going to study the moon or count the stars. Tell him what- ever you like! Or, better still, you fool, slip into his hand a five-franc piece, and say nothing at all. Come on!’’ The weather, indeed, had turned out fine, changing with the instability peculiar to high mountains. The sky, that an hour ago was covered with thick clouds, showed itself now calm and serene. The moon hung pre- cisely over the crest of the Agassiz-horn, il- luminating its jagged teeth and the glaciers lying beneath them. Inthe profound sleep of death, the valley and the mountains re- posed under their pallid winding-sheet of freshly-fallen snow. Nothing that had life existed there, save the little water-course, which passing under the hospice descends to the Aar, that roars in the distance. And down there near the lake, whose waters were somber and dismal like a sepul- chral stone, where the stars were reflected shiveringly—down there I saw a dark form standing out in sharp relief from the white snow. He was seated on astone, wrapped in his cloak—the man who called himself I felt it while washing And had ita saltish taste ?’’ At least I did not What reason can

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THE COSMOPOLITAN. Ahasuerus. I could observe him from my window. He remained there long, motion- less, with bent back and bowed head, as if he were weeping. At length he arose, and directed his steps slowly toward the house. I heard him return to his chamber, move around, and turn rest- lessly on his bed till slumber closed my eyes. The next morning, when I descended about seven o’clock, I found that the baron had departed with his suite. Without reigned a gray mist impregnated with ice, which would disappear later before the rays of the autumn sun; but no meteorological con- sideration, it appears, had the power to de- cide this eccentric individual to delay his de- parture. He wished to be off at all costs, and had hardly takén time to eat his breakfast. The waiter confided to me—as his personal opinion—that the baron wanted to avoid me. I, too, had begun to form conjectures of no benevolent character on this sudden de- parture without a word of leave-taking, when the host brought me a letter from the baron. Here is what he wrote me: ‘*Srk : You must have taken me for a madman yester- day. I regret that I do not feel myself in a condition to-day to give you a better opinion of me. I have not the courage to appear before you after my singular ex- pressions in regard tothe legend of Ahasuerus—the effect solely of my nervous excitement. Never shall I forget the discretion that you showed in reference to this—a discretion in which I have entire confidence, also in what concerns the future. You appear to be fond of traveling. If chance should ever bring you to Frankfort, do not neglect, I beg, to have pointed out to you by the first child you meet, the dwelling of a man who would find great pleasure in thanking you for your sympathetic company during the moments he passed with you, under the weight of an impression that dominated him so strangely. With the hope of seeing you again, I sign myself, with a thousand wishes for your happiness, etc., etc., “A. BARON VON GOLDSTETTEN.”’ AMERICAN PATRICIANS AND: PLEBEIANS. By AN ENGLISHMAN. “In this world a man must either be anvil or hammer.’”’—Long/ellow. HE Republic of America is a vast hive of industry. Every honest man in the community is engaged in some gainful oc- cupation. Such idlers as exist are of a very different type from those who in Europe eat up so large a share of the produce of the workers. The difference has been well indi- cated by an American lady, who was com- miserated on the absence of an aristocratic class ‘‘ who have no occupation, and go about from place to place enjoying themselves, you know!’’ ‘‘Oh,”’ said she, ‘‘ we have such persons, but in America they are called tramps.”’ Uncle Sam has the biggest farm and work- shop in the world. His farm comprised, in 1880, eight hundred and thirty-seven thou- sand six hundred and twenty-eight square miles, an area greater than the United King- dom, France, Germany, Austria, Hungary, Holland, and Belgium collectively. This mighty farm is divided among four millions of Uncle Sam’s boys, giving an average of one hundred and thirty-four acres to each. Its value is estimated at two billions ster- ling. Its yearly produce is worth one billion one hundred and six million two hundred and seventy thousand pounds. His grain- field, exclusive of cotton, tobacco, and the like, is greater than the whole of Spain, or half as large again as England, Ireland, and Scotland. His hay-field covers an area as large as Portugal and Belgium ; while he gathers cotton from plantations as large as Holland. How little some of the kingdoms of Europe seem in the light of such a con- trast ! His potato-fields, sugar-brakes, and tobacco-plantations would hide many of the old-world monarchies beyond the power of their kings to find them again. A great landowner is Uncle Sam ! ‘*The farmers of Red River, Minnesota,”’ says Mulhall, ‘‘can send their grain for twelve pence a bushel to New York, or fifteen pence to Liverpool, say four thousand seven hundred miles ; while the citizens of Athens pay thirty-six pence a bushel from Marathon, a distance of only fifteen miles.’’* The full importance of this fact is seen only when placed by the side of another, also borrowed from Mulhall : Nearly one third of the grain *Balance-sheet of the World, page 14.

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AMERICAN PATRICIANS AND PLEBEIANS. 77 of the world is grown in America! Truly the world would go hungry without America. Malthus did not take the Republic into account when he made his famous cal- culations. : With live stock, too, the national farm is supplied in proportion to its great size. For every sheep, cow, or horse in the United Kingdom, Uncle Sam has ten. His twelve and a half million horses would make a double procession from America to Egypt. If his forty-eight million mules and asses, oxen, and cows joined the ranks, the pro- cession would be equal to the journey from London to Sydney, thence across the Pacific to Valparaiso, and through South America toRio. Ifthe procession were augmented by his forty-five million sheep and fifty-seven million pigs, the ends would overlap after twice putting ‘‘ a girdle round the earth.”’ Uncle Sam’s workshop is on an equally gigantic scale. Sixty millions of people live within the limits of the United States, and a big workshop is required to keep them all supplied with boots, clothes, houses, furniture, railways, and all the other essen- tials to nineteenth-century happiness. Eng- land was the workshop of the world a few years ago, and headed the nations as a manufacturer. This honorable position she has had to resign to her precocious child. It is difficult to compare the relative pasitions of the two countries in this particular, be- cause the American returns include as manu- factures the product of the corn-mill, the slaughter-house, and the forest. But the estimates of British manufactures, as re- corded in 1882, are nearly three hundred mil- lions sterling less than those of Uncle Sam in 1880. The number of workers in the census year was more than seventeen and a quarter millions, or 34.68 per cent. of the whole population. That is, one person in every three, including women and children, was at some gainful work. In America many kinds of work are open to women which are closed to their sisters in Europe. The half-million woman workers in 1880 included nearly three thousand barbers, three hundred journalists, seventy- five lawyers, two thousand four hundred physicians, one hundred and sixty-five preachers, and over three thousand printers. There are many signal-women, and at least one female Mississippi pilot. When we remember that a century ago’ the American continent was practically a terra incognita, with the exception of a narrow strip along the Atlantic coast, the change seems almost miraculous. Who can estimate the work that has been required to change the wilderness into a populous continent, dotted over with cities, covered with a plexus of railways and canals, and displaying in every part the evidences of man’sactivity? The vast shipments of grain and cattle, the endless columns of statistics of manufactures, give no adequate idea of American industry. For this we must follow the progress of the country from its condi- tion of savage wildness to its present ad- vanced position as a leader of nations. In the building of great cities where forests lately stood, in the growth of farms where a few years ago wild beasts and wilder men engaged in a fierce struggle for exist- ence, in the development of perfect political institutions, cemented in blood, and made strong and enduring by prolonged effort— such are the things that bear the most elo- quent testimony toAmerican industry. The American colonies had an industrial origin ; they fought for industrial freedom ; by in- dustry they grew into a great nation ; their consolidation was effected by labor, not by military. Work, not war, has ever been their watchword. By this have they attained a prosperity that the warlike nations of the Old World will strive for in vain, until their young men exchange the musket for the hammer, and drill in the workshop and forge instead of in camps and barrack yards. Every European nation has passed through a stage in which it was held that war was the only honorable calling, and that work of every form was degrading. Our Norse fore- fathers, from whom we have inherited many of the traits that have given the choicest parts of the world to our English race, be- lieved so thoroughly that fighting was man’s proper business, and that work was fit only for slaves and women, that he conceived Heaven as a place where his time was to be passed in daily battles with magical healing of wounds, and’ hell a place for women and workers. And we see the influence of these and kindred sentiments in the contempt that has grown around many once excellent words. ‘* Villain,’’ ‘‘churl,’’ ‘‘ boor,’’ and ‘‘clown,”’

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SAT ENT TE LTT ER EOS STEER PORE POT OR ARIES. — ' 78 THE COSMOPOLITAN. were once the simple designations of peas- ants ; and the equivalants of two, ‘‘kerl’’ and ‘‘bauer,’’ have survived dishonor in Germany. ‘‘Clodhopper’’ and ‘‘ground- ling’’ further testify to the degradation of that form of labor which was not personal ; while the elevation of ‘‘knight’’ and ‘* esquire ’’ show how much more honorable menial services, those performed by the moins né, have become. And not only was labor despised ; learning too was put undera ban; and ‘‘crafty’’ and ‘‘cunning,’’ once meaning skillful and knowing, now denote deceit and strategy. Even yet the business of war is held in highest esteem in Europe ; and though there are many estimable men who cannot under- stand the pride with which Voltaire’s French- man declared, ‘‘Mon métier est de tuer, et a’ étre tué,’’* it is still to soldiers that public monuments are oftenest erected. We con- tinue, moreover, to invoke the divine anger on the queen’s enemies with the same Norse ferocity with which we invite the Lord to smite his own enemies ‘‘ on the hinder parts.”’ There is surely a good deal of the old ferocity in the modern Northman’s religion !+ The dignity of labor has, however, received some recognition, though ‘‘servant"’ still recalls by its derivation, the medizval ‘*serf’’ and the still older ‘‘slave,’’ the Latin serveus. The Declaration of Independence abolished the ‘‘subject’’ in America, and made the ‘‘citizen’’; and the doctrine of the equality of men destroyed the ‘‘servant’’ and created the ‘“‘help.’’ It did not destroy ‘‘ subserviency,’’ however, nor ‘‘ servitude,’’ any more than the abolition of grades did away with ‘‘ degradation.”’ A curious commentary on social grada- tions is suggested by Roget's ‘‘ Thesaurus,”’ where ‘‘ flunkey, jockey, cad, swineherd,”’ are given as correlatives of ‘‘ emperor, king, majesty,’’ etc. ‘‘Scullion, char-woman, gyp,’’ are stated as the opposites of ‘‘ em- press, queen, princess,’’ etc. As the list proceeds with ‘“‘hireling, parasite, mercen- *‘* My business is to kill, and to be killed.”’ + A London journal recently offered a prize for the best list of the twelve greatest living men. Nearly eighteen thousand voters considered General Wolseley greater than John Bright, Louis Pasteur, or Professor Huxley ! Surely we deserve the charge of eccentricity that other nations make against us. And the really greatest living man—the man who will leave the deepest personal im- ary, puppet,”’ as correlatives of ‘‘ duke, doge, seignior,’? one cannot help thinking that those who acquiesce in such a classification deserve it. But I suppose most people will here claim to belong to ‘‘the middle class,”’ which Roget leaves comfortably vague. It is common to find in American novels such expressions as ‘‘ great families,’’ ‘‘ best society,’’ ‘‘long descended’; and we hear of the ‘‘exclusiveness’’ of the ‘‘ fastidious” American aristocracy, who think as much of their positions as the haughtiest ze//e noblesse in Europe. ‘‘ A patrician crush”’ is, according to one writer, the synonym of what another calls ‘‘a toney gathering.’’ These crushes and gatherings have, however, little of the aristocratic element in their composition. They are for the most part but fashionable circles in which prevails ‘the milliner’s estimate of life.’’ It is into this society that the young lady makes her ‘‘deb-bew,”’ as début is startlingly pro- nounced in America. In no other English- speaking community do the plebeians stickle so for the titles ‘‘gentleman’”’ and ‘‘lady.’’ I was told by an Irish-American laundress that ‘‘ the lady what did the clear- starchin’ got twelve dollars a week.’’ And I have heard of acabman who asked: ‘“ Are you the man as wants a gentleman to drive him to thedépét?’’ During an investigation concerning the Cambridge (Mass.) work- house, one of the witnesses spoke of the *‘ la- dies’ cell.’” And a newspaper reporter, wri- ting of a funeral, had occasion to say how the ‘* corpse of the dead lady ’’ looked. The plebeian who, by dint of hard work, has accumulated wealth, often aspires’ to patrician distinctions. Tiffany of New York is said to have a pattern-book of crests, from which the embryo nobleman may choose an escutcheon emblematic either of his business or of some less worthy characteristic. A shirtmaker of Connecticut, having made a fortune by an improved cutting-machine, announced his intention of getting a coat of arms. An unappreciative commoner asked press on his age, who will live longest in the hearts and minds of men of all nations, who has helped mankind the farthest onward, 7s no/ named at all, did not receive a thousand votes! And while Herbert Spencer is thus ignored, Bismarck receives thirty-two thousand two hundred and forty-five votes, Moltke thirteen thousand nine hundred and sixty-eight, and Churchill thirteen thousand one hundred and seventeen !

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AMERICAN PATRICIANS AND PLEBEIANS. 79 him if the design would be a shirt rampant. ““No,”’ he gravely replied, ‘‘it will be a shirt pendant and a washerwoman ramp- ant.’’ This was possibly suggested by the attitude of the washerwoman who called upon the President to demand that the towels of the treasury department should be ‘‘ laun- dried’’ by native talent and not by China- men. Byron said that families with long pedi- grees are very much like growing potatoes : the best part of them is in the ground. This is one of those truths that are so self- evident after you have heard them, that you wonder you never thought of them before. In no country is this dictum so true as in America. The children of the successful merchant or manufacturer expect to begin life where their fathers end. They are brought up extravagantly, in full knowl- edge of their father’s wealth, and with no incentive to effort. But in a society that has no idlers these young men soon tire of their own company, and, longing for a new sensation, enter business. There they have to compete with men that are working their way up, and in doing so have developed traits that the rich man’s son sadly lacks. He “‘ gets left,’’ as the American phrase well describes a defeat ; and pretty soon he proves the truth of the Byronic simile. His family may not be an old one ; but if his father is dead, the best part of it is unquestionably in the ground. In England we hear much laudation of those who, as some’ unsympathetic rhymster Says: “Came over at the Conquest, And since the Conquest have been fools ” So, too, in America, especially out of New England, one hears of those who proudly trace their family back to the Civil War. Few parvenus or their children care to have you look further back than this. Still I heard in Chicago of an isolated novus homo with a fine pedigree, mellow with age and brilliant emblazonment, acquired honestly at a fair price. And now that he has bought it, isit not his? And if his pedigree con- tains a Dudley or a Clifford, may he not go tothe family vault, and, like Gilbert’s Major- General, weep at the grave of his ancestors ? I know several houses in New York where, conspicuously hung in the drawing-room— or parlor, to be more correct—are the family coats of arms ; andinquiry might bring out a pedigree. I think it could be proved, if data were obtainable, that those who have the most right to these emblems of effete nobility are least mindful of them. In his thoughtful little book entitled, ‘‘Old-World Questions and New-World Answers,’’ Mr. Daniel Pidgeon relates that at Great Barrington, Connecticut, he was hospitably entertained by a widow, the mother of a female com- positor, whose ancestral chart included William the Conqueror, Matilda of Scot- land, Alfred the Great, Henry I. of England, Iewis the Fair and Charles the Bald of France, Charlemagne, and Hildegard of Swabia, his wife. Remember these are from the genealogy of a working-woman who lives in an obscure town in New England. Mr. Pidgeon says: ‘‘ The fervent desire of every New Englander is to trace his lineage to one among the handful of God-fearing and courageous men who first colonized America, and rarely seeks to lengthen his pedigree by research in England, content if he has sprung from the virtuous fathers of his own country.’’ A desire of this kind is in the highest degree praiseworthy ; and it does not express itself in those ostenta- tious crests and emblazonments that seem to proclaim their owner better than his fellows. Armorial bearings were originally the signs that warriors placed on their shields or habits, in order to be distinguished from enemies in battle. A genuine coat of arms, therefore, implies descent from some old- time barbarian. By negative evidence, the families without crests descend from the herd of retainers, or from the masses of workers. It is a curious survival of the barbaric in- stinct that causes men to prefer (where they have the choice, as in America) a descent from some feudal tyrant and murderer, as all those fellows were, rather than an ascent from an honest swineherd or serf. If in these days it is nobler to suffer wrong than to be an evil doer, surely it must be more honor- able to have had as an ancestor a wronged and suffering retainer or serf than a barbar- ous tyrant, practicing on his trembling de- pendents his horrible droit de seigneur and the like. Harold Brydges.

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A PECULIAR EASTER OFFERING. ADAPTED BY J. HENRY HaGER. ze * HAT’S it!’ was the triumphant ex- clamation of the handsome Arthur de Saugrenue, on the morning of Monday in Holy Week. ‘‘ I’ve found it! and not without a deal of trouble.”’ What young Arthur de Saugrenue had found, after vainly cudgeling his brains for more than seven days, was a suitable Easter present for his chéve amie, Mme. de Sancotte, to whose heart he had been laying siege for more than six months. Mme. de Sancotte, being a woman of su- perior intellect, he could not think of offer- ing her any thing commonplace. After having gone over many times, in his mind, the list of possible and permissible gifts, such as verses of unusual fire and sweetness, a bouquet of extraordinary size and fra- grance, and others too numerous to mention that almost any one would think of giving, an inspiration of genius had rewarded his prolonged search after an effective novelty. He had thought of offering—himself, en- closed in an enormous egg ! That was why he had given utterance to the Archimedean cry above recorded, and had executed an Indian war-dance in his dressing-room, where this phenomenal idea had presented itself while he was engaged in the necessary but unromantic process of shaving. The first burst of enthusiasm over, he foresaw many difficulties in the way of carry- ing out hisplan. Mme. de Sancotte was not then in Paris. She had gone to pass Easter at her residence at Orléans, and the idea of making the journey to that city shut up in an egg did not seem either a very brilliant or a very feasible one. M. de Saugrenue at first thought that the easiest way would be to send the egg on as luggage, and not get inside it until he had arrived at the Orléans station. the details of his pet scheme to the railway employés. Suppose they should circulate the story as a good joke, and it should reach the ears of his aunt, at whose house he had first met He was afraid, however, to expose ~ the lovely Sancotte! That austere person would disinherit him more rapidly than it takes the lightning to smite its victim. He pictured to himself the ancient dame, with eyes closed in horror, nose well in air, and tightly-compressed lips, preparing to launch at him the anathema that should drive him from her home and leave him with even less than the proverbial shilling. “No, no!’’ he exclaimed, shuddering ; ‘better a hundred times run the risk of rail- way transportation. I will let no one else share my secret but my valet and Mme. de Sancotte herself. I will get myself sent from Paris in the regular-way, and if the journey should prove a little fatiguing there is no help forit. I will have the egg well padded, so as to render it as comfortable a couch as possible—and also have it lined with yellow satin, seeing I am a decided brunette. ai. On the Friday following—that is to say, on Good Friday—the Easter egg that was to convey so original a gift, and that had been ordered that same evening, was sent home, the cabinetmaker who had undertaken its construction having distinguished himself by unusual promptness and skill. The egg, which bore on one of its sides M. de Sau- grenue’s coat of arms, was a marvel of in- terior comfort and exterior elegance. It was perforated with minute apertures that could not easily be seen, but which allowed the occupant to inhale the necessary amount of air. The outside packing-case that was to contain the animated present had been similarly treated. On Saturday morning M. de Saugrenue took up his quarters in the wooden shell, having first arrayed himself in a costume that he considered at once in good taste and irresistible. Of course the egg and its liv- ing contents were dispatched by the grande vitesse—no crawling freight trains for the lover who would have considered the wings of the wind none too rapid under the peculiar circumstances in which he had placed him- self. In short, M. de Saugrenue had made

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A PECULIAR EASTER OFFERING. 81 up his mind to undergo, with what equa- nimity he might, an imprisonment of from seven to eight hours’ duration, having taken the precaution, however, to provide himself with several sleeping-powders of consider- able strength, by means of which he hoped to diminish the exvu7 of the journey. III. M. DE SAUGRENUE had been quite right in racking his brains for an original present for the fair widow, since Mme. de Sancotte had about decided to make up her mind definitely regarding her suitor, and awaited his Easter offering with some anxiety, before taking any decided step. When, therefore, on Saturday evening, the draymen from the station unloaded before her door an immense packing box, she had it-at once carried to her room, and set to work to open it with more than the usual amount of feminine curiosity. On bending over the box she was surprised at hearing a dull but regular sound that somewhat resembled the humming of a top. She at once remarked to herself that M. de Saugrenue’s gift must be some kind of me- chanical toy, and her impatience to get at the contents of this gigantic envelope be- came well nigh insupportable. Seizing a large hammer, after five minutes’ hard work, she had succeeded in removing the cover, which had been purposely only lightly nailed on, and hastily opened the egg. Mme. de Sancotte recoiled with an ex- clamation of horror and dismay, from the spectacle that presented itself. Her flashing eyes sufficiently expressed the opinion she entertained as to the character of the insult that had been offered her, but her clenched teeth would only allow her to utter an in- dignant ‘‘Oh!”’ Somewhat recovering her self-possession aftera moment, she exclaimed : ‘‘The wretch ! he is snoring,’ into tears. The fact was that the unfortunate sleeping- powders had proved more powerful than the and burst handsome M. de Saugrenue had anticipated, and the unlucky suitor had not been awake since the train left Etampes. As an Easter gift he could not at that moment be called a success. Flushed and heated by the confine- ment, lying on his back, his mouth wide open, his snoring apparatus in full operation, his hair disheveled, and the clothing he had donned with so much pride and satisfaction in the morning more or less crumpled and disarranged—the ardent lover was scarcely in a condition to excite either the sympathy or the admiration of the woman to whose hand he aspired. His inspiration had proved his ruin. The engineer had been hoisted with, or rather crushed by, his own petard. IV. ‘* LEAVE meat once ; you are disinherited ! The idea of presenting yourself atthe house of your old aunt on this holy festival of Easter in such a plight ! Go, and my male- diction go with you !’’ Such were the terrible words which, on the morning of the next day, fell upon the astounded ears of M. de Saugrenue, as he awoke from a heavy slumber and slowly recovered possession of his faculties. Thor- oughly frightened, not at all knowing where he was, he had suddenly assumed an upright position just in time to punctuate his aunt’s address by impolitely sneezing in her face. The Sleeping Beauty in the Box had been sent, just as he was, by the exasperated Mme. de Sancotte, to the Dowager de Sau- grenue, after having him nailed up again and re-addressed. i Ir need scarcely be added that our young friend has definitely retired from the egg business. Let us hope that his aged relative will prove less implacable than the fair dame who now looks upon all Easter presents of abnormal size with much the same suspicion that the Trojans are said to have regarded the Greeks— “Dona ferentes.”’

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LIFE BENEATH THE CRESCENT. II. By EMILE JULLIARD. I. MOSQUES OF CONSTANTINOPLE. HE earthly dwelling-places of Allah afford more interest than those of the sultans and their government. The porte, the courts of justice, the schoels, the depart- ments, with the exception of the Séraskiérat, are tumble-down structures, more or less extensive, and of an irreproachableugliness. The majority of the imperial residences are sortsof Neapolitan villas, dazzling but some- times in rather bad taste. The mosques, which vary but little in their form and ap- pearance, present an exterior somewhat mas- sive and clumsy, but subdued and really imposing. The most celebrated of all is, as every body knows, the Basilica of St. Sophia, the ancient metropolitan church of Byzantium, and now the queen of the Turkish mosques. The exterior is not very remarkable or very in- teresting. The principal cupola is lighted by twenty-four windows, and overlooks two grand domes and six smaller ones. A large covered portico serves as a vestibule (and as avery majestic vestibule, too !) to the mosque itself, and very noticeable arethe nine bronze doors, ornamented with bas-reliefs, that give access to it. From the main dome hang like stalactites many lamps of colored glass, crystal globes, and ostrich eggs, a species of votive offerings, attached to hoops, and glittering like gold and silver. Circular galleries, reached by aspiral stairway, run to the beginning of the central curve, forming the grand cupola. From this point one en- joys an admirable view of the whole of this splendid monument, whose gigantic propor- tions astonish the beholder. . The floor, originally made of mosaics of porphyry, jade, jasper, and other precious marbles, is frightfully mutilated ; but under rich carpets are concealed the thousand rents that the fingers of time, and especially those of men, have made. Among these latter may be mentioned first the English tourists, who at all times have been pleased to ex- change with the rapacious and not very scrupulous guides their beautiful guineas for the ruins of the past. The pulpit of the mz/tz, which is small and slender, is suspended at the top of a narrow and fragile stairway, on one sideof the grand nave, and the mysterious interior of the tribune reserved for the sultan is concealed behind a network of gilded iron. I have no wish to weary my readers by describing all the mosques that cover Stam- boul and Scutari, its suburb across the water. The domes that surmount them are broad, low, and flat like wooden bowls, or high and hemispherical, like inverted kettle-drums. The parks, the squares, the médressés (re- ligious schools) that surround them, are more or less spacious and shaded, the mina- rets more or less slender and pointed. The arrangement is always the same, and there is the same general aspect. In the interior you will see the same mats, the same little pulpit of the mu/fz, the same little pictures, with a blue background, which are enclosed in frames of but little value, and which, aside from the painting, arrest attention only on account of the religious inscriptions, wholly enigmatical to us infidels. I shall content myself with saying that it St. Sophia is the most celebrated of the mosques of Constantinople, it is neither the most interesting nor the most imposing. The mosque of Sultan Achmed surpasses it, if not in grandeur, at least in grace and har- mony, not tosay in beauty. It is flanked by six minarets, lofty and slender columns, which form a guard of honor around it. Its interior issimple and rich. Attached to the walls are more than two hundred pictures or gilded plates, each set with sixty precious stones and with the names of the prophets, and with divers sentences from the Koran. It is in this mosque that the sultans are accustomed to celebrate the festival of Beiram, the Easter of the Mussulmans. Sur- rounded by the great officers of his house- hold, the chief dignitaries of the porte, and a host of equerries and servants, richly dressed, his highness appears early in the morning upon the threshold of the mosque, and does new

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LIFE BENEATH an enormous ram with gilded horns the hon- or to cleave its neck with his august cim- eter. Sultan Abdul Aziz, who had a horror of blood, turned away at this painful mo- ment, and touched lightly with the point of his sword the poor animal couching at his feet; it was'a member of his suite that com- pleted the sanguinary duty. Abdul Hamid has simplified matters still more. He cele- brated Beivam in the Béchiktech mosque, near his palace, and the sheep does not ap- pear until later—upon his plate. After the mosque of Sultan Achmed, should be mentioned the mosque of Moham- med II., which looks austere and somewhat stern ; that of Suleiman, situated upon three squares, the first of which is occupied by one of the most beautiful fountains of Stamboul, and on the second of which stands the edifice where prayer is offered, an edifice called mesdjid in Turkish, mesguita in Spanish, and mosguée in French. Selimyé, somewhat decrepit, should be mentioned also ; the Kourrhem Sultaniyé, which pre- sents a better appearance; the mosque of Top Hané, rather magnificent : but enough of mosques. Let us pass to other monu- ments. There is first, on Atmeidan Square, the burnt column, black and bound with iron, a sad relic that seems to be in mourning for a brilliant past. There is, further on, the obe- lisk of Theodosius, with its strange hiero- glyphics : it stands clumsily upon a pedestal still more strange, all covered with bas- reliefs, where monstrous heads of ugliness and bigness surmount thin and emaciated bodies. Near a structure devoted formerly to industrial expositions, but where no one ever exhibited any thing, there is the ser- pentine column that Mohammed II. muti- lated in a horrible manner, cutting off the three bronze heads with a stroke of his cimeter. This column, of which there re- mains a beautiful trunk, twists its coils in the air like those of a viper, and the Turks, after having decapitated and mutilated it, leave it to oxydize without regard for its value and its antiquity. Below, Birbin Dérek presents its mysteri- ous opening. It isa cistern with athousand columns, under which slumbered formerly a large and deep lake. To-day it is dry, and one can walk freely among the ugly pillars, which vanish in the darkness. The Ar- THE CRESCENT. 83 menian silk-winders have set up their frames in this subterranean place, into which the light comes in fantastic gleams, and which covers not less than twenty thousand square feet. The Yéré Batan Serai {palace under ground) is another cistern, less celebrated but quiteas curious. It still contains a thin sheet of stagnant water, which is healthy only to the frogs that have made it their home. It is reached by a dark passage, the vault of which is supported by three hundred and thirty-six marble columns, belonging to a fantastic and very mixed architecture. It is scarcely a century since this cistern was discovered. Mussulmans, who yield noth- ing to the Occidentals in the domain of superstitions, tell a thousand dismal stories about those that dared to brave the shadows of this mysterious cistern, where the Angel of Evil comes to seek an asylum when he visits Constantinople. II. RELIGION OF THE TURKS. THE religion of the Turks is more or less familiar to every one. It is known that the Mohammedans are first of all monotheists ; that is to say, they believe in one God only, who, in their opinion, has no family, and who is not divided into twos or threes. Mohammed is the prophet of prophets, the cherished messenger of Allah; but he is also a human prophet, who does not share in the divine essence, although his name is often uttered in prayer. The cosmology of the Mussulmans, however, resembles closely that set forth in Genesis. The Koran, or rather the Khourr’am, is regarded by the Mussulmans as a collection of divine laws promulgated by Mohammed. Khourr’am signifies the book par excellence. According to Islam, it was compiled from Allah's great book of secret decrees, and came from heaven page by page, verse by verse, to enlighten the great legislator as to what he should teach mankind. It was always during those hours of doubt and trouble that these divine leaves fell from the skies. The Koran contains one hundred and fourteen chapters, six thousand six hundred and sixty-six verses, and thirty books. The mission of Mohammed was revealed to him in a dream in the fortieth year of his age, by the archangel Israfil, during the

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84 THE COSMOPOLITAN. night of the nineteenth Radaman, in the year 609 of the Christian era. From that moment Mohammed, stricken by a holy fear, shut himself up in a cave near the town. He passed his days and nights in medita- tions, in fasts, and in prayers. One night the angel Gabriel appeared to him, and ordered him to read. Mohammed objected, saying that he did not know what to read. The angel took him in his arms, pressed him tohis bosom with violence, repeated the order twice, three times, then clasped him closer and closer, put his own lips to the prophet’s, breathed into his mouth these sacred words: ‘‘/kra bi is-mirrebbike !’’ ‘‘Read in the name of thy Creator.’’ Mo- hammed then began to read. A few days after this, while the prophet was praying onthe mountain, he again saw the angel of the Lord, who, seated upon a throne in the midst of clouds, uttered these words: ‘‘ Yo eyyub el, mudessiru!’” “O thou that art enveloped in the celestial robes, rise and preach.’* Mohammed then began to preach. According to Islam, the angel Gabriel, who had appeared twelve times to Adam, fifty times to Noah, forty-two times to Abraham, four hundred times to Moses, and ten times to Jesus Christ, dazzled Moham- med by his presence more than twenty-four thousand times. He never appeared to Mohammed except with a face resplendent with glory and light ; he shed about him the sweetest perfumes, and made himself known by a voice silvery but sweet, like the sound of bells heard in the distance. This particular sound is called sa/sa/é in Turkish. The presence of the angel Gabriel always filled the soul of the prophet with a holy fear. A cold perspiration covered his body, his eyes gleamed in their sockets like two stars in the night. ‘‘ The perusal of the holy book,’’ says an Arabic historian, ‘‘ always produced a kind of ecstacy followed by a great agitation. -He rose and gesticulated ; he became impassioned and then filled with tenderness ; he wept and then became calm, according to the sense of each verse of the divine book.”’ To-day even, in Spite of the deep breaches that the modern spirit has made in the re- ligious beliefs of the Turks, every good Mus- sulman reveres the Koran as the supreme book that includes the essence of all divine law. He never touches it without being in the prescribed state of purity, without kiss- ing it, and without putting it to his forehead with all the signs of the most profound de- votion. The wealthy, when they happen to be religious, make it a duty to adorn the binding with plates of gold or-silver, set with precious stones. This is not done be- cause they understand it well ; forthe Koran, so remarkable for its exaggerated and florid style, is not very intelligible, even to learned Turks and Arabians. Its precepts are sin- gularly confused and ambiguous, and its sub- jects are arranged with such incoherency that it is difficult to follow the sense. More- over, it is accompanied by a mass of annota- tions and commentaries called mu/fessirs, the effect of which is to increase still more the obscurity of the text. The Koran contains not only all the re- ligious laws of Mohammedanism, but also the greater part of the civil, social, and judicial laws in vogue in the Mussulmanic world. They are several centuries behind modern civilization, and this explains in part why it is that the Turks and their government resist with so rebellious obsti- nacy the progress of our epoch. It is the Koran that has made the sultans and the whole Mussulmanic hierarchy what they are. It is this* book that-nourishes in the Mussulmanic heart the hate and contempt bestowed upon Christians, that maintains from the top to the bottom of the social scale the seclusion of women, their degradation, and their ignorance. It is this book that authorizes polygamy and the slave trade. To regenerate the Osmanli, it would be necessary to dethrone the Koran. But who will dethrone it? Neither Russian cannon nor British gold. All the congresses in the world will not be able to do any thing with it, and ambassadors will spend their breath and ink upon it in vain. A new Messiah would be needed, and this Messiah will have to be born among the people, speak their language, share their life, and endure their sufferings. The duties pertaining to Mussulmanic de- votion are as follows: Ablutions and prayers occupy a part of the Osmanlis’ day, if they are faithful observers, which is becoming more and more rare. According | programme, the God of the Turks is mn more exacting than the God of the Chri this

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LOSON 10 LS ¥ >

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COSMOPOLITAN. ENTRANCE TO ST. SOPHIA. tians. It has been maintained that if the Turks do not cultivate either the arts or sciences, letters, commerce, or industry, it is because the service of Allah leaves them no time. Let us say rather that it is because Allah has given them neither the taste nor the aptitude for these things ; for ablutions and prayers, numerous as they are, are short and soon done with, and enough leisure always remains for them to perform their duties as dwellers on this earth. But the interval between their devo- tions and their meals is devoted to the service of kief, a state of indolence, another god as powerful as Allah. The Koran has fixed the hours that must be consecrated to prayers. These prayers, namaz, are fiveinnumber. The most solemn is the morning prayer: it is the sabah namazi, it is uttered after the dawn, just before the rising of the sun. The second is the midday prayer, euil/é namazi. The third, jkindy namazi, must be offered just before the setting of the sun. The evening prayer, aacham namazi, is uttered just before the shadows conceal the horizon. Finally, the last and fifth prayer, yvatcy namazi, is uttered in the interval after sundown and just before dawn. ' The hour of prayers is regularly pro- claimed to the faithful by the zmams, called muezzins, who walk around the balcony of the minarets, singing, in a melancholy voice, this unvarying litany: ‘‘God, the most high! I here proclaim that there is no God but God. I proclaim that Mohammed is the prophet of God. Come to the temple of salvation. Great God! God the most high! There is no God but God!’ Blind men are usually selected for muezzins, or at least zmams that suffer from confirmed myopia, so that they cannot throw inquisitive glances toward the women that may be promenading on the terraces of the houses. Christians surround their observance ot prayer with a kind of mystery or of reserve that the Mussulmans know absolutely noth-

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LIFE BENEATH ing of. In whatever placeadevout Osmanli may find himself, whether in his house, in his shop, in the streets, in a public square, doing business, or on a visit, as soon as the hour of the zamaz is announced, he makes his religious preparations, places under his knees a small rug, or in default of which a handkerchief, turns his face toward Mecca, places his arms in the shape of a cross upon his breast, or putting them to his forehead, prostrates himself, then rises—all this slowly and with strict observance of rules. If he is in a street, he does not permit himself to Tyce EQ Ses Seas ete 3 THE CRESCENT. 87 those acts of their lives and public adminis- tration that among us are relegated to the police, tothe judiciary, to thecivil state, and even to statesmanship. Infants are born and people die under the auspices of the imam, without whom no public register would have any thing in it to see. It is, however, impossible to determine approxi- mately the Turkish population of the Otto- man empire. The figures given as the number of inhabitants of Constantinople range from seven hundred thousand to one million five hundred thousand; those for ET aig Th a rea Recah: uate anh teal 2s TENNENT Ones: ST ee ee a x * MOSQUE OF VALIDE. be distracted and disconcerted by any thing, not even by the indiscreet curiosity of the European, who looks at him astonished by this novel sight, but who generally has no desire to ridicule it ; for this worship under the open sky, disregarding social conven- tionalities, indifferent to whatever may be said, has something grand and sacred about it that banishes all raillery and inspires respect. It would be interesting to make mention of all the religious ceremonies of the Turks. Religion among them is mingled with all Smyrna, Bagdad, Damascus, Adrianople, are purely hypothetical. Since there is no civil administration in the Ottoman state, thereis no census. For the purpose of collecting taxes and tithes, as well as for raising recruits, the govern- ment sends zaffiés, or soldiers, into cities and villages, who invade the dwellings of recalcitrant taxpayers, rumaging about to find every piece of coin, and laying hands upon every thing that they can seize. By an unheard-of privilege, dating from the con- quest, the inhabitants of Constantinople are

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88 THE COSMOPOLITAN. exempted from the ordinary taxes, the weight of which fall almost entirely upon the prov- inces, and particularly upon the agricultural population. One can understand that the latter, for whom the state provides no roads, no canals, no outlets to market, do not, in the miserable condition in which they are, receive the tithe-gatherers and tax-collectors with a very hearty welcome. They have learned in a wonderful way how to conceal their harvests, to hide away in the ground their money and precious things. Is it necessary to keep their sons out of the sight of the recruiting agents of the Séraskiérat? To accomplish this, they unite the cunning of the fox with the deceit of the serpent. If the young man is without a beard, small and slender, if he has a form like a woman’s, and if his hands are not too large, his mother dresses him like a girl, does not let him go out except in this costume, to throw the spies off the track ; and the lad thus bundled up has a good chance to escape the recruiting agent, who, being a Mussulman, does not allow himself to gaze at a woman too closely, not even at the shadow of a woman. But unfortunate is the young man if he again assumes the garb of his sex and goes to work in the field ; he will be seized im- mediately and punished severely. Il. MARRIAGE. MARRIAGE receives scarcely more attention among the Turks than birth and death, and there is but little embarrassment from the ad- ministrative formalities that pre- cede and accompany this solemn actinthe West. Thereare no bans, no announcements, no registrations. A man obtains a wife just as he would buy a bouquet ; but neither the buyer nor the seller, nor the intermediary, asks for a receipt. As it is forbidden a man to enter the harem of another (even if he were a near relative of the latter) to see a young woman and talk with her, there are no marriages for love and no engagements. One father meets another father, and says to him ; ‘‘ You have a son and I have a daugh- ter. If the mother of your son knows my daughter, let us strike a bargain: if she does not know her, let them see’ each other, and then let us close up the business.’’ The conditions are discussed, the dowry haggled over, then all the arrangements between the parents are made and the young people in- troduced to each other. Let us add in passing, that among us the matriages that are contracted in the great capitals of Europe, especially in Paris, do not depart far from this programme. In France, however, a man is still allowed to be- hold the object for the acquisition of which ne- gotiations arein progress. In Turkey this is forbidden; there, marriage is a lottery indeed. Turkish girls are promised usually when they are very young, even at a tender age, when they are only three or four years old. If the young bride should happen to die be- fore her marriage, or be required for the sultan’s harem—for it may be premised that this is a case that breaks all engagements, and is esteemed as a great honor by parents —the intended husband is not expected to TURKISH PEASANT,

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BENEATH THE CRESCENT. BURNT COLUMN, weep over what he loses, for he has never seen it. When the young girl reaches her twelfth or thirteenth year, or somewhat later, her fourteenth year, she receives the nuptial blessing, and the husband cannot see the face of his wife until after that ceremony. No woman, not even the wife, takes part in the solemnity of marriage, which is ef- fected by proxy, delegated to an uncle or to an elder brother, often with a full beard, who plays the rvé/e of the bride. The parents of the couple sign the contract before the zmam of their quarter, in the presence of a few friends, who act as witnesses. The nuptials are then celebrated by the families with a’ calmness and gravity that would be as suit- able for a funeral as for a wedding. The sexes never mingle at these festivals. The men take their pleasure in silence in their selamlik;; the women, a little more noisily—it is but natural—in the haremlik. If the wife is too young or has delicate health, she is not entrusted to her husband. She is quickly shut up at her mother’s, or at her mother-in-law’s, sometimes for more than a year, until it shall please the latter to re-unite her with herhusband. It even hap- pens that the husband has had time to take a second wife before receiving his first. It is not, however, always happiness that the young wife finds in her new situation, where she is often obliged to share with companions, and even with black and white slaves, the heart and the attentions of her husband. How often have the poor creatures exchanged their maiden seclusion, a captiv- ity that a mother always knows how to make pleasant, for another seclusion more narrow, more severe, often aggravated by the neglect of herhusband, or by the brutality and the bad treatment of a detestable guardian ! IV. DEATH AND BURIAL. THE transition from marriage to burial must appear somewhat abrupt, at least to

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go THE COSMOPOLITAN. us. In Turkey it is much less so, and the ceremonies that accompany these two events have a close resemblance. There is always the same gravity, the same silence, the same look as though astonished at nothing and interested in nothing. If a Turk dies, or looks as if he were dead, no physician, no inspector, comes to make sure that death has really taken place ; but if it has not, the fact will soon be established, thanks to a proced- ure more efficient than all the gentle and re- ares . ee =— >. oe Thus scalded as a preliminary step, the body is washed and dried. Then it is be- powdered with camphor, and after being covered with a cloth embroidered with verses from the Koran, it is exposed for several hours in the court-yard. Afterwards the imam returns, and accompanies the corpse to its last resting-place. The flat, covered bier is usually carried on the shoulders of friends of the deceased, or upon those of hired pall-bearers. Sometimes ee en ee SERPENTINE COLUMN, fined means in vogue in the West to make sure that the deceased is not hoaxing his heirs. Scarcely has the last breath been taken when the corpse is lifted up violently by vigorous arms, the clothing snatched off, laid on the flag-stones of the mortuary chamber or vestibule, and besprinkled with hot water, which is thrown upon it by the imam, provided with a large pail. The sprinkling is repeated two or three times, so that the family runs little danger of seeing the deceased resuscitated. strangers assume this duty gratuitously, looking upon it as a pious and meritorious act. The cortége is made up only of those that carry the coffin by turns, thus relieving one another without stopping. The coffin is made of cedar, and it is seldom varnished, but it is covered with a rug or a shawl, and there is placed at the head a turban or a fez, if the deceased is a male. The procession always moves hastily, not for the purpose of getting-rid of the dismal burden, but to hasten the moment when the

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LIFE BENEATH deceased shall enjoy eternal repose; for the Mussulman believes that the soul is restless and unhappy as long as the corpse is un- buried. This is why three or four hours only elapse between death and burial. On arriving at the cemetery, the zmam so places the bier that the face of the deceased is turned toward Mecca ; he then approaches the brink of the grave and utters a very long prayer, the conclusion of which is as follows: “Draw near, Mounkir and Nekir, angels of death and ministers of Allah. Great and blessed God, we humbly beseech thee to make the earth light for thy servant. May he find graceand mercy with thee. Amen.’’ THE CRESCENT. gl A Christian’s prayer does not say any thing more nor any better. According to the Koran, the deceased is the owner of his grave in perpetuity, and the objectionable system of sepulture in rotation is unknown to the Mussulmans ; and in Constantinople, in Eyoub, and in Scutari, the room occupied by cemeteries is almost as extensive as that covered by dwell- ings. Within recent years it has been found necessary, in order to open roads that have been much needed, to curtail and even sup- press some of the cemeteries ; but it required an express order from the sultan, which made the w/emas utter the wail of bigots. TURKISH MUSICIAN.

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THE COSMOPOLITAN. TURKISH CEMETERY. The cypress is pre-eminently the funeral tree. Each tomb has to have itsown. And Turkish cemeteries become gloomy forests in time, which impart to certain Oriental landscapes an aspect singularly stiff and somber. It is upon the sea-shore that these funereal forests are found in the greatest abundance, the trees being nourished by the soil fertilized by human remains, reach a prodigious size and height. The largest and most celebrated of these cemeteries is that of Scutari, upon the Asiatic coast of the Bosphorus: it extends over an area more than six miles square. The tombstones are in the shape of an oval, wider at the top than at the bottom, and surmounted with a turban or a fez, the form of which, varying greatly, indicates the rank of thedeceased. A gilt inscription in Turkish characters, cut in relief on a blue background, gives the name and enumerates the virtues of the deceased, and implores divine mercy in his behalf. These stones are sometimes perpendicular, sometimes leaning very much. In the latter case a hole is dug at the base of the tomb, intended to catch rain for the little birds that come to quench their thirst. The dead are not buried very deep, and it is strange that the custom does not cause more sickness than it does. A large pro- portion of the epidemics of dysentery and typhoid fever that invade the low quarters of Constantinople can be traced to this cus- tom. The proximity of the cadavers to the top of the ground produces, during the sum- mer nights, particularly in swampy and damp cemeteries, a myriad of phosphores- cent lights, which dance and flit around the tombs ; and these myriad sparks of fire, while inspiring the poets, also frighten children. V. FESTIVALS OF THE MUSSULMANS. MUSSULMANIC festivals have several points of resemblance to the religious festivals of

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LIFE BENEATH the West. Like the Catholics and the Greeks, the Turks have their Lent, which lasts forty days, and which they observe in all its rigor during that celebrated month known underthe name of Ramazan. The Turkish Lent is much more severe than that observed in Europe, and the God of Stamboul is not so lenient as that of Rome. He permits the eating of neither eggs nor fish. He does not, in fact, permit the eating of any thing ; for Mussulmans are for- bidden to eat and drink any thing whatever from the rising until the setting of the sun, and that for twenty-eight consecutive days. Itis forbidden even to smoke, to take snuff, to eat lozenges, to use perfumery, until a report of a cannon, which is fired in the principal quarters at twilight, raises this tyrannical interdiction to re-establish it at the first gleams of dawn. The nights of Ramazan are spent in feasting and smoking (called /ffar), which atone somewhat for the austerities of the day. As the Turks reckon time according to the lunar year, the months do not follow exactly the order of the seasons; and when Lent comes in winter, it is extremely tolerable, for the days consecrated to abstinence are short, and the nights devoted to feasting are long. But if Ramazan comes in midsum- mer, it is not at all convenient, and hunger as well as thirst makes protests that Mussul- manic piety does not always succeed in silencing. Fortunately the Turk is a sleeper, and while he is asleep the Koran does not forbid him to dream that he is feasting. But the most pressing want of the Osmanli when he breaks his fast, is not to eat, but to smoke his chibouk. A domestic, attentive to the blessed signal, stands behind him with his pipe filled and lit, and hardly has the cannon flashed when the master, without awaiting the report, takes his first whiff. Ramazan is followed by a species of car- nival which lasts three days, and which the Turks call Beiram. It is characterized by repasts with friends, by pastries and con- fectionery for the occasion, by the most animated appearance of the streets of Péra and of Stamboul, by a Pantagruelic con- sumption of sweetmeats, rhat-loukoum,* cordials, sherbet, and finally by a revelry of *A kind of cake made of flour, rose-water, and pistachio-nuts. THE CRESCENT. 93 music, the expensive part of which is the drums, the fifes, and the mandolins. All this is not, however, very noisy, for the Turks possess the art of amusing them- selves quietly, and of diverting themselves without excitement, without conversation, and without laughter. A7zef never abandons its rights. Courbam Beiram, a sacrificial festival, which occurs ten weeks later, does not differ much from Beivam which follows Ramazan, except that in all the towns and villages there is a great slaughter of sheep, and blood flows freely in every house. ‘The Turks have a few other but less im- portant festivals, which last generally only one day, and which are announced to the faithful by reports of cannon fired at day- break. There is, forexample, MWevlud, the anniversary of the birth of the prophet ; there is Suvei Guedjessy, which celebrates the departure of the sultan’s presents for Mecca ; there is also the festival of the as- cension of the sultan, observed by deafening salvos, expensive illuminations, bonfires, displays on the water, festoons, astragals, - and shields of all kinds; there is, finally, Kadir Guedjessy, the maiden’s festival, the day on which each year the sultan must, according to the holy law, take a new wife. The latter is sought for in all the harems of the empire, and selected with the greatest care by an expert woman, charged with the delicate mission to discover and crown the most beautiful. I will add that Turks in all stations of life have no higher ambition than to see their daughters enter the im- perial harem, where from the simple con- cubines that they are at first, they become sultanas, if heaven blesses them with an infant. In this case, the father, the brothers, and the uncles have every opportunity to obtain fat sinecures, or at least profitable employment under the government. VI. TURKISH OFFICIALISM. THIs brings me to speak of Turkish of- ficialism, the greatest of the plagues that prey upon this patient, always at the point of death but never dying. Every Osmanli that knows how to read and write aims only at one thing : To be an official or to be sup- ported at the expense of the mosques in the

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94 THE COSMOPOLITAN. capacity of ulemas, softas, badjis, or dervishes. Commerce, industry, art, science, all those things that require the co-operation of mind and musclé, are universally disclaimed by the Turks ; they leave them for Christians. It is indeed fortunate that there are al- most as many vajas and foreigners in the empire as there are Turks, for without them the soil would remain uncultivated, little would be manufactured except chibouks, rugs, caps, lamp-wicks, tooth-picks, combs made of bone, rose-water, and candies; hardly any thing is bought and sold; there is no building, and the dominant race would be reduced to living in trees like apes, if necessity, the most skillful of instructors, did not teach men how to work, and give a taste and an aptitude for it. To acertain extent, the population of the Ottoman empire can be divided into two classes almost equal: Those that work, that pay taxes, and that suffer ; these are Chris- tians and Jews: those that eat, that smoke, that sleep, that receive the taxes, and do nothing ; these are the Turks. But unless born rich, the Turks themselves cannot realize this beautiful programme without going outdoors. They must at least draw near the source of all blessings ; that is to say, they must enter the government service, or the innumerable dependent corporations of the mosques, even to-day the owners of more than half of the Ottoman soil. But the state with its sections, its bureaus, its branches, and sub-branches in the capital and in the provinces, could never support this army of dependents if they had to be paid ; it does not, in fact, pay them at all. It fixes very carefully, to be sure, their monthly salaries; but this figure remains almost always in the regions of theory, and it is the exception when a salary becomes a palpable reality in the case of petty and particularly competent officials; but the great officials are armed with tentacles that reach to the vaults of the treasury depart- ment, and perform their office admirably. The petty officials would have great reason to complain, if they did not have the dack- shish, which comes to their rescue, and all kinds of little expedients, to which their superiors close their eyes, but which the taxpayers, who are the victims, perceive only too well. The chief of the Ottoman officials is the sultan, and with exceptions—the present sultan for example—he it is that works the least and consumes the most. He unites in himself the spiritual and temporal sovereign- ties ; he is calif according to the first, and sultan according to the second. This double egis has always protected the Ottoman emperors from popular revolutions, at least up to the time of Abdul Aziz, who, however, was overthrown by a court conspiracy, with- out any participation by the populace. The Koran enjoins upon the subjects of the empire the most absolute submission to the sovereigns of Islam. These principles, strengthened by fanaticism and fatalism, have, however, lost their hold to some ex- tent ; for a people, whatever may be its ignorance, its superstitions, and its stub- bornness, cannot escape the influence of the century in which it lives; but a long time must elapse before these characteristics will disappear from this nation, obstinately deaf to all the lessons of democracy that the states of Europe are giving toit. The vices, the prodigality, the foolishness, the extrava- gance, the tyranny even, of the sultan produce no effect. The calif is respected as the vicar and lieutenant of Mohammed. Every thing that emanates from him is re- garded as the product of divine inspiration, requiring prompt and blind performance. The Mussulman still calls his ruler Z7// u/ Allah, the shadow of God. The fourteen sultans from Osman I. to Achmed I. have reigned in succession from father toson ; but upon thedeath of Achmed, his children being still under age, the d/van and the mu/fti proclaimed as sultan Mustapha I., the brother of the dead monarch; and since then the legitimate heir to the throne has not been the oldest son of the reigning sultan, but his younger brother, orin default of a brother, the oldest of the collateral princes. This order of succession has been the cause of unheard-of massacres in the seraglio. The competitors for the throne becoming more numerous as the families of brothers, nephews, and cousins increase, the sultans, in order to get rid of these inconvenient pretenders, instigate a general elimination of those that can cause them trouble, and then the rope, the poisoned coffee, the cimeter, the drowning in bags securely stitched, come in play. Since Abdul Med-

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WHITE VIOLETS. 95 jid, these little inside scenes have been much less tragic, and the sultans have been con- tent to shut up the collateral princes, and to keep them under surveillance ; at least, the only thing that is done is to send back to Mohammed’s paradise by return post, if I may so express myself, the infants that are born to them during their imprisonment. The uwlemas and the doctors of Islam do not condemn in the slightest degree these summary proceedings on the part of the sultans. An zmam, who had condescended tolearn a little French, explained the matter very naturally. ‘‘ The sultans,’’ he said, ‘ought to insure to their children the hope of ascending the throne some day, but this hope would be very uncertain indeed if there were too many collateral princes in exist- ence. Moreover, it is but right to guarantee the empire against the troubles and disorders that rent it so cruelly during the first reigns, when all the princes of the reigning family, staking their life and liberty, engaged in incessant conspiracies against the throne. Finally, it is necessary to spare the treasury of the state the heavy expense entailed by the support of these princes.”’ In solving this problem my wlema ex- pressed a truth, for the house of the Abasside princes numbered, after the census taken in the year 201 of the Hegira, thirty-three thou- sqgnd souls, as many princes as princesses, and the state had to house, dress, and feed all these people. WHITE VIOLETS. By May RILEY SMITs. WE sought for the white violet, My little love and I: Among the pasturés cool and wet, Our feet in eager quest were set The dainty bloom to spy. We knew where purple ones and blue Were thick as stars at night ; But all our forest journeys through We had not found a spot where grew A violet of white. Like some sweet nun, ethereal thin, You’d know her anywhere, With snowy wimple folded in About her pale and serious chin, And head bent as in prayer. In ferny cloisters, spicy-sweet, We sought our pale-faced nun. No trace was here of her light feet, Only a spider, trim and neat, Sat in the door and spun. Where the May-apple leaves had spread A tent of shining green, A moth in his gray hammock staid, A hermit snail sulked in the shade, But Violet was not seen. The snowy star of Bethlehem Twinkled beside our way : The forest’s fern-embroidered hem Glowed with red lilies, stem on stem, But where did Violet stay? ‘“Why seek white violets alone, My love ?’’ at last I cried ; ‘‘ When banks with purple ones are strown, Fit for the cover of a throne, And coronet beside !’’ ‘“Things won,”’ she said, ‘‘ with little care Are seldom coveted ; White violets, like pearls, are rare, Like amethysts the purple are, I choose the pearls,’’ she said. We heard the insects’ drowsy croon, Bees in the thistles slept ; The wood-thrush piped his liquid tune, The morn led up to sultry noon, The noon to evening crept. We found not one white violet ; We know not where they grow. But there are fairer treasures yet, Sometimes in woods and hollows wet As we who found them know.

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SIGNOR IO. By SALVATORE FARINA. Translated from the Italian by W. H. Allen, M. A. XI. O-DAY Marcantonio is happy. Return- ing from school, where he has explained the system of Spinoza, he feels himself full of hope and with a good appetite. Great things await him at home; he is certain of it: but he will not go counter to the com- motions of an empty stomach. First he goes to the restaurant and eats. Then he makes his way home. Battista is there at the door. A good omen! The porter goes out on the street several times and re-enters the gate, while the professor draws near with measured step ; and when finally Marcantonio is in a safe place, Bat- tista takes a letter out of his pocket. So much mystery about a single letter! But what sort of a letter! Signor Io torn open the envelope when he feels a tremor in all his body, and is com- pelled to rest on the landing place. That letter, in its simple and sentimental form, says : “Tam still young; I ama widow; Iam unhappy. I possess nothing more than a loving heart and my pro- fession. My mission is to live for the happiness of an honest man. I reside in the Via Torino, number 60, on the second floor. Inquire for Signora Marina, vocalist.”’ Marcantonio re-reads four times these few lines ; then he repeats them stammeringly from memory, and does not yet succeed in catching their meaning completely. He presses his-forehead between his hands, looks fixedly before him, then walks up and down, stops, then walks up and down again. At last he lets himself fall between the arms of a large roller-chair, which he pushes back as far as the wall, in speechless amazement. What is the meaning of all these antics of Signor Io ? The meaning is, that in the few lines of that sheet of paper now lying on the floor, Signor Io has recognized the handwriting of his own daughter ! XII. At the extremity of the chamber where fortune, through the instrumentality of a Hardly has letter and a common easy-chair on rollers, has cast him, as though he were worse than so much rubbish, Marcantonio Abate gazes at the tesselated floor that appears to him like a chess-board. Here he will play his grand game. The adversary is strong. Signor Io knows it, and knows, too, that protected by their incognito, many adversaries play against him—not one. Paternal feeling, family propriety, social considerations, stand there, marshaled along the opposite wall. They have made their first cruel move, and await Signor Io’s response. Marcantonio hesitates a little. Before en- tering upon that decisive game, he must look his multiform adversary well in the face, and tell him : ‘‘I know thine inmost nature perfectly. Thou art sentiments of delicacy that alarm, and all-alluring hypocrisy. Thou art vora- cious calumny and clamorous disgrace. It is very difficult to contend against thee ; nay, sometimes, if thou hast had thy victim, thou feignest to be appeased, drying thine eyes, and having thyself called Pity or Praise; but I tear off the mask, and shout in thy face thy true name: thou art Public Egotism. And now, play!’ . It has played already, and its move is very subtle. Now, look to yourself, Signor Io! Serafina then is living! What evidence ! Marcantonio had never thought she was dead, nor that she might die; but just to have the written proof that she is living, really living. What evidence ! The daughter that he had believed lost in the wide world for the future, had been simply mislaid. The buffo had hidden her behind the scenes. To-day the buffo is dead, and the mournful widow issues from the wings to demand from the public of the pit a second husband. Serafina, the modest and timid child whom Marcantonio had reared in the likeness of her poor dead mother, that creature who seemed to have come into the world solely to make

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SIGNOR JO. 97 war on cobwebs, without ever leaving the house, announces that she possesses her f70- fession; that is to say, that she too has learned to sing like the buffo, her deceased husband. That name of Marina, which it is necessary to make use of in asking for her in the Via Torino, number 60, is a zom de guerre / Serafina, then, is living, and sings for a living ; is alone in the world, is poor, pos- sesses nothing but her profession, which is full of danger. She is twenty-two years old, andisstill attractive, feelsthe need of a man’s protection, and is ready to throw herself into the arms of the first-comer, bé he even old and decrepit, in order to secure a home. Serafina is in Milan, a few hundred steps from her father, and perhaps only one step from dishonor. , The move of Public Egotism means all this. Now look to yourself, Signor Io ! Marcantonio rolls himself up again like a ball in the easy-chair, and, looking fixedly at the floor, he tries to say to himself : ‘‘There is nothing in common between her and meany more; I have sworn it.”’ But one of his adversaries answers disdain- fully: ‘‘Fool! There is no perjury when And another adds the oath is unworthy.”’ in kindly tones: ‘‘ Whatever you do and say, even were Serafina’s faults great, it is not true that you have nothing in common with her. Serafina is of your blood. She is your flesh, and a small part of your gen- erous soul.’’ ‘‘So,’’ broke out Marcantonio, ‘‘that un- fortunate has had herown way! Disdaining the counsels and prayers of prudence and affection, she has betrayed her father, has left him alone in the world in order to run from theater to theater, and now will all this have to be forgotten because she is un- happy ?”’ An inward voice, an echo of his own words, repeats in the depths of his soul : ‘Because she is unhappy.”’ But Signor Io does not listen to it. He thinks that the misfortune of his daughter is a judgment from Heaven, and it seems to him even that he had foreseen it. Assuredly he had forseenit. That buffo, whom he had Scarcely seen a few times, had his destiny written on his face. Marcantonio did not let himself be taken in (now he remembers it) by that appearance of gaiety and health. That plump face was a mask. That sleek and rounded body was asnare. If Serafina had only said to him, ‘‘ Papa, examine the man who wishes to marry me,’’ he would not have failed to divine the hypertrophy and phthisis. Now the buffo is dead, and with the dead, Signor Iois magnanimous. So may Heaven forgive him, as the grand soul of Marcantonio has forgiven him ! As to Serafina, what can he do? Why has it even been necessary that chance should come and take her by the hand and lead her, after so many years, into the presence of the author of her days? The demand is made. Marcantonio has hardly had time to ponder over it uselessly, when an answer comes promptly from the adversary : ““Think,’’ it says, ‘‘of the letters you have sent back unopened. How do you know that in one of those letters the poor creature, whose marriage lacked the parental blessing, had not informed you of her great misfortune ?”’ Marcantonio knows nothing, wishes to know nothing ; but, no; he knows this one thing, that the great misfortune would be neither great nor small if he then opened his arms to his daughter. Serafina would find again her well-known home where she lived as a girl, would resume her domestic occupations, busied from morning until evening in making war on the spiders and the dust, in opening and closing drawers, in regulating the daily expenses, solaced by the fairly frantic affection of her papa ; with her bunch of keys in her pocket, with her account-books in order—what woman more happy than she? After having experienced the evil fortune of a cruel existence at the side of aman that was not her father, the widow would become a girl once more; would erase from time a part that— Marcantonio interrupts himself in the course of his thoughts, because that same still, small voice of the echo that has spoken in the dark depths of his consciousness, be- gins slowly thus : ‘* Let the brief past be erased. After hav- ing experienced the evil fortunes of a cruel existence, how much the more attentive and loving will be the widow, once more a girl ! She will find again the well-known brooms, and will resume her occupations. Busied from morning until evening making war on

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98 THE COSMOPOLITAN. the spiders and the dust, in regulating the daily expenses, and in keeping the house in order, she will cherish the sweet illusion of helping to render tranquil and happy the declining years of her father, who in desperation was willing to throw himself into the arms of any fortuitous female.”’ ‘‘Of a not unpleasing appearance, girl or widow of thirty,”’ reflects Signor Io weakly. ‘*Signorina Virginia is not a fortuitous fe- male ; Signora X. Y. Z., whois twenty years old, is not a fortuitous female ; nor is that lady dressed in black, with a bunch of flowers on her breast, whom Marcantonio did not recognize at the Café Biffi, a fortuitous fe- male. And then, no one compels him to marry the first woman that presents herself tohim. Hecan wait and make a selection. Among the competitors for the nuptial couch of Marcantonio, may there not be other young women as handsome and adorable as —as Serafina, in case Serafina is one of them ?’’ Let us do Marcantonio justice. The idea that his daughter offers to marry him troubles him now even more than before. If he obeyed his first impulse he would go to the Via Torino, number 60, would ask for the pseudo Marina, would repair the results of the egotism of a man who, without means, had been willing to link a woman to his own misery, and who, in order to rid himself of the responsibility, had found no better way than to go and die. But another idea diverts him a while longer ; perhaps because his mind contem- plates it with greater satisfaction: ‘*Serafina calls herself poor. In fact, she had received no dower, nor has she ever de- manded her legitimate portion of the inherit- ance left by her mother in the hands of Marc- antonio. Probably she is not even aware that her mother’s will gives her a right to it. As for the buffo Curti, although the son of an advocate, what could he have learned of a world seen only through the footiights ?”’ The great game is about to be brought toa finish. One more move and Marcantonio will confess himself vanquished. But it is no longer an adversary that speaks to his troubled conscience ; it is rather a friend : he understands all the ways that lead to the heart, and his voice sounds like a caress. ‘“‘ Thou art not an egotist,”” hesays. ‘In the midst of all thy sordid and lying phil- osophies, thou hast preserved a truly philo- sophical grandeur. Thou despisest man- kind, but esteemest greatly thyself. Verily thou wouldst not participate in late nuptials to enjoy with another the little property that Faustina intended for herdaughter. I know thee ; if thou shouldst wed Virginia, or this one, or the other, thou wouldst give up im- mediately the use of thisproperty. Yet, no, Marcantonio. Thou wilt not give it up, but just here, this very moment, thou wilt give up Signorina Virginia and all the other anonymous aspirants, present and future. Thou wilt give ordersto Battista not to go any more to the post-office to receive the letters of Signor Io. Thou wilt rescue thy daughter from the theater that has treacher- ously appropriated her. Thou wilt throw open to.her her father’s house. Thou wilt open to her thy paternal heart also, an up- right heart, that was never troubled by a lover’s fatuity, and thou wilt live thy last years consoled by the consciousness of hav- ing sacrificed thyself for the happiness of thy daughter.”’ XII. How salutary is virtue! How wholesome is greatness of soul ! When Public Egotism gives battle to a magnanimous heart and conquers it, may it not be truly said that the victory is humble, ° and the defeat glorious ? Marcantonio picks up the letter from the floor, the letter against which fate and the world have urged him to contend, and goes and places himself before his writing-desk. He writes : ‘* Serafina, I know that you are unfortunate, and there- fore I wish to be a father to you again, and to love you. Let those years that you have passed far from your pro- genitor, be erased from the scrollof time. Return to your paternal home, and you will find there the place still warm that you occupied in your blessed infancy. One sole condition I make, and it is, that a past that ought not to have been, shall never be mentioned. Promise to yourself before re-entering the house and the heart of your father, that you will never make an allusion to the time of our common affliction. You will find the keys on the shelf where you left them when you went away ; take them again, and retie the thread of our happy ex- istence at the place where it was broken through your capriciousness. Anna Maria bears you this letter, will always be at your orders, and will await you in the kitchen. I shall find you again to-morrow, on returning from school, as if you never had been absent. You will find me again just as I was, perhaps grown a little older, but still vigorous enough to take care of your happiness. “Your Papa.” ‘It will please her,’”’ thinks Marcantonio,

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SIGNOR JO. when he had read over again his little chef deuvre. ‘‘ Serafina has always been tender hearted. When she reads this letter she will cry from beginning to end; but here where it says, ‘before re-entering the heart of your father,’ there will be a regular deluge.”’ Marcantonio rings the bell to call Anna Maria, who at this hour is wont to be in the dismal-looking kitchen, contemplating the fireless hearth and waiting until her master goes away to his business to put the study and the other rooms in order. And Anna Maria, at the unusual sound made by the bell overhead, raises her eyes and sees a spider suspended by its thread, making its ascent again to the ceiling. “A spider in the evening on its rope, signifies hope,’’ thinks Anna Maria, and runs courageously to her master. ‘“‘ Anna Maria,”’ says the professor, looking at the floor, ‘‘this is a letter.’’ ‘* Yessir.”’ “You will take it to the Via Torino, number 60.”’ Anna Maria doesn’t say ‘‘ Yessir,’’ and Marcantonio lifts his eyes in surprise. ‘‘ Now remember, tothe Via Torino, num- ber 60. It is written here on the envelope.”’ Yessir.’’ “You will ask for Signora Serafina Abate.’’ “The young mistress !’’ exclaims Anna Maria, clapping her hands without making any noise. ‘‘I know it.”’ ‘What do you know ?”’ ‘*IT know where the—Via Torino is. I have been there before on other occasions.’ ** When ?”’ *T can’t now recall when; but I know it, you see, and I am glad.”’ “Of what are you glad?’’ asks the pro- fessor in the honied accents of an examiner ; and, as Anna Maria is not ready in her answer, he adds indulgently : “ Let us accept the fact of your being glad, without knowing why ; no one will dispute you. Put the letter in your pocket. Go right away and deliver it. Don’t stop on the street to chatter with the porters, and come back home.”’ “To bring the answer ?”’ “There is no answer. Go and come back and do not breathe a word.”’ “Yessir. Lam going right away.” ‘Go right away.”’ ‘“‘Tam going.”’ She doesn’t move, and her master is about to turn his back, when Anna Maria at one stroke becomes a heroine of antiquity. ‘*Master,’’ she says speaking in stronger tones, ‘‘ is the young mistress well ?”’ ‘* She is well.”’ ‘* Really ?”’ Marcantonio turns and looks at her, and the heroine of antiquity becomes Anna Maria again. XIV. To-DAy Marcantonio has confuted the system of Spinoza, and has been so felicitous in expressions, and so incisive in his argu- ment, that he could almost believe his pupils understood him. And indeed the majority of the pupils did understand that the system of Spinoza is useless, and that they can live, leaving it to Spinoza himself. The more ardent expressed a suspicion, which at bot- tom was a wish, viz., that all the philosophy taught in the schools might be first confuted in one lesson a little more diverting than usual, and then left alone forever. Marcantonio has labored to good account. Scarcely has the beadle, half-opening the door, yelled into the hall the magnificent Latin word, ‘‘ finzis,’’ when a form that cowered in the school-room during the entire lesson, springs up on the chair and draws down the professor. That form is Serafina. Walking nimbly at her side, Marcantonio thinks: ‘‘ At this very moment she is at home expecting me!’’ But a doubt that keptin hiding until now, awaiting a good opportunity to appear be- fore him, pops up suddenly like an assailant at the turn of a road. And if there were nothing true in the little romance with which he had harassed his brain during twenty-four hours, save a strange resem- blance in the handwriting! If Marina, the singer, really existed, and his daughter were far away or dead ! Firm in his wish to avoid explanations and to forget entirely the past, the professor did not watch yesterday for Anna Maria’s return, and this morning he did not wait till she came. Instead of Serafina free and unrestrained beneath her father’s roof-tree, to the extent of being almost mistress of her

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100 tears (so Marcantonio would like to have her, and so he imagined her), Anna Maria may very possibly come to meet him with the letter in one hand and the other hand under her apron, and say to him: ‘‘ You were mistaken in the Via Torino, number 60; the signora is not there.’’ Andthen? What willhe do then? Marc- antonio thinks of it, and says to himself, it will be a species of ruin. That edifice, which he has erected, laboring at it twenty- four hours in succession (because even when asleep he did not cease a minute from busy- ing his fancy with it; and when he was de- molishing Spinoza, all he was doing was preparing new material for his fabric) ; that edifice is already so lofty and massive that if it falls it will overwhelm with its ruins all Marcantonio’s future life. In vain will he ask for consolation from the freakish Vir- ginia, or the unknown, dressed in black. All the most freakish girls in the universe, and all the widows of the body politic will not compensate him for his dream. He knows it, and he thinks once more: ‘*Miserable man, to demand of life the price of a vanished dream !”’ Marcantonio should have in his pocket Marina's letter. Heseeks forit with trepida- tion, finds it, examines it. Ah! there can be no doubt of it ; it is really his daughter’s handwriting. There are her s’s that look like f's ; there are her flourishes that make useless lines across her l’s. Every doubt is useless, nay, is injurious ; because already arrived at the door of his house, the pro- fessor has not yet thought of the scene that must follow. Let us see. What shall he say when he enters? How shall he act? He will take his daughter by the hand without looking in her face, and will say to the fat serving maid, who doubtless will be at his heels : ‘* Anna Maria, nothing is changed in my house ; my daughter shall re-enter it, a girl, as she left it—and now go to the kitchen.”’ And he will say to Serafina : ‘*And you, my child, embrace me. Emo- tion does no good; therefore I advise you not to weep, and to forget the past.’’ Having done and said this, not an action more nor a word less, Marcantonio hopes that for the first and most difficult meeting, it will be enough. But what will Serafina say ? THE COSMOPOLITAN. The professor has arrived at the door of the house, and stops a moment to gain time to answer this question. It is strange: his old heart beats as though some catastrophe were imminent ; fora long time the old heart of Signor Io has beaten thus. The memory of the first smile of a dead one, a smile full of life and love ; of the first lesson before a school not inattentive enough ; of the first kiss on the cheek of a crying, new-born in- fant, revolves in his mind, comes to him. Then his heart beat strongly also, but not so now. What will Serafina say ? He repeats the question, but does not stay to answer. He is on the stairway. The porter has not seen him pass, and he is al- most glad not to have the fact confirmed by hearing him say: ‘‘Do you know? The young lady is upstairs.”’ But now he searches for the marks of Serafina’s passage on the steps, and, finding nothing, is oppressed with a chill not unlike that of the iron grating and the brass sup- ports, but without knowing it. Suddenly he shakes off the mental lethargy that is causing him to lose ground before an ad- versary still invisible, mounts rapidly the few remaining steps that separate him from the landing, and stops at his own door. Shall he ring the bell, or rather open the door with the key he always carries in his pocket, and enter the house unexpectedly? Serafina and Anna Maria had better be made acquainted with his coming. Therefore he rings. Anna Maria does not come promptly ; but he might not be expected until night. Marcantonio will not ring again ; he does not know even whether he can open the door with the key in his pocket. He hasn’t the heart; now he understands it: it is his nerves. At last he hears a step behind the door that opensslowly. Marcantonio enters, Anna Maria opens wide her mouth and eyes, ‘and says nothing. The poor old thing has been crying, but Marcantonio doesn’t notice it. ‘* Where is Serafina ?’’ he finds courage to say in a trembling voice. Anna Maria begins to answer by closing her mouth and swallowing the saliva ; then she beckons with her head toward the next room. She cannot say any thing else. The professor feels his knees bend under him, and is compelled to seat himself on a

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SJGNOR JO. IOI stool. In the meantime Anna Maria finds her tongue. “If you had seen her !’’ she begins to say; but Marcantonio also calls to mind his pro- gramme. ‘‘Anna Maria,’’ he says with dignity, “nothing is changed in my house. My daughter will re-enter it a girl, as she left it ; and now go tothe kitchen.”’ The dignity with which he pronounced these words forbade him remaining another moment on top of a common hall-stool. He gets up, and goes into the small dining- room in a kind of stupor, but fortunately Serafina is not there. Yet, his heart begins to torture him again. Why? Simply be- cause on entering he has seen the hem of a dress disappearing at another door, and a white handkerchief falling from the table to the floor. Marcantonio pauses in the middle of the room, and picks up the handkerchief. It was bathed with tears ; he knew it. As if to chew a little the cud of bitter fancy, or perhaps to gain time, he seeks the initials of his daughter’s new name embroi- dered on the corner, and finds instead, the name of his own poor, lost—Faustina! Al- most at the same time a gentle voice, the very same voice of the woman who had loved him so fondly, says timidly : ‘‘T am here !’’ And because, held back by a crowd of old sensations and sentiments that reblossom in his heart, he is not quick in rising to his feet, the voice repeats still louder: ‘“‘T am here.”’ And inthe void of the door that has been opened without noise, appears the sad vision of her, of her herself, of Faustina, pale and emaciated as in her last illness, but rejuve- nated and made more beautiful by death. Ah! how would Marcantonio be able to support that blow? He feels that atrembling agitates him in every limb, and that a cold shivering inexpressibly sweet, perhaps a wave of pity, runs in every vein, like a fountain. He has closed his eyes, and—who knows? he has opened his arms perhaps without being conscious of it, for he feels on his breast the weight of a delicate form, and on his lips the kiss of the dear departed one. le opens his eyes and says nothing. While that charm lasts he could not speak if he wished it; but how speak when he is weeping? Weep, Marcantonio, thy old tears repay all the weeping of thy daughter. The poor young thing laying her patient little face under that beneficent rain, smiles and seems to weep herself, while she says tenderly : ‘* Papa, don’t !’’ Don’t mind her, Marcantonio. Weep, let thy old tears fall on thy daughter’s face ; they will certainly not do her any harm. XV. MARCANTONIO tries to smile on his daugh- ter, looks in her eyes speaking to his with a wonderful tenderness, caresses her cheeks, pale from suffering, and yet does not know what to say to her. ‘‘T am here,’’ repeats Serafina with her mother’s voice. ‘*This day had tocome. I have waited for it solong, and it has come!’ ‘* How are you ?”’ speaking loud in order to drown the undertone of weeping. ‘‘ You are suffering much pain, are you not?’’ ‘* You are mistaken, papa, Iam not suffer- ing at all; Iam well, but I have not always been so well, I assure you,”’ Marcantonio would like to believe it, but he can’t. On first seeing Serafina some- thing said to him : ‘*Marcantonio, your daughter has come home to die in the bed of her childhood.’’ “You have suffered a great deal, then ?’’ he asks, gaining courage. ‘‘ You have been very ill?’’ ‘* But now I am well.” “You shall get well,’’ exclaims Marc- antonio vehemently. ‘‘ Now you must get well to please me, since I wish it, and my Serafina has ever been obedient.”’ ‘‘Not always,’’ murmurs the young wo- man. ‘‘ Let us forget the past, let us forget it, my child ; for your sake and for mine, let it not be mentioned any more. So yesterday does not exist ; the only real living time is the future. The only day of the week is to- morrow. Are you satisfied with this?” Serafina bends her head on her breast, and says nothing, and her father, thinking to console her, insists in a low voice: ‘‘ As for me, I have forgotten every thing. Do you forget too. Think of getting well. To-morrow I will send for the doctor ; he will give you medicine that will cure you

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102 It is useless to think of the house for I see it plainly ; you are too soon. some days. weak.’’ Serafina remains silent, and he continues: ‘* We will tell Anna Maria to remain in the house at night also. She will attend to the kitchen as before. I will keep the keys of the pantry and the wardrobe. I shalltry not to make mistakes, but will make some every minute, and you will laugh, and I—I will laugh too. And as soon as you are well again, I promise you,’’ he adds with play- ful solemnity, ‘‘I swear to you, I will give up all the keys to you, from the first to the last. Are you satisfied, my daughter? Say, are you Satisfied ?”’ Serafina smiles sadly, but does not answer, and the unhappy Marcantonio hears in the silence the trouble of that poor wounded heart, and the cruel voice that repeats : ‘Thy daughter has come home to die in the bed of her childhood.”’ His soul sends forth a new cry. Other paternal chords are awakened. What re- mains now of Signor Io? A dim remem- brance as of a long-vanished time. Yester- day, however, Signor Io trembled when he received the letters, and yet this yesterday of his seems so distant as almost to justify the odd sentence suggested to him by re- morse : ‘The only real and living time is the future ; the week has one day only, and that is to-morrow.”’ That little that is still left of Signor Io is there in front of Marcantonio, to speak to him of his daughter. How much the poor young creature must have suffered since reduced to such a miser- able state! She had thought of taking a second husband! Perhaps, like all invalids, she did not believe in her illness, and still flattered herself that other happy days were in store for her ; perhaps she hoped for noth- ing further than to find in the home of some old egotist, who would not be averse to her beauty and youth, a quiet bed where she might close her eyes in death. Another dumb cry from the soul of Marc- antonio. Now all the paternal chords are awakened, and demand a miracle. Of whom? Of any one, of nature, of the ens that has created the exzs/ens, of the Eternal Love of which he feels himself an afflicted atom, of the very men that he had despised THE COSMOPOLITAN. as late as yesterday. He would like to throw himself at the feet of that suffering young creature, who, smiling, has placed one warm little hand in his, and offers her white and serene brow to his tardy kisses ; he would like to give her life once more at the cost of his own, to pay for happiness with the loss of that repose so dearto him. The idea of of watching entire nights like a ghost in a dark closet, bent ever over a pillow to catch the first indications of returning health, in a constant struggle with sleep in order not to let himself be taken unprepared, did not frighten him. The idea of suffering for his daughter did not frighten him, provided his daughter recovered. Say, what is left to Signor Io now? He exerts himself in vain to entertain himself with the last atom that is about to lose itself in a new love. In vain he says that Serafina is a part of himself, and that a father's affection is the most beautiful and healthiest form of humanegotism. To-day his astute philosophy has an impediment in its speech, and is confounded. ‘* Serafina,’’ he says, printing another kiss on her white forehead, ‘‘my darling Sera- fina, you tell me nothing. Have you nothing at all to say to me ?”’ ‘‘Papa, what do you wish me to say to you? I have told you that I am satisfied, and that I am well.’’ ‘*Repeat it, my baby.”’ ‘* Tam well; I am satisfied.”’ For Marcantonio it is not enough, but he does not accuse his daughter ; he feels that it is his fault if that first meeting is almost silent. He has closed every avenue through which confidence enters, thinking he is clos- ing a single door—the past. ‘*Why not speak to me of yourself?’’ he says to herat last. ‘‘ Why not speak to me of your suffering? Why do wepile up this void of silence that separates us? Speak, I am listening.’’ ‘‘The past does not belong to me alone,”’ murmurs Serafina, looking down. Marcantonio understood, but did answer. ‘Do you want to know,”’ he says to her, lowering his voice, ‘‘ how your father has lived these years? He has lived like an egotist, hardly thinking at all of you, hardly remembering that you existed.’’ ‘It isn’t true,’’ says his daughter. not You

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SIGNOR JO. have thought of me always, and I have many proofs of it. Hereis one ; do you recognize it?”’ Serafina, saying this, stretches out her hand to her father, and shows him a gold ring. Marcantonio, confused, opens his mouth, but says nothing. Without wishing it, he has taken on a knowing air so excessively astute that Serafina had to threaten him with her finger before adding : ‘You believed I would not be able to dis- cover the secret ; indeed, I would not have thought of it, but Iginio, as soon as he saw it, said, ‘There is something under there,’ and he found immediately what was under there. Look!” Serafina slips the ring from her finger, and causes the setting to turn on a concealed pivot. “Look, doesn’t it appear to say, ‘Ama’?’’* ‘Tt is true,’’ stammers Marcantonio, ex- aggerating involuntarily the false expres- “It is true; it does ap- sion of astuteness. pear to say ‘ Ama.’ ”’ “Yes, and it says also, ‘Abate Marco Antonio.’ They are the initials of your name. Are you angry that my husband discovered the secret ?”’ “If you knew what good it did me, and in what a moment that silent consolation came!’ + Marcantonio is loath to place himself in the position of the incorrigible thief that even filches the objects that are willingly given to him. That paternal sentiment of which, perhaps, chance is the author, or per- haps some unknown tempter of Serafina, wishing to win her favor, is certainly a hand- some present ; but he feels that if he accepted it, he would be stealing like a pickpocket. Ah! if to refuse that praise should signify solely the acceptance of the accusation of being a forgetful man, or a punctilious man, ora stubborn man, he would hasten to say to his daughter : *Love 103 ‘*My dear Serafina, I know nothing of this ring. I know nothing of the other proofs of which you speak. I have never tried to approach you, because I am punctil- ious, because I am set in my ways; but nevertheless I have always loved you, have followed in my mind your every step. My jealous love has not lost you from view a moment.’’ Could he say this and not lie? Could he without falsehood appear any thing elsethan an unnatural and egotistical father ? ‘*But you know it,’’ continues Serafina, ‘“because I wrote it to you. You got my letters, always did you not ?”’ ‘*T believe—yes,’’ stammers Marcantonio. ‘“Yes, you got them all; those at least that announced a great joy or a great sorrow, because each time I had the proof that your father’s heart throbbed with my poor heart, the heart of a daughter and a mother.”’ At this last word, with his soul in his eyes, he beheld mentally the grievous pains and great joys of his daughter and a trem- bling takes possession of him. ‘*Enough,”’ he murmurs, ‘‘ enough for the present ; it does you harm to talk too much. You shall tell me your past at some later period. You shall tell me all.’’ Serafina, inexorable, repeats : ‘* The past doesn’t belong to me alone.”’ It does not seem to Marcantonio fair to conceal his emotion behind a new act of submission. “T know it, I know it,’’ he says with caressful impatience. ‘‘ My blessed girl, I know it. Well, yes, you shall speak of him also. You loved him a great deal then ?”’ “T love him still so much!’ Serafina, her face lighting up. ‘Keep still! Don’t go on so; it might hurt you; later will do. Serafina’s face continues pale, but her kind and indulgent smile does not vanish. exclaims (To be continued.]

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A GREAT POLITICIAN. By JAMES BRECK PERKINS. Author of ‘ France under Richelieu and Mazarin.” RENCH women have not played a more important part in the world than those of other nationalities ; but many of them have specially attracted the public gaze. Their salons have been centers, not only of social, but of literary and political life. Ladies, who in other countries would have exerted only a social influence, have in France done more: they have inspired the writings of authors, they have criticised and modified the theories of philosophers, they have suggested the policy of statesmen, and planned the campaigns of generals. In no period of French history do we find women taking a more active part in public life than in the seventeenth century. During the long administrations of Richelieu and Mazarin ladies sought the excitement of politics; they obtained the power and suf- fered the disappointments that come with a political career. ‘*You,’”’ said Mazarin to the Spanish minister, ‘‘are happy. You have, like every one else, two kinds of women, plenty of coquettes and a few good women. The one wishes to please her gallants and the other her husband. They have no desires except for luxury and display, and their heads would beturned if you talked politics tothem. But our women, whether prudish or gallant, young or old, wise or foolish, wish to have a hand in every thing. A wo- man will not go to rest until she has talked over the affairs of the state with her husband or her lover. They wish to manage and embroil every thing. We have three who cause us every day more confusion than ever there was in Babylon.”’ One of the three of whom Mazarin com- plained was Madame de Chevreuse. There was hardlya plot or a political scheme dur- ing thirty years of troublous times, in which Madame de Chevreuse did not take an active part. Prime-ministers recognized her power, and Richelieu and Mazarin by turns courted and persecuted her. She held diplomatic re- lations with foreign governments ; she took part in treaties with foreign powers ; she was the adviser and mistress of foreign princes ; she plotted revolts and planned murders ; she prostituted her own beauty, and that of her daughter, to increase her political power. Marie de Rohan was born in 1600, and belonged to an illustrious family. It pro- duced not only heroic men, but heroic wo- men. Two of the Rohans endured the severest misery of the siege of La Rochelle, telling the men of the family to leave them to starve on rats and boiled boot tops, rather than abandon the cause of the Huguenot faith. When the defenders of the city had perished from bullets or starvation, and only skeletons remained, the two women would sign no surrender, but accepted the lot of prisoners of war, in preference to making terms with the enemy of their faith. Marie de Rohan had the energy, the bravery, and the constancy of her family, but her moral character bore little resem- blance to that of the heroic Huguenots; she would have died for some of her lovers, but she would never have died for her faith. She had the gift of beauty, which was to prove fatal to her, as to many of her contempora- ries. Her figure was fine, her eyes were a dark blue, her hair was abundant, of rich auburn shade ; her whole appearance indi- cated vivacity and grace, combined with a passionate force. She was rich, beautiful, and high-born, and at seventeen she was married to Luines, who was already the fa- voriteof the King, and had begun his brief and extraordinary career. Luines was a private gentleman, who held a position of no great dignity as falconer of Louis XIII. But the King was only a boy, timid in his nature, and passionately fond of birds and hunting. Luines used his place to obtain the King’s confidence, and under the counsels of such an adviser, Louis authorized the murder of the Marshal of Ancre and the overthrow of his ministry. After this court revolution the new favor- ite not only gained a young and beautiful bride, but he received lands and wealth, and was made a duke and constable of France.

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A GREAT POLITICIAN. ‘The young Marie became familiar with po- litical life, as the wife of a man who then controlled the politics of France. Sheseems to have remained on friendly terms with her husband, but her life with him was short. In 1621 Luines died, leaving a son, who be- came one of the saints of the Port Royal, and a widow whose course took her far from saintly paths. She soon dried her tears, and during the next year she married the Duke of Chevreuse, amember of the powerful family of Guise. He was a nobleman of high rank, some wealth, little morality, and no ability; and during many long years he watched the varied fortunes and loves of his wife with philosophic calm. The new Duchess of Chevreuse had won the affection of Anne of Austria, who was about her own age, and her influence with the Queen furnished an op- portunity for the exercise of the political activity for which she had natural talent and natural taste. An adviser such as Madame de Chevreuse led the young Queen into relations which, if they did not ruin her character, very seriously compromised her position. The Court of France was brilliant and gallant. Spanish modes of speech and thought were in vogue. Men expressed a fervent and passionate devotion; ladies sighed for the love of the soul. ‘‘It is no crime for the men to have tender sentiments for the ladies,’’ said Madame de Sablé; ‘‘ the desire to please gives them wit and every virtue; yet ladies, though made to be adored, must only permit the devotion which is con- sistent with respect.’’ Alas for the frailty of humanity! In the times of Louis XIII., as in times before and since, love did not always remain that of the soul, and the ladies who listened to adoration that should be respectful, found that romance and prudence could not always be combined. Madame de Chevreuse took an active part in the plans of love and war of the Duke of Buckingham, the favorite of Charles I. Buckingham was then the most handsome and polished courtier of Europe. He was sent to France as the English am- bassador, and his gorgeousness and display dazzled a court that was not unaccustomed to wealth and magnificence. Ordinary conquests might satisfy ordinary men, but Buckingham’s ambition was to make love to queens. He certainly pleased 105 the young Queen of France. He walked with her in the gardens at Amiens, and poured out such passionate admiration that Anne summoned her attendants to check his ardor. From there he went to Boulogne in order to sail for England, but alleging some pretended order from Charles, he rode in hot haste back to Amiens, and had a final inter- view with the Queen. She was ill and in her bed, but the Duke was received, and said his last farewells on his knees, bathing her hands with his tears. Anne reproved his boldness, and forgave it. ‘‘ The Queen was full of virtue,’’ said Rochefoucauld, ‘‘ yet she was not unwilling to be loved.’’ But neither the King nor Richelieu cared to re- ceive so gallant an ambassador, and Bucking- ham was never again at the French Court. Madame de Chevreuse had thus far been satisfied with arranging sentimental /é/e-a- " fétes for queens and dukes, but she soon took part in more dangerous pastimes. Richelieu had already acquired that extra- ordinary power which he held for eighteen years, and exercised in controlling the des- tinies of France and of Europe. It was a power that did not rest on love, and by none was he loved less than by the great French nobles. Some were banished by him, some were imprisoned, some were beheaded,—all had to yield to the rule of a self-willed and inexorable man. Madame de Chevreuse was a woman as wellasa politician, and her political desires were largely inspired by those who engaged her affections. There were many who pleased her, and they all agreed in hatred of Richelieu. The Cardinal himself would have been glad to have gained her support ; perhaps neither his power nor his genius raised him above the desire to attract so charming a politician. But though the minister was successful in subduing internal rebellion and conquering foreign states, he was never equal to the task of pleasing women. He sought to make love as he ruled the state, by the influence of a powerful character, intensely bent on its pur- pose. He could not supplicate; he could only command. Madame de Chevreuse was not willing to betyrannized and bombarded into affection. She gave from love what she would not yield to power or gold, and she was a life-long enemy of the great Cardinal. In- stead of making friends with the Mammon of Unrighteousness, she favored a young Cha-

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106 lais, and he was led by her into some foolish opposition to Richelieu’s plans. The sche- mers do not seem to have had any very fixed purpose, but they did enough to excite the wrath of the Cardinal, and Chalais was ar- rested and charged with treason. His letters to Madame de Chevreuse are filled with an ardent devotion. ‘‘ It is not now,"’ he writes, ‘‘that I learn the divinity of your beauty. My life depends on you, and I do not fear to hazard it that you may know I love you.’’ It is sad to read that when the fear of death was upon the un- happy young man, he betrayed the object of his adoration, and declared that she had engaged him in the plot. But he soon found that servility and baseness were of as little avail on the implacable Cardinal as tears and prayers. He retracted all that he had said, and met death on the scaffold as became a gentleman. Madame de Chevreuse was too much in- volved in these tortuous schemes to es- cape, and she was banished from France. Though only twenty-five, she was thought too dangerous to remain on French soil, and for a quarter of a century the most of her life was to be spent receiving the charity of foreign courts, weaving the constant plots of the banished, and cherishing the hopes that forever allure and disappoint the exile. She went to Lorraine, which was then governed by a duke, who was young, ro- mantic, and gallant, and who was endowed to an extraordinary extent with recklessness and folly. He might have been a paladin of romance or a prince of freebooters, but he had every quality that unfitted him torule a state. Madame de Chevreuse soon made a conquest of the Duke, and for many years they continued closely allied in policy and in affection. Her first exile was comparatively brief, and after two years she was allowed to return to France. But her restless disposition soon involved her again in intrigues, which were distasteful to the jealous ruler of that king-: dom. The Marquis of Chateauneuf was Guard of the Seals, and was regarded by Richelieu as a trusty adherent. He was a man of fifty, and ambition and mature years should have cooled the ardor of romantic and perilous passion. But he contracted for Madame de Chevreuse one of those attach- ments that sometimes absorb men at the THE COSMOPOLITAN. threshold of age, and which possess a mature strength greater than the ephemeral loves of youth. Under its influence the statesman was lost in the lover, and Chateauneuf re- laxed his zeal for Richelieu in his devotion to Madame de Chevreuse. Faint-hearted- ness in the cause of the Cardinal was a dangerous crime, and the Marquis was sud- denly arrested and confined in the Castle of Angouléme. There forten years he had an opportunity to reflect on the folly of elderly passion, and he found liberty only at Riche- lieu’s death. In his papers there were found many letters of Madame de Chevreuse, some filled with affection for him, and some filled with distrust of Richelieu. She was not dealt with severely, but she received an irksome punishment. For five years she had to live in the provinces, banished from Paris, and exiled into the society of her husband. Sheobtained some consolation in such a lot by secret interviews with the Queen, and by assisting her in a clandes- tine correspondence with Spain. This also was discovered, and Madame de Chevreuse now feared that life in the provinces might be exchanged for the still more dismal fate of life in prison. A signal was agreed upon to guide her conduct. A prayer-book was to be sent her from Paris. If this was bound in green, it would signify that all was well ; but if it was bound in red, it would be a warning that she should see to her own safety. The green copy was sent, but there was some mis- understanding about the signal, and her fears of Richelieu confused her judgment or her recollection. She obtained some assistance from an Episcopal lover, the Archbishop of Tours, and resolved to fly at once. Disguis- ing herself as a man, she mounted on horse- back, rode night and day, and sought refuge in Spain. She passed near the house of the young Rochefoucauld, and sent him a note saying that she was a gentleman who had been so unfortunate as to kill an opponent in a duel, and was flying for life. He recog- nized the handwriting, but asked no ques- tions, and furnished her with a carriage. The beauty of the young cavalier, whose delicate paleness was enhanced by a costume of black, excited admirers. A girl in one of the towns where she rested made ardent love to the beautiful horseman, but the

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A GREAT POLITICIAN. rider pleaded that he had no time for affec- tion, and remained cold to all entreaties. Orders were sent from Paris to stop her in her flight, but without success, and she at last reached Spain in safety. There she was received with great honor. The King sent his coach and six to bring her into Madrid with due pomp. She had always advocated a policy friendly to Spain. Her beauty, her rank, and her misfortunes made her interest- ing to the Spanish nobility, and her talents fitted her to exercise large influence in the Spanish counsels. But she wearied of the tedious formalities of Spanish etiquette, and presently went to England. There she was always sure of a warm reception ; she found new friends and old lovers, and there she remained for two years. She was the leader of a body of exiles, considerable in numbers and illustrious in rank, who for various causes had excited Richelieu’s resentment, and had fled from France to escape his wrath. But the cup of the exile isalways filled with bitterness. Fi- nancial troubles annoyed her, and she wrote to her husband that her stronyest desire was to find herself again in France, and to live tranquilly with him and her children. We can feel certain that whatever she really wished she did not wish that. She would have infinitely preferred poverty, banish- ment, and distress, to leading a quiet do- mestic life with her husband and her child- ren. The Duke announced that he was go- ing to England to bring her back, and this prospect so terrified her that, though Charles I. promised his protection, she again fled in hot haste and took refuge in Flanders. For three years she remained in the Low Countries and Lorraine, counseling with the Spanish authorities, and advising about all the plots and conspiracies in France. The rule of Richelieu and the reign of Louis XIII. were approaching their end. For years the minister and the King had seemed near the grave, and their frequent maladies had raised hopes that had been as often disappointed. But force of will could not preserve Richelieu forever, and in December, 1642, when he was but fifty-eight, he breathed his last. In less than six months Louis XIII. followed his great minister to the grave. lhe King’s last public act showed the im- pression that the talents and the vigor of 107 Madame de Chevreuse had made upon his mind. Asolemn proclamation was prepared by him, and read to the Queen and the great nobles and officials as they stood around his deathbed. By it he sought to regulate the government of the state when he should be no more. There were many Frenchmen then in exile, but their recall was left to the discretion of the regent. Madame de Chevreuse alone, of men or women, was declared to be so full of artifice and danger- ous schemes, that it was forbidden to allow her on French soil until France should again be at peace with all the world. The Queen, the ministers, and the judges, all promised to observe the King’s last directions, but no sooner was he dead than his declaration was annulled by the unani- mous voice of all. Louis XIV. was but four years old, anda long regency was as- sured to Anne of Austria, his mother. Madame de Chevreuse had for many years been her adviser and her friend ; she had suffered persecutions for the Queen's sake, and now that the day of Anne’s triumph had come, it seemed to promise unlimited power to her old confidante. Anne was in- dolent, and needed some one who would re- lieve her of the burdens of power. Madame de Chevreuse never wearied, and would have found pleasure in regulating the politics, not only of France, but of all Europe ; the duties which would be irksome to the Queen would be delightful to the friend. After five years’ banishment she was re- called to France. She was then at Brussels, and twenty carriages filled with princes and nobles accompanied her as she left that capital for her triumphal return. The gov- ernors of cities and strong places received her in solemn state, as she traveled through France. When she reached Paris she was greeted by the Queen with every mark of af- fection. Ten years of absence, said the courtly Gazette, had not affected her mag- nanimity, and, what was yet more extra- ordinary, had not impaired her beauty. But her own anticipations and those of her friends were doomed to disappointment. It is doubtful whether the regent still felt the affection which she professed. Madame de Chevreuse had been a courageous friend in adversity, but she was sure to be a dom- ineering friend in prosperity. Her coun- sels had been valued by the victim of oppres-

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THE COSMOPOLITAN. sion, but they seemed dictatorial to the pos- sessor of power. Another still stronger influence drew Anne from the control of her former adviser. ** Who has the heart has every thing,’’ was a saying of Mazarin, and he was guided by his own maxim. He sought to ensure his power by gaining the affection of the Regent, and he succeeded in the endeavor. The Cardinal was handsome and smooth-spoken; his manners possessed a subtle flattery ; his words were full of charm ; his person was said to resemble that of the Duke of Buckingham. At twenty-five Anne had been willing to be loved, and she was not unwilling to be loved at forty-two. She was pious, but her piety was elastic. First, she gave Mazarin her confidence, and then, she gave him her heart. Madame de Chevreuse was treated with much deference ; she obtained some favors for her friends ; she received some money for herself: but every month showed more plainly that the ruler of France was to be the Cardinal and not the Duchess. Mazarin recognized the abilities of his rival, and treated her as the leader of the Importants, the party that sought his overthrow. The Importants, as they were dubbed, were de- clared by their enemies to be persons of mel- ancholy manners and muddy minds. They certainly were unable to obtain control of the government, and some of their leaders resolved to rid themselves of Mazarin by foul means, when fair means had failed. Those most active in planning Mazarin’s murder seem to to have been the Duchess of Chevreuse and her stepmother, the Duchess of Montbazon. The ladies who took part in politics were even less scrupulous than the men as to the means by which they reached their ends. The Duke of Beaufort agreed with them that he would rid the world of their common enemy, and arrangements were made to kill him as he was riding in his carriage. Accident several times prevented the execution of the plot, until Mazarin re- ceived some intimation of it, and Beaufort was arrested. He'temained for five years in prison, but the ladies who had been his coun- selors were safe from conviction, and were almost free from suspicion. Anne however grew constantly more weary of her old friend, and resolved to be rid of her. Though Madame de Chevreuse was now for- ty-three, she was still as eager in matters of the heart as in matters of state. The regent was offended by her frivolity, and bored by her advice. One day she complained that Anne was forgetting her former friends. The Queen replied that Madame de Chev- reuse had reached an age when she should desire repose and retreat, and that she had best fit herself for another world instead of meddling in theaffairs of this. After such an insult there could be no more pretense of friendship. The Duchess was soon ordered to leave Paris, and she began again her wan- derings in foreign lands. She did not follow the Queen’s advice, and turn her thoughts to another world. She still plotted, still advised with states- men, and still sought the admiration of men. But though her beauty had not wholly faded, it now excited admiration rather than devo- tion. Men would live with her, but they were no longer willing to die for her. Her third exile was not so full of adventure as her former years of banishment. Gallant courtiers were not moved as they once had been by the sight of such charms suffering under such misfortunes. She continued to be the adviser of the Duke of Lorraine, but she formed an attach- ment for a gentleman of much less rank, the Marquis of Laigues. To him she seems to have remained constant for the remainder of her life, and when her husband died ten years later, it is said that she was secretly married to Laigues. But she watched the varying phases of French politics with unfailing in- terest, and waited until some turn in affairs should allow her own return. After six years of wandering, the troubles at Paris furnished the opportunity. She entered the city, which was then in a state of incipient insurrection, and she became one of the leaders of the Fronde. Her re- lations with that party were cemented by an unholy alliance. The popular element of Paris was largely controlled by the Co- adjutor Retz, who was the assistant-arch- bishop of Paris, and afterward became both an archbishop and a cardinal. Those who believe that times and morals grow worse, and that our sins are as our ’ forefathers’ arid much more abundant, would do well to study the social condition of past ages. The seventeenth century was not one of special immorality in French history, but

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A GREAT POLITICIAN. Retz wielded an extraordinary power, and filled his position as acting archbishop of the great Diocese of Paris with success, though his life was one of avowed and un- blushing profligacy. He had no religious ’ belief; he gave his days to plotting and his nights to intrigue; he went from the cele- bration of the mass to the house of his mistress, and he has left memoirs dedicated to some of his lady friends, in which his amatory exploits are described with the heart of a Don Juan and the pen of a Zola. Madame de Chevreuse hada young daugh- ter of great beauty, and she became the mistress of the future Archbishop. The mother approved of theintrigue, even if she did not devise it, as a means of obtaining political power. The two acutest intellects among the Frondeurs were thus bound closely together. Rival beauties tried in vain to overthrow this influence. ‘‘ Tell the true reason that you will not leave Paris?’’ said a duchess to the Archbishop. “You cannot leave your nymphs.’’ Then she continued that she could not see why he should amuse himself with an old woman who was more wicked than the devil, anda young woman who was more foolish than the mother was bad. Retz tells us in his memoirs that Mlle. de Chevreuse was as foolish as she was beautiful, but her fortune was bound up in many of the political combinations of the day. One great alliance against Mazarin was to be cemented by her marriage to a prince of the house of Condé ; another league was to be based on her marriage with a 109 nephew of the Cardinal, and the chosen heir to his possessions, but political changes pre- vented one match and death anticipated the second before the frail beauty could become a bride. Years of exile, of disappointment, and sometimes of need quenched the flames of opposition in the breast of Madame de Chevreuse. She no longer led dukes and princes captive by her beauty; she was wearied of the vdé/e of a princess-errant ; she desired the rest and the comfortable pensions that came with assured favor at Court. She had sufficient sagacity to foresee the failure of the Fronde, and to make her peace while there was still time. Mazarin appreciated the value of her counsels, her good judg- ment, and long experience in disturbed times. After thirty years of unquiet sche- ming, she found herself at last enjoying the favors and bounty of the Court, and possessed of an influence which was considerable, even if it was not all that she had hoped for in the heyday of youth and ambition. Long years of rest followed her life of turmoil. Like many of her contempo- raries, when she was too old for love and politics, she interested herself in religion. She became a friend of the Port Royal, she married her lover, she established her family, she led a life full of edification. It was not until she had reached the age of seventy- nine that she left a world in which she had once been so active. She met death with the contrition of a sinner and the tranquility of a saint. TO HER MUFF. By H. C. FAULKNER. As silky and as black, And as soft as pussy’s back When she purrs, You are but a bit of fluff, But I like you, little Muff, You are hers. Your lining is of blue, Or was when you were new ; On the same, With a dainty crewel stitch, She has spelled the letters which Make my name. When her little fingers touch The stitches, there is much . That they tell. Ah! learned little thread, You know why cheeks are red Very well. ; ° Dear Muff, although you hold Her pretty hands, you bold, Little tease, I’ve the best of you in this: You can give them neither kiss Nor a squeeze !

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THE DIARY OF AN HONEST MAN. By JuLia K. WETHERILL. EPTEMBER 25. Have just discovered, after having been brought up on prin- ciples of the sternest rectitude, that honesty is by no means the best policy. What does Uncle Dan mean by it? His letters, written from the midst of his Florida orange-groves, have always pounded away on one text : ‘*Be honest, my dear boy, for honesty’s sake, and not for any thing you will gain by it. That honesty is the best policy, is a maxim for rogues, and is valuable only be- cause it protects the stable and the hen- roost.”’ Uncle Dan is the most generous old boy in the world. When I was left an orphan, he came forward and undertook all the expenses of my support and education; and when that was completed, agreed that I should study law, my talents lying in that direc- tion. Meanwhile, I knew him only through his calm and reasonable letters. Judge of my surprise when I found him an impetuous, enthusiastic Southern gentleman, ‘‘all of the olden time.’’ best of friends. One day, several weeks after we had made each other’s acquaintance, Uncle Dan said to me: ‘* Maury, my boy, you’re something of a critic. Just run your eye over these poems, and give me your opinion of them.”’ This was a flattering way of stating the case, and I received the handsomely-bound volume cheerfully. I wasyoungthen. Iam older now. They were wonderfully bad, and, after glancing over them, I launched forth into a scathing criticism. Thunder-clouds gathered on Uncle Dan’s brow. I stopped—stammered—and the mystery was solved. Uncle Dan was the author of these wonderfully bad poems. His poetic seizure, like all complaints con- tracted late in life, was a particularly severe one. Having expressed my honest opinion, I stood by it—respectfully but firmly. The upshot was, that Uncle Dan bounced off to his Florida groves in a rage, advising me to take careof myself, as he had done with me. However, we were the Principles, it seems, are to be talked about, ° not practiced. That was two months ago. I am upto my eyes in debt, and unreceipted bills stare me out of countenance wherever I turn. This is past a joke. I cannot dig; to beg, I am ashamed, and, meanwhile, none of my friends know of the change in my prospects. No doubt it would be wise to cut those gay companions, once for all. They will soon enough cut me. But there’s acertain pair of brown eyes, with a look in them like a wounded fawn’s: no, I can’t leave those eyes forever. If one could only find some employment that would pay well, and not be too laborious. October 2. Am approaching desperation. Have been climbing up and down the ad- vertising-columns. I found there my old friend, the woman who wants a weekly wash ; also the Christian woman in search of a home; the artless lady who wishes to keep house for a widower ; stout boys are desired in shoals ; live boys by the dozen ; middle-aged men to open oysters ; experi- enced hands on gents’ pants ; girls on paper boxes ; ladies of talent to learn the tobacco business. But no one seems to feel any pressing need for a gentleman of leisure. The supply clearly exceeds the demand. I came near giving up in disgust, when my eye was caught by an odd advertisement : “Light and profitable employment for young men of genteel appearance. Salary liberal. None but perfect gentlemen desired. Apply, in person, to B. Prodgers, 1818 Blank Street.”’ Have I, Maury Stone, cometo such a pass? Yes ! absurd as it seems, I am going to try it. Iam adrowning man, and this is the only straw in sight. October 5. Uhave triedit. It is a smart, shabby house in a cheap, pretentious row. The bell was answered by a frowsy maid, who stared wildly at me, and remarked in- coherently, when I asked if B. Prodgers was at home : ‘* Ye—yes, sir; they ain’t in.”’ Showed me into a room so dark that I

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THE DIARY OF AN HONEST MAN. mistook the piano for a sofa, and tried to sit on it. When my eyes grew more accustomed to the darkness, I made out a snow basket, some worsted decorations, and a floral wreath of human hair, framed and glazed on the wall. Took up the photograph album. Pictures of the Fat Woman and the Pink-eyed Girl. Relatives or friends of the family, no doubt. In a few minutes two men camein. One was short and stout, with sleek hair, and an expression of melancholy pleasure that re- minded me of an undertaker during business hours. The other was slim and genteel, with his hair banged, and a sales-gentle- manly manner. ‘‘Monterey, we'll have a little more light on the subject, if you please,’’ remarked the former. Monterey threw open the shutters. ‘*T called in answer to the advertisement,”’ said I. ‘‘ Hm—yes,’’ remarked the stout person, eying me from head to foot. A pause followed, and then he said : ‘* Be so kind as let me see you walk across the floor.’’ Completely dazed, I did as requested. ‘“‘Um—yes,’’ Mr. Prodgers repeated critic- ally; ‘‘quite a genteel figger, ain’t he, Monterey? And now,’’ he added, ‘‘ a bow if you please.”’ I did my best in that line. ‘That’s good! that’s first-rate!’ cried Mr. Prodgers, giving way to enthusiasm. “Why, he’s equal to Wilkins.”’ “Wilkins ain’t a patch on him,”’ mured Monterey. ‘‘Now, sir, will you let me see you offer your arm to a young lady ?”’ ‘What is the meaning of all this mum- mery ?’’ I demanded out of patience. Thus questioned, he explained that it was his business to furnish male protection to ladies who were strangers in the city, or otherwise unaBle to provide themselves with escorts to the theater or opera. ‘And nobody that ain’t up to the usages of the best society needn’t apply,’’ said Mr. Prodgers. ‘ Not,’’ he added, ‘‘that any one can't see that youain’t up to all of it.’’ He mentioned his terms, which seemed princely to one in my destitute condition. “Tm out of a genteel young man just now,’’ he continued; ‘‘ haven’t any thing mur- IlI+ on hand just now but heavy fathers. Wilkins, you see, got too high-toned, and wanted to make love to the girls. I hope you don’t gab much. I can’t have my reportation ruined by a young man who gabs.”’ ‘*Who does what?’ I demanded in dis- gust. ‘* Who chins—talks—”’ This was too much. I seized my hat and rushed out of the house, Mr. Prodgers rushed after me, and I heard his voice fol- lowing on the breeze: ‘‘Stop, stop! I say, hold on !’ Death rather than Prodgers ! October 9. I have succumbed to necessity and—Prodgers. A fresh batch of bills settled the matter. I am enlisted in his service for three evenings in the week, and the beggarly remnant I have to myself. He plainly considers me a pearl of great price. ‘It’s a big thing,’’ he says, rubbing his hands. October rr. Am just recovering from my first call to duty, which led me to the Hotel Bellevue, a spot much frequented by pro- vincial folk on shopping tours. I found the Misses Cobb, two tall, blooming damsels, with rather nondescript faces and defiant manners, as though they did not intend to be daunted by the splendors of the hotel. The mother was a thin woman with a deter- mined but anxious smile, and seemed to have some difficulty in arranging her lips in genteel shapes. All three were dressed in cheap, crackly silks and satins, burlesquing the prevailing fashion. I was about to offer my arm to the mamma, when the taller of the girls coolly appropriated it, leaving the others to follow as best they might. Miss Cobb gave me much valuable in- formation about Birdsboro, her native town; but spoke of it de haut en bas. It was too slow for her. But I heeded Mr. Prodgers’ admonition. I did not ‘‘ gab.’? When we entered the street-car, the younger girl re- sisted all her mother’s efforts to make her admire the city by night. “‘T saw it all before at the Centennial,’’ she explained for the benefit of the other passengers. I could have murdered the Cobb family in cold blood before I got them safely inside the theater. Happily, we were going to see

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112 **Olivette,’’ given by a rather inferior com- pany, and I did not much fear meeting any of my friends. ‘Well, ain’t this grand,’’ exclaimed mamma, moved by the glories of the chan- delier. ‘*Hush, ma !’’ said the younger, giving her a reproving nudge. I opposed a stony unresponsiveness to all Miss Cobb's efforts at conversation. For- tunately a dreadful young man from Birds- boro sought them out, and made himself agreeable. Among other things he observed that the prima donna had ‘‘a good mouth for pivie.’’ Fearing, no doubt, that I felt myself out in the cold, Miss Cobb said : ‘*Mr. Brown, let me make you acquainted with Mr.—Mr.—”’ I suggested in a sepulchral **Jones,”’ voice. Mr. Brown made me an indescribable bow, and remarked, ‘‘ Pleased to meet you.”’ It seemed a small eternity before I got rid of the Cobbs. ! Have bought myself a false moustache, a sandy one. My dearest friend wouldn’t know me with iton. The fact is, De Wolfe said to me this morning : ‘“ Who were those queer parties you were trotting out last night ?’’ Seeing my confusion, he went on: ‘‘Country cousins, hey? The girls were not so bad, but why didn’t you leave the old woman at home?’’ Hence the purchase of the moustache. October 12. October 178. Horror! horror! I am in- clined to cut the whole business. It grows more and more dreadful. The meaning of this outburst is, that I am summoned to escort Miss Sage and Miss St. Julian to the opera. How shall I meet these fawn-like eyes, whose only language is truth and purity. Miss Sage is her aunt, a rich aunt, who adopted herin childhood. This should be a bond of sympathy between us. I have never seen Miss Sage, for Mrs. Cerulean usually chaperons Nathalie; but I have heard much of hereccentricities. This must be one of them. October 19. My heart was going like a trip-hammer that evening asI waited. First I heard the rustle of draperies outside, and then a rather pouting voice saying : THE COSMOPOLITAN. ‘But, auntie, it’s so absurd. I don’t see why you want me to go with you.”’ ‘* Because I do,’’ replied a decided voice. “You ought to be willing to go out with your poor old aunt once in a month of Sun- days !’’ ‘‘Tam, auntie. You know I am.”’ heard the soft murmur of a kiss. When Nathalie entered, I caught myself on the brink of speaking to her as an equal. How triumphantly her bright young beauty rose from the soft gloom of black velvet, in which .she had chosen to robe herself. A black velvet band sown with pearls clasped the white column of her throat. And oh! that darling dimple in her chin, and that sweeter one, if possible, in her left cheek ! Miss Sage is a tiny woman, a mere scrap of human clay, with black eyes peering from under grey curls. She was dressed in an old-fashioned brown brocade, very full in the skirt, and seemed perfectly satisfied with her own appearance. I stood there like a statue of stupidity, until Miss Sage handed me her opera-glass. ‘*Don’t you drop it anywhere,’’ she com- manded. ‘*No, madam,”’ I replied in a deep, sepul- chral bass, which suddenly ran up into a squeak. My natural voice is a mild tenor. ‘*My, my, young man !’’ exclaimed Miss Sage. ‘‘ Whata cold you’ve got! -Take a lozenge.’’ And she held out an odd little silver box. ‘‘ Auntie, I am afraid we shall be late,”’ suggested Nathalie. After I had handed the ladies to the car- riage, Miss Sage gave methe following re- markable command : ‘*Pilein. I want to be on time.’’ A few minutes after, she poked the coach- man in the back, and vociferated : ‘‘James! James! look out for that man in the wagon. He’ll be making a dab at our horses the first thing.’’ Have only a hazy recollecti8n of ‘‘Fidelio.”’ When it was all over and I was piloting them through the crowd, Miss Sage saw an acquintance in front of her, a tall, thin, pokerish man. Giving him a nudge to at- tract his attention, she said: ‘* How are you, Mr. Singleton ? Mrs. Singleton getting along ?”’ “Thank you, she is still seriously indis- posed,’’ he answered. And I How is

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THE DIARY OF AN HONEST MAN. “How disgusting !”’ sympathetically. He turned and gave her a blighting look. ‘Not at all disgusting, madam, but very painful.” And he disappeared with all the dignity possible in such a crush. ‘‘Humph ! must have eaten a poker for dinner. He’d better stay at home with his wife,’ commented Miss Sage in an ill-used tone. October 28. Last night Nathalie said to me, ‘‘ Not long ago I saw a man who is al- most the image of you.”’ ‘““A remarkably handsome young man, with charming manners, of course,’’ I sug- gested boldly. ‘‘Ah! but he isn’t,’’ she retorted. ‘‘He has the most idiotic expression, and such a horrid red moustache. The resemblance is in general outline only.”’ Then she confided in me concerning her aunt’s queer freak. ‘‘Wasn’t it ridiculous ?’’ she said with her dear little tinkling laugh. ‘‘ Aunt Bessie has such odd ideas ; but she is the best wo- man in the world. She has taken care of me ever since I was a little bit of a thing, andthink what a troubleI must have been !”’ And she turned her eyes upon me in a be- wildering way. I mumbled something absurd—goodness knows what! O Nathalie! Nathalie! cried Miss Sage November ro. Have escorted all sorts and conditions of women to every variety of en- tertainment. Now that the first tremor has worn off, I snatch a fearful joy from the study of the queer specimens that fall to my share. When questioned as to why I am not visible on certain evenings, I mutter something about ‘‘engagements’’ or ‘‘ studying hard,’’ and the latter is truthful. Miss Sage is one of our especial patrons. I have escorted her to comedies, tragedies, operas light and heavy, lectures, temperance meetings, spiritualistic séances,; but never again has Nathalie accompanied us. I meet her constantly, and I think she has guessed my feeling for her. Sometimes I feel that she wonders at my silence. But what right have I to speak of love to her? —an impostor, a living lie. It would have been better to have sunk into obscurity at once, when my uncle cut me adrift, than to go on in this miserable way. 113 November 16. escort Miss Sage. Am again summoned to November 17. Was surprised to find Nathalie going with us; but am so hard- ened in deception that I felt quite uncon- cerned under the careless glance she gave me. The opera was ‘‘Mignon,’”’ charmingly rendered. Just where J/ignon began to sing “‘ Je connais un pauvre enfant,’’ Miss Sage dropped her fan, and, in duty bound, I began to grope for it under the seats. While I did so, my moustache became detached some- how and fell off. I hastily clapped it on again, unseen by Miss Sage ; but when I raised my head, Nathalie’s eyes were fixed upon me. First she turned scarlet, and then a cold, haughty look came. over her face. I was petrified. Don’t believe I knew when the performance was over. Have an in- distinct memory of Miss Sage’s voice say- ing sharply, ‘‘Come, come! don’t be all night about it.’’ It is all over. ‘‘ The rest is silence.”’ November 23. 1 can’t give her up with- out a struggle. I must see her once more, and explain the necessity that forced me to this step. She is to be at Mrs. De Witt’s to-morrow night. November 25. I waylaid her in a seques- tered nook, and tried to be calmly explana- tory ; but somehow I brokedown. Told her incoherently that I adored her, and it was for her sake I had taken up this remarkable profession, and much more of the same sort. How lovely she looked with two great bright tears shining in her fawn-like eyes, and how indignantly she reared her dear little head. ‘“‘ You have no right to say that I despise you for being poor and unfortunate,’’ she cried. ‘‘That isn’t it atall. It’s your un- kindness, and, and want of trust in me. You didn’t believein me; you didn’t believe I was really your friend.’’ And then—well, somehow, I kissed her. November 27. The days of miracles are not yet passed. I was sitting at my desk yesterday evening in the dusk, with my head between my hands, lost in somber thoughts of ways and means, when suddenly some

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114 one gave me a slap on the back. I sprang to my feet. It was Uncle Dan. ‘* Well, Maury, my boy,’’ he remarked with great effrontery, ‘‘I hope you’ve re- covered your temper by thistime. But let bygones be bygones. As for those poems, they may goto the dickens. Scattergood— you know he’s the rascally pickpocket who edits the Florida Lancet. Well, the scoundrel actually had the impudence to praise them, not knowing the author. That settles it. They must have been powerfully bad. But tell me about yourself.’’ SoI gave him the history of the past few months. ‘* By George !’’ he cried, ‘‘that was what Icall plucky. I’d have done such a thing myself when I was a young man. Didn’t know you had it in you.”’ That evening I took him around to see Nathalie, with whom he fell in love at first sight—for who would not ? THE COSMOPOLITAN. ‘* Well,’’ said Miss Sage, nodding herlittle head, ‘‘the young man has had a hard time, but he’s none the worse for it. It was his baptism of fire. A body can tell by looking at Uncle Dan that he couldn’t hold out long in the stern ‘ parient’ ré/e. But young people mustn’t be curbed over tight, or they’ll kick over the traces.’’ When I tendered my resignation to Mr. Prodgers, he nearly wept. “*T’ll never find such another young gent,”’ he sighed. ‘‘Such a get-up, such a nobby bow.”’ Nathalie and I are to be married in the spring, and our wedding-journey will be to the orange-groves. January 7. Have turned over a new leaf. Am going to be honest from this time forth forevermore. UNCLE SAM’S BOOK-CASE, By FRANK G. HE National Library at Washington is the largest library in the United States, and the sixth largest library in the world. It contains five hundred and sixty thousand bound volumes, two hundred thousand pam- phlets, and three hundred and fifty thousand sheets of music, and it has tens of thousands of works of art, maps, and photographs. Its annual increase from copyright alone amounts to from twenty to thirty thousand volumes. It is the great brain-reservoir of the United States. It contains a complete index of the workings of the American mind. Every thing in literature, music, or art, that is copyrighted, must be deposited in it, and the brain reels in attempting to con- ceive how many lives of intellectual workers are packed away upon its shelves. In company with one of its librarians I lately took a walk through its various parts, and spent nearly a half-day winding in and out through aisle after aisle, and wall after wall of books, picking my way between great stacks of volumes, and entering room after room which the eye of the ordinary vistor never sees. The National Library is at the west end of the great Capitol. Its CARPENTER. thousands of volumes have long since over- flowed its capacity, until now every availa- ble inch of space is utilized, and every room in the vicinity is stacked with books. The very floors of the Library are piled up with overflow, and the shelves seem almost bursting with their tightly-packed contents. The Library proper, which is also the read- ing-room, consists of a long hall-like room with wings at each end jutting off like the head of a T. The reading-room is ninety- one feet long, thirty-four feet wide, and thirty-four feet high. Its walls are made up of rectangular alcoves, each about the size of asmall hall bedroom, and shut off from the room by a door of iron lattice-work. The walls of these alcoves are filled with books, and there are three galleries of them rising one above another. In.the front of the upper galleries are balustrades, and these have also been lined on the inside with book- shelves, so that as you walk along the nar- row galleries you almost graze the books on either side. The wings at the ends are fitted up with similar alcoves, and the whole looks like an immense bee-hive, with hundreds of cells of

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UNCLE SAM'S BOOK-CASE. as many colors as you will find in book- bindings. The visitars are the bees. They are not allowed, however, to go into these alcove cells, and the reading in the Library js done at tables on the lower floor of the main room and of its wings. The library is almost always full of readers, and on Satur- days the crowd is so great that many do their reading while standing. The Library is lighted by skylights. Its framework is of beautifully carved iron, painted in cream and gold, and it is one of the most beautifully decorated rooms of the Capitol. The workers in it are men, women, and children, and they are of all conditions and professions. During my visit Isaw two judges of the Supreme Court, Harlan and Bradley, working away at one table, while Senator Hoar of Massachusetts sat at another, and between them a school boy was busy reading astory. In another corner George Ticknor Curtis, the biographer, was grind- ing away with a lot of historical books be- fore him, and near by a young Washington lawyer was looking over the great bound files of The National Intelligencer of the year A. D. 1800, A cabinet minister’s wife stood at the table in the center of the room, behind which Mr. Spofford gives out the books, and beside her was a plainly dressed girl, who looked as though she might make shirts for a living. A half-dozen librarians were rushing here and there carrying great armfuls of volumes, and the stout man in charge of the newspaper-room was bringing in file after file of heavy newspapers. The whole formed a busier scene than the corri- dors of the Congressional Halls, and each of these human bees seemed busy gathering honey from the intellectual flowers of the past. Going up a narrow flight of winding stairs I was shown into a room filled with govern- ment documents bound in leather. There were thousands of them, and they ran back to the beginning of the government. They are not complete, however, and there is no full printed set of our government docu- ments in this country. The best set is in the British Museum, London, and the Boston Library has a better one than Congress. Another room is devoted to newspapers, and it is wonderful how large a collection of newspapers and periodical literature our National Library has. It has American 115 papers in complete files back to colonial days, and some of its English papers are complete in their files back to the middle of the 17th century. There are hundreds of volumes of the London 7imes, and the file of this paper is complete from its beginning. As an example of the growth in the size of newspapers, the first year of the London Times (1795) is easily bound in one vol- ume. A year of the 7imes now makes four bulky volumes larger than the one of 1795, and the paper is more than four times as large. The oldest complete English newspaper in the Library is the London Gazette, which was first issued in 1655, and which is still the court paper of England. Its first numbers were published at Oxford on account of the great fire in London, and they consisted of a single folio about the size of a sheet of foolscap. The paper of this first volume is yellow with age, but its ink shows out ‘as plainly as when it was first published, now over two hundred years ago. Its first volume comprises three years of numbers, and is no thicker than a bound volume of one of the large monthly magazines. Two hundred years later, a half-year of this paper made a bound volume thicker than the thickest Web- ster’s dictionary, and it is now fifty times the size it was when it was fitst printed. The Library secured the complete files of this paper in a curious way. Mr. Spofford tells me the story: ‘‘ The complete files of the London Gazeéte,”’ says he, ‘‘are very rare, and this file was bought years ago from a second-hand bookseller on the Strand in London. The Queen wanted a set for her library, but the bookseller was a Republican and a follower of Carlile, the Chartist, and he would not let the Crown haveit. He told the Queen’s bidders that he had another place for it, and it was offered to the com- mittee on the Library of Congress. Edward Everett was then a member of that com- mittee, and he urged its purchase. Through his influence it was bought, and it cost the government only three hundred dollars. The Library has the two great French journals, the Monituer, beginning in 1789, until it was merged into the Journal Officiel, and down to date ; and aiso the Journal des Débats. These last Mr. Spofford got at the auction sale of the library of the historian Guizot about twelve years ago. They cost

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116 him less than four dollars a volume, and were undoubtedly a great bargain. The Library has also a complete file of the Allgemeine Zeitung, the noted illustrated German paper, and it has thousands of American, Spanish, Mexican, French and other papers of every language from Japanese toEnglish. Many of these are complete, and the set of American newspapers now com- prises two of the leading ones of every state. The Library subscribed for these, and it has in addition many others that are sent to it. Some of these old American newspapers have been of great value to the government, and the full set of the Charleston Courier, covering the period of the late civil war, has saved it hundreds of thousands of dollars. This set of files was bought by the govern- ment at the request of the Southern Claims Commission, who wanted the daily papers of the war period. The man holding the papers would only sell the whole file from the beginning away back in 1800, and the government paid five thousand dollars for it. Whenever a claim for damages on the ground of loyalty and consequent loss of property was set up by any of the citizens of Charleston or South Carolina, these papers were referred to, and in many cases conclu- sive proof was found in them that the claim- ants had been Confederates, and that they had taken part in the Confederate meetings during the war. This barred them from receiving any thing from the government, and the buying of the papers was a very profitable investment. The great reservoir for the newspapers of the library is away down under the crypt, seventeen feet below the ground and on a level with the tomb of Washington. The dome with its eight million pounds of iron and stone rests over them, and the light of the sun never shines upon their backs ex- cept when they are carried out for reference. Going down among these newspapers is like entering the catacombs, and a wonderful catacomb of intellectual life they are. You wander in and out through narrow walls of bound papers surrounded by the dry bones of the thought of twocenturies. The brains of a dozen nations and of hundreds of thou- sands of minds are stored away in these cof- fin-like book-covers, and could the thoughts represented here have utterance they would form a babel worse than the mad jargon of THE COSMOPOLITAN. the famed tower of the Scriptures. There are more than five thoysand fat volumes of newspapers stored away here in the dark, and the musty smell is the only thing that greets you as you walk through them by the flickering light of the spectral gas-jet. There are other intellectual ghosts here in the shapes of maps, and about ten thousand of these of all sizes from that of a page of let- ter paper to one made during the Centennial, big enough to carpet a big parlor, lie around you. Speak to the keeper, and he will show you some rare and curious ones. He has some made on the Revolutionary battle fields in the pen-and-ink sketches of the officers of both armies. He takes pride in this col- lection, and says he has nearly every work the map-producing mind has made since the beginning of the government. He is a portly man with a full beard, and is, I should think, fifly years of age. He delights in historical relics, and a case that he has just had made for some new maps, is constructed of the timber upon which President Cleve- land stood at the time of his inauguration. All the periodicals of the country come to the National Library, and there are more than ten thousand bound volumes of maga- zines. One whole story of one of the wings is devoted to these, and they form an invalu- able collection of articles upon almost every subject. A book is published which gives an index to magazineliterature. Itis known as Poole’s Index, and it gives references to nearly all of the prominent magazines that have been published. By the use of it the literary people dig many good things out of these magazines, and they are used perhaps more than any other class of books in the Library. There are many queer departments in these upper stories of the National Library, and in one place I found a little book-bindery off by itself where a binder stands all day long with his tools and repairs the wear and tear of the thousands of books. He does only the small work, however, and patches up rather than binds. He says the French are the best binders of books, that there are now many imitations of old bindings and that some collectors make fac-similes of old and rare books by dipping newly printed copies of them in coffee. The National Library contains many rare and curious works. It has some of the most

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UNCLE SAM’S BOOK-CASE. valuable books ever published in America, and among these is the first American Bible printed in a European tongue in this coun- try. It isa German Bible which was printed at Germantown in 1743, and which Mr. Spofford bought at a book auction about two years ago. It is kept in a box-like case in one of the alcoves of the ground floor, and is truly a curiosity. Though not as thick as Webster’s Dictionary, it weighs about as much, and though printed over one hundred and twenty years ago, it is still in good con- dition. It is about six inches thick and eight inches wide, by ten or twelve inches long. It is bound in oak boards covered with a rich brown leather, and on its corners there are heavy brass bosses with little heads jutting out of them to keep the leather from restingonthetable. Its clasps are of leather with brass fasteners, and its paper, now yellow with age, is printed in queer old Ger- mantype. The first page is in colors, and on the fly-leaves there are several geneologi- cal records. It was originally owned by a German, but in 1798 it was bought by Enoch Rittenhouse, a member I doubt not of the old Rittenhouse family of Philadelphia. Another Bible that the Library has, is that printed for the Indians by John Eliot in 1663. This is the first Bible printed in America. It was printed in Cambridge and in the Indian tongue. The Library has a chapter devoted to Bibles, and the chapter of theological works is the largest one in the Library. I looked at this big book-case of Bibles the other day; they are of all sizes and shapes, from the little vest-pocket edi- tions to one big enough almost for a mount- ing-block forhorses. They are in all dialects and languages, and the Chinese Bibles look like so many bunches of manilla wrapping- paper. The print of these Bibles is as queer as the languages in which they are printed, and they have every style of types from the illuminated script of the monks of the Mid- dle Ages to the common print of to-day. The manuscripts of the National Library include many valuable autographs. Among them there are two autograph journals of George Washington, one of which was made during Braddock’s expedition, and one in 1787 at Mount Vernon. Here is a private 117 journal of Arthur Lee while he was Minister to France at the breaking out of the Revolu- tion, and there are two volumes of an origi- nal military journal of Major-General Greene written now over one hundred years ago. The National Library was founded about 1801, and the first installment of books was carted to Washington intrunks. They were ordered from London, and they cost alto- gether five thousand dollars. The first Librarian of Congress was John Beckley, a Virginian. Hewasthe appointee of President Jefferson. He was alsoclerk of the House of Representatives, and his suc- cessor, Mr. Patrick Magruder, also occupied the position of Clerk of the House. Magru- der was Librarian of Congress at the time that the British captured Washington, and he was blamed for not getting the books out of the Capitol before they got here. They burned the Library, and used the books as kindling wood. To replace them Congress bought Jefferson’s library for a little over twenty-three thousand dollars. Jefferson was in sore need of money at this time, and he sold the library for just about half what it cost him. Jefferson’s private secretary, Mr. Bacon, says that there were sixteen wagon-loads of books, and each wagon was expected to carry at least three thousand pounds for a load. One of the most famous of the librarians after Magruder and his successor, was George Watterson, a protégé of Dolly Madison, who secured him his position. Watterson was a poet and anewspaper-man. Heremained in office until Jackson’s day. When Jack- son became president, Watterson’s enemies charged that he had written scandal about Mrs. Jackson, and President Jackson, in anger, removed him and chose an editor named Meehan as his successor. Meehan held the office until the days of Lincoln, when Dr. John G. Stevenson of Indiana became librarian, with the Hon. Ainsworth R. Spofford and two assistants. Three years later Mr. Stevenson resigned, and Mr. Spof- ford became the chief. Mr. Spofford has oc- cupied the position from 1864 to this day, and under him the Library has grown to be one of the most noted public libraries in the world.

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EXILED TO SIBERIA. By Count Leon TOoLstor. ‘God knows the truth, but he does not at once make it manifest.” N the city of Vladimir lived a young merchant named Askenov. He owned two stores and a dwelling-house. Askenov was attractive in person, blonde, curly-headed, and a lover of jollity and song. He drank in his youth, and when in- toxicated he quarreled. But when once mar- ried he drank very rarely. One day in summer he, decided to attend the fair at Nijni-Novogorod. As he was bidding his family farewell, his wife said to him : ‘‘Tvan, do not go to-day; I had a bad dream about you.’’ Askenov began to laugh, and replied : ‘You fear I will commit some folly at the fair.” His wife answered: ‘‘I do not myself exactly know what I fear; only I had a bad dream. I saw you as you came from the city. You took off your cap, and all at once I saw that your head was quite white.”’ Askenov began to laugh more cheerily still. ‘‘Ah well! it is a good sign,”’ he said. ‘I shall do a good business, and will bring you abeautiful present.’’ So he took leave of his family and de- parted. Midway in his journey he met an acquaint- ance, a merchant, with whom he lodged that night. They drank tea together, and went to sleep in adjoining rooms. Askenov was not a heavy sleeper. He awoke in the middle of the night, and, to travel more comfortably in the coolness of the morning, aroused the postilion, and ordered him to put the horses before the wagon. Then he entered the dim office, paid the landlord, and went away. After having traveled forty miles, he stopped again to feed the horses, rested him- self at the hotel, went out upon the door-step and had his samovar prepared. He took a guitarand begantoplay. All atoncea/roika with its gong arrives. A state functionary with two soldiers descends, approaches As- kenov, and inquires of him who he is and whither he is going. Askenov excuses him- self from replying, but asks him to take some tea. The official, however, continues to press his questions. Where had he slept the night before? Was he alone with the mer- chant? Why had he left the inn so pre- cipitantly ? Askenov, surprised by these interroga- tories, related what had taken place, then said : ‘‘ Why do you ask me so many ques- tions? Iam neither a thief nor a brigand. I am traveling on my own business, and no one has a right to question me.”’ The official then called his soldiers and replied: ‘‘I am a police commissioner, and if I question you it is because the merchant with whom you passed the night was murdered. Show your baggage—and you others, search it.”’ They entered the hotel-office, took his trunk and satchel, opened them, and in the latter found a knife. The officer exclaimed, ‘‘ Whose is this knife ?”’ Askenov turned to look, saw a blade covered with blood, and became terror- stricken. ‘** And why this blood on the knife ?” Askenov tried to reply, but he could not utter a word. “J—I do not know—I— A knife—I— It is not mine,’’ he stammered at last. The police commissioner said: ‘ This morning the merchant was found murdered in bed. No one except yourself could have committed the crime. The rooms were locked from the inside, and within was no one but you and he. Moreover, a knife covered with blood has been found in your bag. Besides, your crime can’ be read in your face. Confess at once how you killed him, and how much money you stole.”’ Askenov called God to witness that he was not guilty ; that he had not seen the mer- chant after having taken tea with him ; that he had only his own money, eight thou- sand roubles, and that the knife was not his.

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EXILED TO SIBERIA. But his voice was husky, his face had be- come pale, and he trembled like a criminal. The officer called his soldiers, and ordered them to bind him and place him in the car- riage. When they had done so, Askenov, with his feet in irons, crossed himself and began to weep. They took away all his ef- fects, with his money, and put him in prison in the neighboring city. An inquest was held at Vladimir. All the merchants and inhabitants declared that Askenov, though he had been in the habit of drinking and amusing himself when a young man, was regarded as an honorable person, Then the matter came before the courts. He was accused of having mur- dered the merchant Riazan, and of having robbed him of twenty thousand roubles. His wife was in despair, and knew not what to think. Herchildren were all small, one of them still at the breast. She took them all with her, and went to the city where her husband was imprisoned. At first they refused to let her see him; but as she in- sisted, she was allowed that privilege. When she saw him in his prison clothes, shackled, mingling with robbers, she fell to the ground, and some time passed before she came to herself again. Then she gathered her chil- dren about her, seated herself by Askenov’s side, told him of what was going on at home, and asked him to relate how his mis- fortune had come about. He told her all, and she asked : “What is to be done now ?”’ ‘““‘We must supplicate the Czar,’’ he re- plied; ‘“‘ for it can not be that the innocent should be punished.’’ His wife then told him that she had al- teady sent a petition to the Czar; ‘‘ but it could not have been sent to him,’’ she said. Askenovy made no reply, and remained overwhelmed. His wife said: ‘‘My dream was not in vain. Do you remember it? I saw you with white hair. It will now become white with grief. You ought not to have gone that time.’’ She began to stroke his hair with her hand, and said : “My dear Ivan, speak the truth to your wife. Was it not you who killed him ?” Askenov replied : ‘‘ And you, also, think so!’ He hid his face in his hands and wept. 119 A soldier appeared. He told the wife and children that it was time for them to go, and Askenov bade his family farewell for the last time. When his wife was gone he mentally re- viewed his conversation with her. Recol- lecting that she also had asked him if he had not murdered the merchant, he said to himself: ‘‘God alone knows the truth. Him I must implore. I will await his mercy.” And from that moment he ceased to ask for human aid, lifted up his soul in hope, and prayed continually to God. Askenov was sentenced to the knout, and then to hard labor for life. The sentence was carried out. He was beaten with the knout, and when his wounds were healed they sent him, with other life convicts, to Siberia. There Askenov remained at hard labor for twenty-six years. His hair became white as snow, and his long gray beard hung limply from his face. All his gayety disappeared. He began to stoop and to lagin his gait. He spoke but little, and never laughed. He fre- quently prayed to God. In prison he learned to make shoes, and with the money thus earned bought a book of martyrs, which he read when there was light in his dungeon. On festal days he at- tended the prison chapel, read the Apostles, and sang in the choir. He never lost his beautiful voice. The officials loved him for his docility ; his companions held him in high regard, called him ‘‘ grandfather ’’ and “man of God.’’ When the convicts de- manded any thing, it was always Askenov who was made to present their request. When the prisoners quarreled, it was again Askenov whom they chose as arbitrator. No one wrote him from home, and Askenov knew not whether his wife and children were still living. One day new convicts were taken to the prison. In the evening the old ones asked of the new from what cities or villages they came, and for what causes. Askenov also approached, and with inclined head listened to what was said. One of the new convicts was an old man of sixty years, tallin stature, and with a gray, trimmed beard. Herelated the reasons for his doom. ‘‘Itis thus, my brothers,’’ he said, ‘‘ they have sent me here for nothing. I detacheda horse from a sleigh ; they seized me, saying

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120 I stole it. And I—I replied : ‘I only wished to travel more rapidly ; you see indeed that I have let the horse loose. No crime has been committed.’ ‘No,’ they said; ‘ you have stolen it,’ but they knew neither where nor when I had stolen it. To be sure I was guilty of misdeeds, which ought to have sent me here long before, but they could never surprise me in the act. And now they have brought me here contrary to all law. Now, listen. I have already been in Siberia. But I did not remain here long.”’ ‘*Whence do you come ?’’ asked oneof the convicts. ‘‘IT am from the city of Vladimir. I ama small shopkeeper of that place. My name is Makar.”’ , Askenov raised his head and asked: ‘* Have you not heard the merchant Askenov spoken of at Vladimir? Are they still alive ?’’ ‘*Why,to be sure. But they are rich mer- chants, although their father is in Siberia : he must have sinned like the rest of us.”’ Askenov did not like to speak on the sub- ject of his misfortune. He sighed and said: ‘It is for my sins that I have been in prison twenty-six years.”’ Makar asked, ‘‘ For what sins ?”’ “I merit my punishment,’’ responded Askenov, simply. He would say nothing more. But the other convicts related to the newly-arrived why Askenov found himself in Siberia ; how some one, during the journey, had murdered the merchant and placed a bloody knife among Askenov’s baggage ; and how, by reason of that, he had been unjustly con- demned. In hearing this, Makar cast a glance upon Askenov, struck his knees with his hands, and exclaimed : ‘Oh, what a wonder! This isa miracle. Ah, you have grown quite old, grand- father !’’ They asked why he was so astonished ; where he had seen Askenov. But Makar did not reply; he merely said: ‘‘It is a miracle, brothers, that fate has re-united us here.’’ These expressions convinced Askenov that this man must be the assassin, and he said to him: ‘‘ Have you heard this affair spoken of before, Maker; or have you in- deed seen me elsewhere than here ?”’ THE COSMOPOLITAN. ‘*What? I have heard it spoken of. The earth is full of ears.* But it isa long time since that affair took place, and I have for- gotten the particulars they told me.”’ ‘*Perhaps you learned who killed the merchant ?’”’ asked Askenov. Makar began to laugh, and said: ‘ Asit was in your bag the knife was found, you doubtless killed him yourself. If it should be that some one else put the knife there— why, not caught, not a thief. And, more- over, how could he have placed the knife in your bag? You had it under your head. You must have heard.’’ On hearing these words, Askenov perceived clearly that he was the person who had killed the merchant. He arose and went away. All that night Askenov could not sleep. He fell into profound listlessness, and dreamed dreams. Now it was his wife he saw as she appeared at the time of that last fair. He saw her still alive, her face, her eyes ; he heard her speak and laugh: now it was his children who appeared to him as they then were, all small, one ina fur cloak and the other at the breast. He saw himself as he then was, young, lively, seated and playing the guitar on the door- step of the tavern, where he was arrested. And he was reminded of the infamous place where they had whipped him, of the execu- tioner, of the crowd round about, the irons, convicts, and of the twenty-six years he had spent in prison. He thought of his old age, and a desire to take his own life seized upon Askenov. ‘** And all this on account of that brigand !”’ he thought. He felt such a passion of wrath against Makar coming over him, that he would have been willing to perish that hour could he be revenged upon him. He prayed all night without being able to calm himself. The next morning he did not approach nor look at Makar. Fifteen days passed thus. Askenov could not sleep at night, and during the day he felt such a weariness that he knew not what to do with himself. One night, as he was walking up and down in the prison, he per- ceived that earth was being thrown from under one of the planks used asa bed. He stopped to see what was going on, and all at once Makar came quickly from beneath the *A Russian proverb.

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EXILED TO SIBERIA. bed, and looked at Askenov with an expres- sion of terror. The latter wished to pass on so as to avoid looking at him; but Makar seized him by the hand, and told him how he was digging a tunnel under the wall, how he was in the habit of filling his boots with the earth thrown upand emptying it in the street every morning when they were taken out to work. He added: “Only keep quiet, old man. I will take you with me. If you expose meI will be whipped to the last extremity, but you will pay forit. Iwill kill you !’ Looking at him who had ruined him, Askenov trembled with anger. He drew away his hand, and said: ‘‘I do not desire to escape, and you will have no need to mur- der me. You have already killed me a long time ago. Whether I shall expose you or not is for God to decide.”’ The next morning, when the convicts were taken to work, the soldiers noticed that Makar emptied earth from his boots. An investigation was made in the prison, and the tunnel was discovered. The overseer came and demanded to know who had ex- cavated it. Every body denied all knowledge of the matter. Those who knew, did not wish to betray Makar, as he would be whipped ‘‘ half-dead”’ for his offense. The chief then addressed himself to Askenov. ‘‘Old man,’’ hesaid, ‘‘ you who are an up- right fellow, tell me who has done this.”’ Makar remained impassible, looking at the superintendent without turning toward Askenov. As to the latter, his arms and his lips trembled ; he could not say a word. ‘Shall I remain silent ?’’ he thought. “But why pardon him, since it is he who has ruined my life? Let him pay for my tor- tures. Shall I speak ? True, they will whip him nearly to death, and if it should not be he, if he should. not be the assassin I suspect him to be—and then, would it be any solace to me?”’ The chief repeated his demand. Askenov looked at Makar, and replied : “IT cannot tell, your highness ; God does not permit me, and I shall not tell you. Do with me as you please. You are master.’ Notwithstanding every effort of the chief, Askenoy said no more. Thus it was that no one knew who had dug the tunnel. 121 The following night, as Askenov was re- clining upon his plank-bed trying to sleep, he heard some one approach and place himself at his feet. Through the obscur- ity he recognized Makar. Askenov said to him : ‘* Have you still further need of me? What are you doing there ?”’ Maker remained silent, and Askenov raised himself up saying: ‘‘ What do you want ? Go away, or I will call the watch- man.’ Makar hung over Askenov and whispered in his ear: ‘‘ Ivan Askenov, forgive me.”’ ‘“Why? What should I forgive you?” ‘* It was I who murdered the merchant, and I put the knife in your bag! I intended to kill you also, but some one made a noise in the yard. I placed the knife in your bag, and escaped by the window.”’ Askenov remained silent, and knew not what to say. Makar slipped from the bed, prostrated himself on the earth, and said: ‘‘Tvan Askenov, pardon me; in the name of God, pardon me! I will declare that I killed the merchant ; they will set you at liberty, and you can return home.”’ And Askenov replied: ‘‘That is easily said. But I, I have suffered here too long. Where should I gonow? My wife is dead ; my children have forgotten me. I have no- where to go.”’ Makar, still prostrated and striking the earth with his head, said: ‘‘ Ivan, pardon me. If I had been beaten with the knout, that would have been less painful that to see you thus. And you still had pity on me; you did not expose me. Pardon me, in the name of Christ, pardon a wretched mal- efactor !’’ And he began to sob. Hearing Makar weeping, Askenov him- self also began to weep. ‘God will pardon you. PerhapsI am a hundred times worse than you.”’ And he felt a sudden joy flooding his soul. He ceased from that moment to grieve over his home, and no longer desired to leave his prison. He thought only of his last hour. Makar would not listen to Askenov, and declared himself the guilty one. When the order came to restore Askenov to liberty, he was already dead.

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THE LITTLE REFORMERS. By KATHARINE B. Foor. SECOND PART. ANET was a girl of excitable nature, and with great intensity of feeling on all sub- jects that she thought about at all, and so it fell out that she could not study that even- ing, but could only think of what her Cousin Anna had said about the killing of the birds. She had a loving, tender heart ; but her Aunt Nancy never kissed her nor said an endearing word, and as she had no intimate girl friends, she lavished upon animals all her tenderness of feeling. The more she thought about the birds, the more eager and anxious she was to help them. But how? That was the question. She pored, most of the evening, over a volume of Audubon’s birds. When Aunt Nancy said, peremptorily and severely, ‘Go to bed, Janet,’’ she shut it up reluc- tantly, and went very slowly up stairs. A quick step came behind her. ‘* Tired, little girl ?’’ said Cousin Anna. ** Sent off,’ said Janet. .‘‘Come in my room before you go down, won’t you ; let me see you before you go out ?”’ ** Ves, indeed,’’ said Miss Anna; and after a while, after Janet had got into bed, she came in all ready to go out, and sat down beside her. ‘‘Oh,”’ said Janet in a satisfied way, “how nice you look! Oh, dear, I wish I could ever have some nice clothes. I do just love pretty things.”’ ** Poor, little, stirred heart,’’ thought Miss Anna. Janet said : ‘Tf things would only ever come out really as they do in books; if some body would suddenly send me a trunk full of clothes, or might suddenly find out I was a countess or something, that my grandfather was a lord, and my father or mother a son or a daughter that ran away and married and died poor and forgotten, and then they had to send for me and—’”’ ‘‘Goodness, Janet,’’ said Miss Anna, laugh- ing, ‘‘ what nonsense! I’d believe that bustles have gone to your head, or birds, which is it?’’ ‘‘There, now,”’ ‘fisn’t it too bad of you to laugh. see why things can’t happen to me.”’ ‘*They will happen,’’ said Miss Anna, in an earnest tone ; ‘‘they can’t help happen- ing, and they’ll happen right or wrong, partly as you make them. Use this little head right,’’ and she laid her hand softly on it, ‘‘and these two hands as the head says,” and she took them for a moment in hers, ‘‘and things will happen. Good night,” and she kissed her and was gone. She dreamed all night of twittering birds, of deserted nests and starving young; of the sweet singing, in the early morning, of said Janet pettishly, I don’t

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. the birds in the old orchard in Rhode Island, where two years before she had spent a beautiful June ; and in the morning she was silent and absorbed, turning over and over in her head some way to help the birds. She went off to school without more than a passing thought about the want of the bustle which had been such a bit of trouble the day before. ‘‘Cousin Anna,’’ she said just as she was starting off to school, ‘‘can’t you think of any way to help about the birds ?”’ “‘T’ll think as hard as I can all day,’’ she said, and Janet went off to school. She went to a fashionable and celebrated school in lower Fifth Avenue. Her Aunt Nancy meant her to have the best education money could buy, for she was not a mean woman in any way, and she sent her to Miss Gray’s, not because it was fashionable and expen- sive, but because, strange to say, it was also good andthorough. But Janet often wished with all her soul, that the girls either all had to dress as she was dressed, or else that she could go to a public school or—somewhere. But she thought, mournfully : “Tt would just be the same anywhere. I never look like any body else.’’ But this morning she went to school with a brisk step, not thinking at all about her clothes. As she turned up Fifth Avenue to walk the short block to the school, some of the girls were standing on the stoop. ‘Do look at Janet Shaw. Isn’t she a fright ?’’ said Delia Sutphen to Kate Vander- voort. ‘* Yes, it’s too bad ; she’s a real pretty girl, and she knows a lot,’’ said Kate, who had a kind heart. Margaret Freeman, a tall, superior-look- ing girl of fifteen, stood on the step above them. ‘“Tt’s a shame for the girls to talk to her so,’ she said. ‘‘She has no mother; her aunt dresses her; she can’t help it. How would you like to be dressed so yourself, Delia Sutphen ?” ‘““Me! I guess I wouldn’t be,’’ said Delia, with a toss of her head. ‘‘ My mother’d die tosee me look like that. The idea !”’ And she turned and gave Margaret an in- dignant glance. “Well, put yourself in her place, without any mother ; ‘hen what would you do?”’ Delia looked at her, and Margaret looked THE LITTLE REFORMERS. 123 steadily back. Delia had the dawning of a new idea. ‘*T dunno,’’ she said. Janet came slowly up the steps. She usually ran the gauntlet of a fire of would- be witty remarks, such as ‘‘ Just lend me the pattern of your overskirt,’’ when she never had worn one in her life ; ‘‘ Janet, where'd you buy your hat?’’ ‘‘ Don’t her bustle hang beautifully, girls?’’ But this morn- ing there were no remarks at all. Delia Sutphen said ‘‘ Holloa !’’ and Kate Vander- voort and Margaret Freeman said ‘‘ Good morning.’’ ‘ Janet and Margaret were deskmates, and Janet adored Margaret, first because she was kind to her and always had been, and also because Margaret didn’t care a fig what any of the girls thought or said on any subject. Janet envied her with all her soul ; but as she said : ‘* You know, Margaret, there’s no reason why you should care as I do; you have all the other girls here and a great deal more, and you’re older and taller, and you know more. Why should you care?”’ ‘‘That's so,’’ Margaret answered, with a laugh; ‘‘but you see, Netty, I don’t think I’d care anyway. I’veoften heard my father say that the only way to get on in the world with all sorts of people is just to go on and do the best you can, and then not mind. And f guess I’m just like him ; people say so.”’ ‘* Well, but, Margaret,’’ said Janet, ‘‘now truly and honestly, wouldn’t you care if you had to be dressed as I am ?”’ Margaret thought a minute, and then said slowly : ‘‘Well, yes, truly and honestly I would, because I don’t want to be—well, to be dif- ferent from other people ; I mean so as to be noticed. I wouldn’t let any of ’em see I cared. If they didn’t see how much you care for their hateful speeches, they’d let you alone.”’ ‘* Doyou think so?”’ said Janet with widely surprised eyes. ‘‘ I declare !’’ And then she went straight to her seat, and apparently began to study out of a book, but really she was studying up aplan in her head. And studying in that sort of way proved very disastrous business for Janet. She missed in every one of her lessons, which

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THE COSMOPOLITAN. it 26 : = = = was a thing that had never happened before, and was finally sent up stairs in disgrace to an empty class-room, where she was kept in all recess and an hour after school besides. Poor Janet! Every thing had gone wrong, as she said bitterly to herself : ‘*T wanted so much to tell Mar- garet about the birds, and now she’s gone home long ago, and I can’t see her at all,’’ But just then the door of the class- room opened softly, and Margaret’s head came in. She held up her finger. “Hush! I'll wait for you round the corner on Ninth Street. I had to stay fora miusic-lesson.”’ The head then vanished. A weary half-hour longer went by, and then a teacher came and told Janet she might go, and she was glad enough to scrabble her books together, and throw her hat and mantle on, and dart round the corner in any way except the dignified one that Miss Gray aA A NN MS . Mh ey (\ AT THE SCHOOL. required of her girls, and there was Margaret walking up and down with her books under her arm. ‘What did you have to stay for?” asked Janet. ‘‘Oh ! old Alphabet Jones went away last week, and I missed a lesson, and it saved his time to give it to me at school instead of going up to the house. But, Netty, what was the matter with you to-day? Why, you missed such silly things !”’ Janet looked very solemn.

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THE LITTLE ““T know I did, and won’t I just catch it from Aunt Nancy when I take my report home! But, Margaret, I’ll tell you what I was thinking about, and I know you'll think about it too, if you didn’t befgre ; I didn't, you know.”’ ‘‘ About what ?’’ said Margaret, laughing. ‘Oh, about the birds, the way they’re killing ’em everywhere, and I never thought of it at all till last night, when Cousin Anna told me, and it does seem so dreadful.”’ Then Janet poured out into Margaret’s ears all her cousin had told her, with much more out of her own head that had grown there in the past twenty-four hours. ‘‘Now, did you ever think of it so, Mar- garet ?”’ Margaret turned her head and looked at her very gravely, and said: “Janet, I’m just ashamed. I’ve worn birds in my hats—’’ She madea little pause. ‘““Well, I’ve worn ’em forever, and I never did think of it before, and it’s perfectly, awfully dreadful. Skin them alive, dothey ? Oh, isn’t it dreadful !’’ “There !’’ said Janet, in a tone of great satisfaction, ‘‘I knew you’d think so; but then what good can we do? ‘I’m sure I don’t know,’’ said Margaret, and a little frown came between her eyes. All this time the girls had been slowly walking in the direction of Janet’s home. Presently Margaret stopped short. ‘‘T can’t go any further, Netty. Now, I'll tell you. Do you suppose that your Aunt Nancy will let you come and stay all night at my house on Friday, and then stay Satur- day until after dinner ?”’ ‘Perhaps,’ said Janet doubtfully. ‘‘I did that once, you know; couldn’t you get your aunt to write a note ?’’ “Mercy, yes! Aunt Ellen will do any- thing I ask her. You see,’’ said Margaret, “I guess my father can help us, if we tell him.”’ “Oh, do you think he will ?’’ asked Janet. ‘“‘Tshouldn’t wonder,’’ said Margaret, ‘‘ he hates these tall hats anyway. Good-by,”’’ and the girls parted. Janet’s heart was so full of a subdued glow that her Aunt Nancy’s severe words when she heard she had been ‘‘ kept in” failed to drop down and rankle in her breast as they often did, indeed, usually did ; and then, too, Janet thought to herself, ‘ If I REFORMERS. 125 don’t walk a chalk-mark, she won’t let me go to Margaret’s.”’ Friday was two days off, and Janet was a model child, so far as she knew how to be. The note was duly received and answered, and permission granted after Uncle Ross had been pathetically appealed to, and on Friday Margaret and Janet indulged in mysterious nods and winks over their books. After school Janet rushed home to change her dress, and soon afterward she stepped out of the horse-car at the corner of Madison Ave- nue, and, with her little bag in her hand, rang the bell at Margaret’s door. A very solemn and altogether terrifying man to Janet opened it, and she was timidly beginning: ‘‘Is Miss Mar—’’ when Margaret herself came flying down the staircase. ‘*Come right up stairs,’’ she said, ‘‘ tomy room. Oh! here, come in and see Aunt Ellen,’’ and she pushed open the door of the front room up stairs. A very pretty, gentle-looking old lady sat knitting by a low table near the window, and Janet went up and spoke to her, and tears came into her eyes when Miss Prentiss kissed her and said : ‘‘ I’m glad you came, dear.”’ The girls went up stairs to Margaret’s room, and Janet took off her outdoor gar- ments, and as she did so she said : ‘‘ Margaret, does your Aunt Ellen always kiss you when you go to bed?”’ Margaret stared. ‘*Kiss me! why, she kisses me forty times aday. Why, what a funny question! Don’t your Aunt Nancy kiss you ?”’ Janet’s eyes filled. ‘*She never kisses me, Margaret, never at anytime. Uncle Ross doessometimes. It’s so different, your not having any mother, and my not having one; your Aunt Ellen loves you.”’ ‘*T guess she does !’’ said Margaret. ‘““That’s just the difference,’ said Janet. ‘‘ Aunt Nancy’s always saying she does her duty by me.’’ ‘‘ And she don’t love you ?’’ said Margaret slowly. ‘‘ Why, she must.’’ Janet shook her head. ‘*T suppose she don’t think itherduty. I wonder if people generally love their hus- band’s family ?”’ ‘“Why, of course,’’ said Margaret, ‘‘isn’t

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126 Aunt Ellen my mother’s aunt, and my father —why, he often says he doesn’t know what he should do without her.’’ ‘*Well !’’ said Janet, with a long sigh, ‘‘I know I could be better if any body loved me except Uncle Ross and Cousin Anna. And you see, Margaret, that’s the reason I thought so much about the birds, the poor birds with no mothers. I-can’t get over x ‘*You poor little toad,’’ said Margaret after a second’s hunting about in her head for a sufficiently expressive and affectionate phrase, ‘‘it’s the meanest shame that ever was.”’ After a silence and a little silent hug, in which both girls took a share, Janet said : ‘*Now, I’ve been thinking, Margaret, if we could get some body who knows all about birds, to talk to people and—’”’ ‘‘Oh, I know I know!’ said Margaret, “‘T’ve got an uncle—a kind of an uncle— and he lives in Cambridge, and he knows all about every thing, and he knows lots and heaps about birds and their ways, and how they live and all. And if we could get Uncle Dick to come and give some kind of a lecture or talk about birds, and get father to think up a way to get every body to come, then, don’t you see, those people will stop buying birds, and they’ll tell other people, and there you are !’’ And Margaret waved her hands in a grand climax. ‘*Oh !’’ exclaimed Janet, with a prolonged, rapturous inflection, ‘‘do you suppose your uncle would talk to people if we got them to come? But I don’t suppose any body would come just when two girls asked them,’’ Janet ended, rather dubiously. “Tl tell you, Netty; you wait till my her comes home, and has had his dinner, and got through smoking, and then we'll ask him, and he helps me always when I’m puzzled. Now look here, I’ve just had a lovely present, and I didn’t open it because I wanted you to help.” ‘* What is it?’ said Janet, with shining eyes, flying off her chair. ‘‘Something too lovely for any thing. You'll never guess, so I'll tell you. I’ve had a boxful of things sent to me from Japan, and they only got out of the custom- house yesterday ; and I wouldn’t open them till you came. My cousin Jack sent them.”’ THE COSMOPOLITAN. ‘*Margaret, you’re just the best girl !’” was all Janet could say. So the girls went off, and John soon had the cover off the box, and a delightful Japan- ese odor filled the room, and soon, under the eager hands of the girls, the box was un- packed, and papers strewn about the room, and pretty trifles were exclaimed over and admired. ‘*Goodness, there’s father shutting his door,’’ said Margaret, after what was two hours and more, but had seemed ‘“‘just a jiff,”’ as Janet said. ‘*Come to my room, Netty, we'll have dinner soon. Never mind picking up things; father’1] want to see every thing.”’ As the girls came down stairs Mr. Free- man stood at his door waiting for them. ‘‘Well, my daughter,’’ he said in such a hearty way, and such a loving way, that sensitive Janet’s eyes filled with tears. Per- haps Mr. Freeman sawthem. At any rate he put his hand on her head, and said, ‘Well, I’m glad to see you,’’ as if he was glad, and when they sat down to the table he said in his abrupt way, ‘‘ Look more like your mother every time I see you.”’ ‘I’m so glad of that,’’ said Janet so quickly that she surprised herself. ‘“Why ?”’ asked Mr. Freeman, as he began to carve. Janet was silent for a second, and then as Mr. Freeman raised his eyes and looked at her she said in a very low voice : ‘* Because I can’t remember my mother, and I haven’t any picture of her, and I like to think of her, and it gives mean idea; and then, besides—’’ She stopped suddenly. ‘* And besides what ?’’ said Mr. Freeman. Janet hesitated. “I was going to say something I think sometimes—I don’t mean any harm—I like tothink my mother wasn’t like Aunt Nancy. I’m not like her, andif I’m like my mother, why, she wasn’t, and I wouldn’t like to think of her so.”’ ‘‘Oh!’ said Mr. Freeman, and he looked serious for a moment, and then he said they were just as different as two women well could be. ‘‘ Now, let’s have some roast beef.’’ And after that they chatted on about the box from Japan, and presently Margaret said : ‘‘Oh! father, we want—’’ and then she

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THE LITTLE stopped and said, ‘“‘I’ll tell you what we want, after dinner.’’ Her father laughed. ‘‘ Then I’ll prepare myself for something very especial,’’ he said. ‘‘Yes,’’ said Miss Prentiss. ‘‘ Margaret is a born diplomat; she chooses her times and seasons.”’ After dinner they all went up stairs to the library. The pretty things were shown off to Margaret’s father and aunt, and admired. Janet showed, with a radiance of quiet de- light, the pretty fan and box that Margaret had given her; and then Miss Prentiss took a book, Mr. Freeman his paper and cigar, and the girls looked over some pictures. After a while Mr. Freeman put down his paper, flipped off a long ash from his cigar, settled himself comfortably in his chair, and said : ‘ “« Now, girls.’’ Margaret brought two low chairs, ‘‘ one for you, Netty, and one for me,’’ and put them one each side of her father. “These are indeed portentous prepara- tions,’ said Mr. Freeman in a deep, gruff voice. ‘‘ Is it the boon of a life in the dungeon of me castle that ye would ask, maidens ?’’ The girls laughed heartily. ‘“‘ Father,’’ said Margaret, ‘‘ you have un- consciously hit the key-note.”’ ‘Well, I enjoy that,”’ said Mr. Freeman. “T have unconsciously touched upon the key-note, have I? Understand, miss, that I pride myself upon hitting the key-note right every time on purpose.”’ Miss Prentiss looked up and thought, “Well, who would imagine that Henry Freeman, whom every one is afraid of, could act so like a boy ?”’ ‘“‘ Now, father, this is really very serious,”’ said Margaret. ‘‘ Netty and I—but it’s really Netty’s idea—want to do something about the birds. Don’t you know, father? it's per- fectly awful the way people—women, I mean, and girls—wear birds on their hats; and after a while there won’t be any birds.”’ And then she went on to tell all Netty had told her, and she did it in a graphic way. Mr. Freeman took his cigar from his mouth, blew some rings of smoke into the air, and then looked at her. “Yes,’’ he said. “Yes, indeed, father.’’ “Well, what can you do about it?” REFORMERS. 127 ‘*That’s just what we want you to tell us. Some body has got to do something right away, and how can we do it ?”’ ** You needn’t wear any yourself.’’ ‘*Oh, that doesn’t help one bit.’’ ‘* We thought,’’ said Margaret, ‘“‘if we could have some lectures, and perhaps we might get Uncle Dick—’’ ** Uncle Dick ! Why, where are you going to get the money to pay him? Your Uncle Dick is an expensive card to play.” ‘* Uncle Dick gets paid a lot, Iknow; but I thought perhaps for me he wouldn’t charge so much, and if we charged something we could pay him what we got, and—”’ ‘* Not so fast,’’ said Mr. Freeman ; ‘‘ where are you going to have this lecture given ?’’ ‘I don’t know about that; I thought you would.” ‘* Aunt Ellen, what do you say?’’ said Mr. Freeman. ‘*Well,’’ said Aunt Ellen, ‘‘all the talk- ing and persuading in the world wouldn’t amount to a row of pins unless some pretty, fashionable woman could and would make the fashion as odious as it should be.”’ Janet said eagerly : ‘Uncle Ross said—I forgot all about it till now—that it wanted a strong-minded woman to push, and a pretty woman to per- suade.”’ ‘* Precisely so,’’ said Mr. Freeman, giving his knee a slap. ‘‘The very thing! Now, what do you say, Janet ?”’ ‘*T say what Margaret does; only there’s one thing I care about so much—about the poor little young birds starving and dying, and no one to do athing forthem. Oh! I’ve just heard ’em peeping ever since Cousin Anna put it in my head.’’ And she clasped her hands in her energy, and said : ‘‘ Would- n’t it be splendid if we could stop it? I don’t seem to care so much about their kill- ing them right off, or even skinning them alive, because it’s done with—it’s dreadful, but then it’s over soon. But the poor little ones—I can’t forget them, starving and freez- ing, and they live so long so.’’ Mr. Freeman and Miss Prentiss looked at her, there was such pathos in her voice, and each thought, ‘‘ Poor motherless little girl!’ Mr. Freeman sat up straight, and threw the end of his cigar into the fire. ‘‘ Girls,”’ he said in a business-like tone,

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128 **there’s something in this, and I’ll think it out and tell you next week Friday, when Janet must come again; and now I propose to take you both to the theater.’’ ‘*Oh, you good father!’ said Margaret, kissing him, while Janet beamed in silence. ‘Come, fly off for your things, girls !’’ and off they went. ‘* It’s all right,’’ said Margaret. ‘‘ Father THE COSMOPOLITAN. never says he’ll think athing over unless he means to do something.”’ Such a delightful evening as they had, and a little treat afterward at Delmonico’s— some oysters and ices, and a bright little glimpse of a gay world, where people wore pretty clothes in a way that sometimes de- lighted and sometimes shocked Janet’s sensitive, artistic soul. SPRING IN THE HIGH SIERRAS. By ELLA STERLING CUMMINS. DEAD and cold the sweet world lay Beneath her shroud of snow ; And my brother and I we mourned the day ; For O we loved her so! We wandered forth ’neath the gloomy skies, Her sad death-wail to sing ; And my brother he cried, with weeping eyes, ‘*God has forgot the Spring !’’ Brown and bare on the bank near by Stood the willow branches dead ; And I wept to think of the summer sky, And the glories past and fled. When, lo! a marvel met mine eye In all that frozen scene; There in the branches, dead and dry, Were the bursting buds of green. And O we laughed, my brother and I, And straightway ’gan to sing ; We sang for joy ’neath the gloomy sky— He'd not forgot the Spring: ‘“Sweet world, awake ! arise! Cast off thy shroud of snow, And greet with joy this glad surprise ; Thou art but sleeping, this we know. ‘*Sweet world, awake! arise! Beneath this awful gloom The kiss of Spring is on thine eyes, The willow is in bloom.’

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Myo f 4) Fis. ey v@\ i) \ . | | Wd, J ( D) = Wh WWW SE a WA Nat} é : | Cina MUSIC-STUDY. By Mrs. Lucy C. LILLIE. OT long ago I read a very entertaining toclassical compositions. Two years later story by one of the most agreeable writers of this prolific decade, in which the heroine is described as being a musician of fascinating power, but on one special even- ing ‘‘she let her hands wander lightly over the keys for a moment, and then played two or three sonatas and an exquisite symphony of Beethoven.’’ When we reflect that mean- while the hero of the tale was waiting to tell her of his love, it occurs to us to wonder what he thought finally of the music, or whether it inclined him to parody that song of Miss Ingelow’s, ‘‘ In the night she told a story, and she told it all night long.”’ Had a novelist of twenty years ago been guilty of so absurd an error, we might not be surprised ; but in this age, when musical culture forms so large a part of education, it is surprising to have a well-known writer think it possible, or, perhaps I should say natural, that any girl would entertain a visitor with three sonatas and a symphony at one sitting, however exquisite the com- positions may be ! But twenty years ago! The very sugges- tion of that period calls up, not alone the tremendous strides in music as a science, as an industry, and as an art, but its crudities and dear delights, when we regarded certain musical centers as positive shrines of wor- ship ; and yet I venture to say that, even on occasions set apart for genuine work, no one among the band of young people gathered together thought of performing or listening I remember being allowed (as a great treat and because it was so improving) to hear and see performed various Italian operas of the Verdi, Flotow, and Meyerbeer class, all doubtless full of melody and possessing a charm which I, for one, can never wholly despise; and yet, not one person in the music-loving circle about me ever suggested an idea that there were higher forms of music to be heard, appreciated, and in due course studied. We had “‘ pieces’’ for the drawing-room, and Gottschalk, of happy memory, was one of our divinities, his ‘‘ Last Hope”’ being almost our Ultima Thule in the way of a performance. We had his ‘Printemps d’Amour’’ and ‘‘La Galena,’’ but the ‘Last Hope,’’ with its minor arpeggios seemed to contain all that was responsive to the enthusiasm vibrating in some of our childish hearts. One among us, it is true, Gottschalk’s favorite pupil, a girl of ten years, slim, dark-eyed, and fairy-like, played Mozart’s minuet and a few waltzes of Cho- pin, but she was regarded as being gifted with an almost preternatural ability, and pre- sently she departed from our midst to study abroad, whence came accounts of her sitting by Listz while he improvised, of Wagner’s teaching her, and of her breakfasting with Rossini, and playing for him in his charm- ing home at Passy-Pres-de-Paris. The fact of our concentrating so much enthusiasm upon this one girl, of her dom-

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130 inating the music in our little circle, and swaying whatever was poetic or imagina- tive in our musical ambitions, has often oc- curred to me as one of many evidences that my own life has given me, that for musical study, a certain amount of friction in one’s surroundings is absolutely necessary: It must be understood that I refer to the stu- dent that really means to do something definite with his or her work, whether it be in public or in private ; and to such I would say briefly: try the effect of study for even one winter at a foreign conservatory; or, if that be out of the question, at one of our now numerous American schools of music, or at least take up our music for one year, bringing to bear upon it every musical influ- ence possible. Eighteen years ago, in the little circle of which I speak, we exchanged our sentiments upon music in a shame-faced fashion, as though emotion or imagination ought to have nothing whatever to do with our prog- ress. We recommended our favorite pieces, such as the ‘‘Sunrise Mazurka,’’ ‘‘ Warb- lings at Eve,’’ and ‘‘ Monastery Bells,’’ with scanty comments, referring chiefly to the difficulties to be surmounted in certain pas- sages; and I am inclined to think that most young people of the present day in America feel very much in the same way, and lose thereby an element that is not only most conducive to progress, but most inspiring to the student, who, toiling over scales and dry exercises, is conscious of heart-throbs that are born of pure musical afflatus. In a foreign city, where music becomes an industry as well as an art, this atmosphere of appreciation and encouragement toward the best, this almost involuntary inter- change of thought and feeling, this con- tinual suggestiveness, as I may call it, of musical life, are as much a part of the stu- dent’s experience as the mode of eating and drinking, and he absorbs it all, gaining in so doing far more than he can be aware of at thetime. A foundation is laid for criticism, judgment, even for enthusiasm, without the least sense of undue superiority, since he finds himself in a country where the best on the part of every one is taken for granted, and mere talent never rated as, or mistaken for, genius. At present there are so many conserva- tories or schools for music abroad that it is THE COSMOPOLITAN. impossible to do more than classify them in a general way; for instance, recognizing those of Milan and Paris as by far the best for vocal study, while the advantages for the piano and all instrumental music are as un- deniably the best in the German conserva- tories. There is no doubt whatever that the Lamperti method, tinged with the German so far as the scientific use of the diaphragm is concerned in producing full chest-tones, is the best for the voice, the purely German or the purely French system having effects upon the vocal organs that are injurious even to the most robust voices. In the one instance, while the Germans have the best influence in the way of expression, there is apt to be ¢vemu/o ora guttural tendency ; and the French system, taken entire, produces for a time a bird-like sweetness and flexi- bility, but the chest is neglected, and in the course of time the voice wears out. Briefly speaking, Leipsic, Stuttgart, and Berlin may be considered the best places in Germany for piano-study. I have named the capital of Prussia last, only because the two former cities concentrate their musical influences strongly about one center, and the student that goes a stranger to study in any of the places named does better where he finds himself one of a circle all rounding the same object. As nearly every one knows, the Leipsic conservatory was founded by Mendelssohn and Moscheles, and the study of instrumental music is carried on there in as perfect a manner as possible, although of late years it is said that other places have divided the honors with the old city. In this space we can only give a very brief estimate of the expenses of study and life in a continental town. To begin with, board and lodging in a family where there will be the advantage of hearing the language spoken may be obtained at prices varying from fourteen to twenty-five dollars a month. Piano lessons (and I may say all vocal and instrumental tuition) can be had for prices from one to five or six marks each, the mark being about twenty cents in our money. Two marks is the usua] price for lessons in the languages from a first-class teacher, and it may be inferred that all other expenses are in the same proportion. As the terms for a regular course at the conservatories vary ac- according to the specialty of the student, it would be well to send for a prospectus where

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SPRING FASHIONS. a musical course is in view, addressing simply the director of the conservatory. I know of three students that lived quite comfortably, and carried on their musical studies at a German conservatory, for five hundred dollars a year; and I think any one that finds it necessary to calculate costs very closely might do it for less. In Paris good instruction is, of course, to be had. The prices are greater, and the ex- penses of living are more difficult to reduce, 131 especially for any one that is alone. It is quite impossible for a young woman to live by herself in Paris, or even to reside ex pension; whereas, in Germany, a young lady may readily be placed in charge of her hostess or landlady, and carry on with far greater freedom her life of work and study ; but, of course, it is needless to say that American girls abroad must remember that they are governed by the rules of propriety and etiquette of the place they are in. SPRING FASHIONS. By Mrs. HELEN HOOKER. — plaids, bars, and checks, of all sizes, colors, and description, are the prevailing styles in cotton, silk, wool, and velvet goods. The very narrow stripes and small checks will be used for entire suits ; the larger plaids and stripes, in combination with plain materials. Ginghams, sateens, and muslins are, as ever, the favorite cotton fabrics. The large plaids seen in ginghams and other goods are so softly shaded and blended this year that they have not the glar- ing look that made the old-fashioned plaids objectionable. There are also lovely Pompadour designs in cotton goods that resemble fine flower paintings on satin. Among the striped ginghams we notice primrose-yellow and heliotrope, yellow and brown, and blue and yellow, combined in alternate stripes. There are also lovely, cool-looking stripes of light pink and white, clear light blue and white, and heliotrope and white ; while other pat- terns show a dark stripe, alternating with a light one strewn with bright-hued flowers. Plaid ginghams show the same combinations of colors as the stripes, one of the most ap- proved styles being of white with large bars of color ; as, white and heliotrope, white and golden brown, or white and bright yellow. The most choice ginghams are thirty-five cents a yard, wide, and of fine quality. Pretty and inexpensive plain ginghams, with a corded gingham to combine as petticoat and trimmings, may also be found, a dress of twelve yards, six of the plain and six of the corded stripe, costing three dollars. Another gingham stuffhas a checked surface of knot- ‘ ted cords raised on a plain ground; as, dark blue checked with scarlet, and écru with brown. This material is called knotted pongee, and very much resembles some of the better class of woolen goods worn last season. The trimmings for ginghams will be white Hamburg of good quality, and picot-edged ribbon. The embroidery is preferred in open patterns, and may be used in the deep, flouncing widths for front drapery, with narrower widths for the basque. The ribbon will be used for a bow fastened a little to one side of the collar, and also made into large bows to finish the drapery where caught up. Such dresses are made with round basques, either with or without lining, short in front and on the hips, and having two full box-plaits in the back. The front has either a soft shirred vest of the dress material, with revers of embroidery, or a V-point of embroidery back and front, out- lined with an edge to match. Plain coat- sleeves with flaring turned-back cuffs of the embroidery, and a high turn-over collar, com- plete thecorsage. The dress-skirt, which is to be sewed to the same band as the drapery, should be slightly gored in front, and have a foundation-skirt either hemmed or finished with a narrow foot-plaiting of side plaits. To the foundation-skirt, a deep fall of the dress coming to the waist, where necessary, must be added. This outside portion of the skirt should be put on slightly full, and may be finished at the bottom by a hem, a few tucks, or edged with embroidery. When the front of the dress is a deep fall of the

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132 embroidery, it is of course unnecessary to have it go beyond the side breadths. If the front of the skirt is embroidered, make the front drapery either a short wrinkled apron or paniers; if plain, make long drapery caught up on one side. Make the back drapery long and full, and drape in long, soft folds. : Some cotton gowns are made with a polo- naise. Sateens, resembling more than ever foulard satins, are to be seen in all the new colors and styles. Among the prettiest and most stylish are those having geometrical and flowered designs, and the Persian styles having a dark ground covered with a grace- ful, all-over pattern in lighter colors. A bright dark blue has tiny bunches of shaded pink and of white lilacs ; another blue has bunches of shaded golden-rod with its leaves, and amasticcolor is strewn with small bouquets of white and lavender lilacs. The most popular dark shades are blue, green, and brown. In light shades there are lovely pinks, blues, heliotropes, grays, scarlets, and greens. The dark shades will be used (in combination with velvet collars, cuffs, and bows) for morning and afternoon wear. The lighter colors, covered with lace, will be used for evening wear. Some of these charming dresses come in patterns having the entire lower skirt em- broidered and narrower widths of the em- broidery for trimmings; but they are not as suitable for ordinary wear as the sateens sold by the yard. Imported sateens are sold at thirty-five cents a yard, and pretty domestic patterns at twenty cents. Sateens are made in any style that would be selected for a silk or wool dress, as they are usually worn for a season without going to the laundry. In most large cities may be found scourers who, in cleaning these dresses, restore the gloss they had when new. Richer cotton gowns are of écru batiste, with heavy embroidery wrought on the material with white, blue, scarlet, or brown threads; the embroidery is to be used for entire skirts, flounces, or panels: while still more elegant for those to whom pure white is becoming, are the beautiful dresses of India muslin, nain- sook, and organdie, richly trimmed with fine embroideries. The spring woolen fabrics are beautifully fine and soft, being woven in fine twills. THE COSMOPOLITAN. The styles are the same as in cotton goods : and dresses may be bought at all prices, from the stylish little checks at fifty and sixty cents a yard, double width, to the ele- gant pattern dresses of plain wool, with a few yards of the same barred or striped with velvet, at forty-five dollars a pattern. Be- tween these extremes are many lovely com- binations that may be made by buying the goods by the yard at more reasonable prices. The grounds of wool goods are all shades of écru, brown and gray, heliotrope, dark blue, terra cotta, and green ; these, when checked, show such combinations as dark green and white crossed with hair-lines of scarlet and light blue. A small blue-and-white check is crossed with threads of terra cotta; brown and white, with threads of bright yellow; a pattern dress of heliotrope wool has the four yards to be combined with it striped with a wide vine of flowers, in yellowish green and shaded cardinals. One of dark blue is plaided with velvet bars of scarlet, green, and golden-brown ; another of écru has a wide border plaided with brown velvet, and over the surface are scattered shaded plush balls in brown. For dressy occasions for spring and early summer there are silks of faille Francaise, bengaline, andother rich corded silks. They will be used alone, and in combination with velvet-striped satins, plaided surahs, and elegant silk-cord passementeries. Later, will be worn India silks, which are largely imported. Though the Persian patterns— small figures, palms, and flowers—may be found in these silks, the newest patterns here also are bars, stripes, and plaids, not in the pin-head checks nor hair-lines, which have been worn so long, but in plaids an inch square, in flowered stripes, and in large checks having hair-line bars of bright colors. The new colors seen in millinery and dress goods are as follows: the four shades of green, absinthe—a light green with a bluish cast—angelique, pistache, and chartreuse, which are pale shades with yellow tints; écru, gray-brown, and all shades of gray; in yellow shades, mandarin, primrose, and cowslip; in red shades, cardinal, a deep blood red, and poppy-color ; old rose and Charles X. pink, the latter color inclining toward the old and homely magenta ; heliotrope, and a new reddish purple called anemone.

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