The Cosmopolitan 1888-12: Vol 6 Iss 2

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THE COSMOPOLITAN. DECEMBER, 1888. NATIONAL TYPES OF CHRIST. By WILLIAM H. INGERSOLL. MILD-AUILE all Christen- ei dom is remember- ing the manger of Bethlehem, it is a good time to study the cosmopolitan aspect of the man whom all nations reverence as the ideal of human- ity as well as the founder of the Christian religion. We obtain a curi- ously interesting result in observing how the artistic genius ofevery peo- ple in Christendom has portrayed the Christ in the type of its own nationality. Jreneus says that little images of Jesus were made by the Syrian Guostics, ‘‘ by order of Pontius Pilate.’’ There was a great de- mand for visible semblances of him. It can not be imagined, that in an age of art, like the dawn of Christianity, there would not be pictures and images of one who created so vast a revolution in religious GNOSTIC CHRIST. ideas. Accordingly, we hear, even as early as Justin Martyr (born A.D. 100), /ren@us (b. 120), Eusebius (d. 340), and Augustine, (b. 354), various allusions to pictures, im- ages and statues of Christ. And although there is clear historical evi- dence of an original and persistent type of a Syrian cast, in a rather Grecian style of art, it is easy to see that He who was accepted as the World’s Deliverer would soon be adopted into the affections and hopes of all nations, not merely as a Jew of Naza- reth and Jerusalem, but as one of them- selves. They desired to realize ‘‘ the desire of all nations," as theirown. He was to be the Cosmopolitan, the Man for all peoples. The tendency to nationalize the Christ was so rapidly developed, that long before the ninth century he had been so far accepted among the chief nations of the Old World that they pictured him with their own national lineaments. Old Photius was Patriarch of Constanti- nople in the ninth century, when the last spasms of the iconoclastic frenzy were dying away. In answer to the skeptic arguments and questions of the ‘‘ image-breakers,’’ who, seeing different varieties of pictures of Christ, had inquired which was the true type, the venerable prelate replied in what was inter- esting as history, and is even now, and what disclosed and interpreted the fine sentiments of the preceding ages. The iconoclasts had found Christ in. Greek, Roman, Egyptian, and Indian art. In his sixty-fourth Epistle Photius says that ‘‘ the difference between these national types was much the same as the difference between the Gospels in the several countries, written in one character by the Greeks, in another by the Romans, in another by the Indians, and in another by the Hebrews, and in another by the Ethiopians; and which differed, not only in the forms of let- ters, but in pronunciation, and the signifi- cance of words.”’ It is probable, that the Greek or ‘* Byzan- tine type was so well known in his day, that Entered at the New York Post Office as second-class matter. Copyright, 1888, by THE COSMOPOLITAN MAGAZINE Co.

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NATIONAL TYPES OF CHRIST. SYRIAN CHRIST. (The Abgarus or “‘ Edessa’’ Face. the national variations of it were regarded as translations, and not as new or strange con- ceptions. Indeed in the time of 7ertullian, (A.D. 160) he, a layman, was so well ac- quainted with the true type that he could denounce a certain picture as ‘‘incor- rect.”’ The image-wars of the eighth and ninth centuries, and the pillage of the Syrian and Asia Minor cities, destroyed most of the very ancient pictures and images of Christ, except the few that were carried into Italy, and that escaped destruction there, and some very an- cient copies in the monasteries in Syria and Armenia. The ancient ‘‘ Edessa ’’ picture, associated with the name of King Adgarus, is known to us only by copies, but they are so peculiar and personal in appearance, that criticism must conclude that they were copied from a From the Fourth Century.) picture of the same charac- ter, or were painted directly from a man who was un- like other men of the time, and even unlike the classic ideals. No one would invent, out of a inere original fancy, a picture like that remarkable Syr- ian face in the church of St. Sylvester in Rome, which is called the Aéd- garus Christ. It may be called, whether original or copy, the Syrzan type. Not Jewish, but Syrian. Ancient as it is, there are Syrians to-day, in that land where civilization has stood still from the days of Abraham, who would pass for the original of that face. But this picture, or its pro- totype, had an ancient his- tory as a relic in the fourth century, when it was known to Lusebius. A long, grave face, nar- row in contour, with dark, lively eyes, and an expres- sion of wisdom, gentleness, sympathy and love. The hair is long and close, dark in color, like the divided beard. Now, the ancient sanctuary frame of gold and enamel covers all but the outlines of the beautiful face. Dr. William Grimm, in 1840, presented to the Scientific Society of Berlin an essay describing this venerable work, and giving a copy of it, from which our illustration is taken. Those old ‘‘ Guostics,’’ Greeks or Syrians, had none of the Jew’s scruples about images, after the time of the Maccabees. They were ready to make and sell anything for which they could find or make a profitable market. Besides the images of Christ and Lazarus mentioned by /reneus, they also wrought jewels and amulets, bearing the sacred face. Very few of these are now in existence, but enough remain to verify the statement of the old father. One in the Louvre collection, im Paris, is carved on a white chalcedony. A copy from

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NATIONAL TYPES OF CHRIST, ROMAN CHRIST. (Christ Enthroned in Imperial Triumph. A Mosaic Fresco of the Fifth Century in the Church of San Vitalis.) a work by Raoul Rochette, an eminent French antiquarian, is shown at the beginning of this article. The face is a sharp Greek profile with long hair, but no beard. The name XPISTOSZ leaves no doubt concern- ing the subject, and the symbol of the Fish adds the mystic Christian sign which belongs to the age when Christians were per- secuted, and recognized each other by secret tokens understood between themselves. The Fish represented the baptized believer, and its word IXOYS, (Jchthus) in Greek, com- prised the initial letters of the Divine title, In6ovs Xpi6ros Oeov Yios Swrnp, ‘Jesus Christ, Son of God, Saviour.”’ After the conversion of Constantine, and the proclamation of Christianity as the re- ligion of the Roman world, in 324, there were basilicas, baptistries, and churches to build and decorate, in many places. And though religion thus by proclamation be- came Christian, art was still pagan. The decoration of churches continued for ages to be in pagan hands. Artists were allowed much liberty of design and composition, so long as the Church had not yet developed any art-ritual for itself. Very ancient pictures in the Catacombs show a beardless young man performing the miracles. He is again seated in the chair of the Teacher, or on his throne, as the embodied 7ruth, holding the book. Some grander themes of church decoration exhib- ited the youthful Divinity in eternal prime, sitting on the throne of universal dominion. In the grand mosaic vault of S¢. Vitalis is an Enthroned Christ, sitting on the starry globe, the universe, as ‘‘Aing of Kings and Lord of Lords.’’ His face is the young Roman classic ideal. Youthful prime, with the ‘‘ majesty’’ of a noble mien, and a face of sweetness and love. Grave and sol- emn, but tender and gentle. In his right hand he holds forth a crown to the soldier- martyr, Vitalis, who, introduced by an arch- angel, approaches, with his hands covered by his own robe, as though he felt unworthy to receive in his naked hands even a crown from so august a Giver. On the other side is a figure of Bishop Fcclesius, also intro-

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NATIONAL TYPES OF CHRIST. From Titian's Painting, *‘ The Tribute Money.” MEDIEVAL ITALIAN CHRIST. duced by an archangel, and bearing a model of the Church. The lower field is beautiful with green sward and shining lilies, and the upper arch is filled with trumpets. The types and influence of the Byzantine school prevailed more or less in Italy until the thirteenth century, and its influence con- tinued even after its solemn and ascetic an- cient type was abandoned or merged into the living grace and beauty of free and origi- nal /talian art. It may not be considered impious, at this late day, to charge Giotto with painting from some bright Italian of Florence, Padua or Pisa, the dark-haired, sharp-featured Christs of the ‘‘ Avena”’ frescoes. Correggio had a positive and unique ideal in several of his works. Piombo, in all his works, shows the same face pictured in his great masterpiece, the Raising of Lazarus, in the London National Gallery. Ludovico Caracci always painted the same sharp- featured Christ, with shin- ing eyes. Other masters, however, are distinguished for a variety of faces, even in repeating the same sub- ject. Guido’s Ecce-Homo, forexample. While there are many of the same gen- eral conception, the thorn- crowned suffering Saviour, with upturned face and prayerful eyes, they show different faces as to linea- ments. With the progress of ‘*realism,’’ which proba- bly began with Giotto, the use of models becomes more and more apparent. Indeed there are few fa- mous pictures in later art that do not show the na- tionality of the painter. Sometimes, however, he may have selected some Jewish models, or one known to resemble some of the great ideals. The _ shepherd-boy ‘in whom Cimabue discovered the great master Gzo/to, was the first to make an Italian Christ. Almost every Christ face from his hand is a typical Italian, with sharp features and full dark hair and beard. A few were lighter in com- plexion and softer in tone. But there is really not much character in some of Giotto’s Christ-faces. As dramatic compositions his pictures were the greatest of his age, and opened the whole world to the sacred painter. The finest Italian face of the higher type, is in the 7ribute Money, by Titian in the Dresden Gallery. Here we have a refined and intellectual countenance, and a pure Italian. Contrast that mild and noble face, sweetness and dignity mingled, with that coarse and quizzical Pharisee, who tempts him about ‘‘tribute to Cesar.’’ This is not only one of the finest works in the

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STEUER GAY TRUER From Rembrandt's Etching, “‘ Blessing Little Children.” A DUTCH TYPE OF CHRIST.

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NATIONAL TYPES OF CHRIST. From the Painting by Paul Delaroche. FRENCH CHRIST. history of art, but one of the most popu- lar. Though often differing in features, com- plexion, and the style and color of hair and beard, there have been many other pictures of Italian faces representing Christ, and the tendency still survives. A work as recent as 1886, by Siemiradzki, of Rome, a Russian by birth, is the latest illustration of the tendency. At the home of Mary and Martha at Bethany with the brow of Olivet in the distance, Jesus is a guest in the one place, most like home to Him who had not where to lay his head. Noble olive trees are near the low terrace wall which separates the vine-clad arbor from the little garden. Mary sits on the ground at the feet of her Teacher, choosing ‘‘the better part.’”’ Her harp lies by her side, and suggests the sweet thought that she has been singing to her beloved Lord some of the songs of Zion. With eager face she listens to his animated words. Martha, standing on a higher ter- race in the background, near a well, looks reproachfully at the two, seeming to say, ‘bid Mary to come and help me in serving.” The face of Jesus is a study of the fine Italian type of to-day. The hair is uncommonly long and loose, but dark and beautiful. As a realistic study of place, persons, and senti- ment, this is one of the finest recent works. The older works in Germany and the Netherlands are Byzantine and Italian. The former as more spir- itual, suiting the cool religious natures of the northern people, were longer cherished and more influential, and were copied by the ecclesiastical schools for cen- turies, Butthe nationalizing tendency came quicker to secular art, or to secular artists painting religious themes, than it came to Italian art. The German, Dutch, and Flemish schools soon modified the models which they received from the East, and even what they learned in Italy. As early as the fourteenth century the Cologne school was painting a German type of Christ. And so were From the Painting by Holman Hunt. ENGLISH CHRIST. THE LIGHT OF THE WORLD. C@2lLLes ene’! wo Buayuovesa) “meme /serss woLteneiess Ae Meese 22 M047

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108 Quentin Matsys, of Antwerp, and Hans Mem- ling, of Bruges, and many others. Rembrandt, the great master of shadows, who made darkness eloquent and gave a lan- guage to light, wasgreat also in the etcher's art, in which he was the creative genius of his age. His sacred designs are without number, and we select an etching which illustrates the spirit of the season as well as From the Painting by Johannes A. Oertel. AMERICAN CHRIST. NATIONAL TYPES OF CHRIST. the national type. Christ Blessing Children shows at the slightest glance a Dutch face, kind, tender, and loving, and the little ones who ‘“‘come unto Him”’ are the children of the village. For German art, two examples of contem- porary work exhibit different but decidedly German types. The first is a scene of Gena light and beauty, Christ Preaching, by Professor Heinrich Hofmann, of Dresden. He is one of the noblest masters of mod- ern sacred art, and the picture which is presented on page 105 occupies the grand post of honor in the stair- case corridor, or ‘‘/veppenhalle” of the new national gallery in Berlin. Besides being the finest conception of Christ preaching from a boat to the multitude on shore, it is one of the sunniest scenes and most beautiful in the world. As a composition, it is remarkable for lively and harmonious arrangement, and the sentimental ex- pression ofits figures. A great variety of faces and different phases of ab- sorbed interest all seem eagerly drink- ing the words of Him who spake as “never man spake.” A soft beauty like a spell of peace pervades the hazy sky reflected in the tranquillake. As a study of colors, lively and beauti- ful, yet soft, rich and poetical, it is most interesting. Contrasts and har- monies of every kind, balanced tints and opposite hues, are mingled in the scene ; but always made to contribute to the completeness of the charm of what is probably the noblest master- work of this age. To see it is an experience never to be forgotten. The second is Albert Keller's Rais- ing the Daughter of Jairus. Here is an intensely German type, in the midst of Greek classic architecture and in- cidents. An open colonnaded court, in the high Athenian style, contains the group, and the composition is in the ancient academic manner of Zeuxis Apelles. Itlacks nothing in interest or in the vivid realism, which pow- erfully tells the story, but here is prob- ably the leading Christ model of M/u- nich. His face and form are plainly repeated in no less than three real-

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From the Painting by Albert Keller, GERMAN CHRIST. THE RAISING OF JAIRUS’ DAUGHTER.

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From the Fainting by Nicholas Gay. SSIAN CHRIST. IN GETHSEMANE,

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From the Painting by Carl Bloch. SWEDISH CHRIST. “‘ COME UNTO ME.”

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Ii2 istic works of very recent date. No dis- guise or attempt at variation is made, and it is hardly likely that Keller, Zimmerman, and Uhde were severally igyorant of the fact that they were each painting the same man in their pictures at about the same time. But if they were ngt aware of it, he probably knew it full well, and everybody knows it now. It is by no means an ideal type for beauty, or for German lineaments, or for spiritual suggestiveness, but he prob- ably represents the present manner of picture making and perhaps the prevalent realisms, which makes a Christ ideal for the sympa- thy and love of the ‘‘common people, who heard him gladly.”’ Uh’de's Christ in the home, and Zimmerman’'s Christ and the fish- erman, have the same face and figure which we show in Keller's picture. In later years, the French ideal appears in the works of several eminent masters. Ary Scheffer was of Dutch birth, but Parisian life and fame. His famous Christs in those great allegories, the Christus Consolator and BLACK CHRIST, IN THE CHURCH OF SAN DOMINGO, MEXICO, NATIONAL TYPES OF CHRIST. Christus Remunerator, present the same beautiful face which appears in most of his designs. It is a French face, though not so pro- nounced as in some other pictures. Sor- rowers of every kind seek the Consoler, to find ‘‘rest to their souls.’’ And weary, disappointed ones, who have missed the re- wards of life, come to the Remunerator, who remembers every good word and work. The ideal French Christ is the portrait- like conception of Paul Delaroche, which we give. No picture is so popular in France, and indeed in England and America it isa favorite, copied in every form, grand and humble, and is much revered. The same beautiful face, full of sympathy and love, and yet dignified and noble, is pre- sented in the master’s great dramatic works. In Spain, more than anywhere else, do we see national conceptions to be the rule, and the ancient traditional type rather the exception. Ecclesiasticism prevails, and in the middle ages the Bishops and Jesuits undertook to control sacred art, and to dictate subjects, and even to pun- ish rash original inventions. Devout as was Murillo, who painted the great spiritual ideal of the ‘‘/m- maculate Conception,’’ it is said that the Christ in his great picture of the Feeding the Multitude, in Seville, has the painter’s own face. Very often the Italian painters introduced themselves and their friends in their groups, and so did the Germans, but seldom did the audacious painter pose as Christ himself. Albert Durer, of Nuremberg, once painted his own portrait in the style of Christ, as to hair, beard and atti- tude, but again he painted himself as the Prodigal Son. Several Christ pictures by Velas- guez are of a pronounced Spanish type, though differing in lineaments and of painful scenes. Russia inherits the ancient By- zantine art, with her state Greek Church, which was the patron of the ancient school. In our day, in Greek monasteries, and in the Im- perial schools of Moscow and St. Petersburg, the grave and venera- ble Christ is still painted and

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NATIONAL TYPES OF CHRIST. MODERN COPTIC CHRIST OF BYZANTINE ART. (From Bethlehem.) the original the faces, hands and limbs are painted of a bronze color; the drapery, head-dress and border are beaten gold, and the background silver.) wrought in costly mosaics, in the manner of the early centuries. The writer confesses that he was startled, familiar as he is with the many strange conceits of art, when he first saw the Gethsemane’’ by Professor Nicholas Gay, of the Imperial Academy of St. Petersburg. Kneeling on one knee, on the sloping ground of Mount Olivet, in the midst of the ancient olive-trees, is the praying Redeemer. His head is raised, his eyes heavenward, but the head and face are as purely Russian as could be imagined for a noble type of man.

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NATIONAL TYPES OF CHRIST. JEWISH CHRIST, Swedish art is a branch of the Scandina- vian, which may include Norwegian and Danish. The picture which is shown as a representative of the Swedish type, is painted by Carl Bloch, a Dane by birth. But it is a masterwork, and an altar-piece in the Léderups and Horups church in Christian- stad, in southern Sweden. It is called ‘“‘ Christus Consolater,’’ and bears in the Danish language the blessed invitation, “Come unto me all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.’’ And the group surrounding the Consoler are those who have come. The robe is white, and is a reminiscence of the ancient Scan- dinavian mythological legend of the ‘‘ Weiss Balder,’’ a ‘‘Good God,’ the opposite of the evil god of their dual mythology. The reader must have noticed that this face and head of Christ are decidedly Swe- dish, and that they are most winning and beautiful, The sweet sympathy of that lov- THE HOLY FAMILY, By V. Verestchagin. ing countenance has never been better ex- pressed, surpassing even Thorwaldsen. We would hardly expect to see an English Christ. But there are several of pronounced English types. Not like each other, or like any ancient ideals, but clearly English. Holman Hunt, Dobson and Armitage have each produced peculiarly English types of the Saviour. The most famous of all, and most popular, is Hunt’s ‘‘ Light of the World,’’ now in Keble College, Oa-ford. Ten thousand pounds sterling was paid for it, and they talk about that, as if it was the meas- ure of the value of the picture. Here is an English face, refined and loving, patient and yet entreating, as of One who, though his power might force the weed-grown door of the human heart, waits, because he has said, ‘‘If any man will ofen the door, I will come in.’’ In composition, this half-life size figure reminds one of a Byzantine work, and in coloring it is as subtle as Titian, and more

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NATIONAL TYPES OF CHRIST. spiritual. There is a self-luminous coloring in the face, which is very striking, and the bright moon behind the head makes an ideal nimbus of glory. Sir Noel Paton, in his ‘' Muck-Rake,’’ shows a fine Scotch Christ, holding a crown above the head of the wild-eyed raker. Remember that old Photius mentioned an Ethiopian Christ, for that will prepare the reader for a singular fact, namely, that Christ has been pictured for centuries in one part of the world as Black. In Africa, especially in Abyssinia and Egypt, black is the rule. They believe and say, that Adam was black, and that Christ, as the Son of Man, was black also. And so he is pictured in the ‘“‘Coptic’’ Egyptian, and in the popular art in the humble huts and cabins of, the na- tives on the western coasts there are many black Christs, and none white. So the Coptic churches in the Holy Land have their own national Christ, and even where the features are Greek, as in most works painted by Greek painters, the Copts having no painters among themselves, the complexion will be made to suit them. A celebrated Madonna, from the Chapel of the Holy Virgin at Bethlehem, is reproduced from an embossed copy in colors and gilt. The original is of Greek work, but is be- lieved in Bethlehem to be very holy, and of miraculous powers. The letters on the right and left above are the initial sym- bols of Jesus Christ and Mother of God. The picture is about life-size, and the faces and hands are painted on the flat surface; the drapery is in embossed gold and silver, very costly and beautiful, surrounding and en- shrining the face. Another Black Christ is on this continent, in the sister republic of Mexico, in the Church of Santo Domingo, in the City of Mexico. It is called the ‘‘ Christ of the No- vitiate,’’ and has been there for over three hundred years, since the order of Dominican friars has been established in that country. Popularly it is known as “ Ai Negro,”’ the Black, and it is esteemed with the greatest reverence. This work is a carved cruci- fix. Compared with other works it would Suggest an origin both Byzantine and Moorish. It was probably imported from Spain and copied from some very ancient type. Those long side locks of the heavy hair are peculiarly Byzantine. Behind the 9 115 figure is a painted screen, and surrounding it are roses of votive flowers. It has in the Cathedral a curtained niche or sanctuary by itself, and an altar below it. A glass door covers it, and ever burning lights do it homage. ; If we would hardly expect a distinctively national English Christ, we certainly would not look for an American ideal. Here we have no religious antiquities, no sacred art, no State Church. But we have a religious people, and we have wealth and taste. And thus it comes to pass that we have several works which show national peculiarities, though in different forms. Probably the first was Powers’ bust of Christ, now belong- ing to the Rev. Dr. Aspinwall, of this ‘city. - The picture which we present as Ameri- can, is a copy of a colossal figure painted for a church in Dayton, Ohio, by the Rez. Johannes A. Ocrtel, an Episcopal clergy- man, now residing in Sewanee, Tennessee. He has painted many noble pictures, and is our leading clerical artist. It differs de- cidedly from the artist’s great picture, Christ our High Priest, in the Church of the Heavenly Rest, in New York City. To see this American aright, imagine the apparel in the present fashion, and a hat on the head. It is no disparagement to call it American in type. Indeed, what nobler manhood has the world to show, than the free, intelligent, brave and sympathetic American ? The art sensation of the season is the ex- hibition of works of the great realistic master whose Russian name is Vastly Vasilyivitch Verestchagin. Aninteresting subject from a Jewish type, to conclude our article, is the Holy Family by this Russian master. The house and shop are represented in a corner of Jerusalem near Solomon’s wall. Christ is at the left, seated on the steps of the yard wall, with a scroll of scripture in his hand, just before the time of his minis- try, with dark auburn hair and a white gar- ment. A line of bright colored clothes hangs over Mary and her youngest child. On the ground are four other children of Mary and Joseph, the ‘‘ brothers and sis- ters’ of Jesus mentioned in the Gospels, one sprawling on his chest, and another sitting on a board which lies on another board in the form of a cross. Joseph works at a bench with a fellow-carpenter.

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IN SIERRA VALLEY. A WESTERN CHRISTMAS STORY. By JOHN PRESTON TRUE. Gate, a rab- bit!’’ ‘““Where? Oh, I see im!” Bang ! and the shotgun woke the echoes from crag to crag in re- verberating reports until they died away muttering up the valley, as ledge after ledge shouted to one another like the giants that they were, saying in their rough tongue ‘*Baim-wawa,’”’ while up from under the very heels of the flying ball of cotton-wool flew a little cloud of snowdust. ‘** Missed him ; my turn !”’ Crack ! and like a giant whip the rifle. Zip ! went the bullet, with a hiss like a rattle- snake as it scored a long groove in the icy crust just where a shadow had rested half a second before, and then sped on and on out into the immensity of space between mount- ain and mountain, while ‘‘ Brer’ Rabbit”’ threw an additional ounce of kick into each of the next half-dozen leaps, and vanished around a bowlder with a whisk, and two small boys, of thirteen and fourteen years, leaned on their guns and smote their thighs with disappointment. From the slopes above them came faintly to ear the ringing strokes of an axe at inter- vals; far down below them ran the river in the valley, closely prisoned beneath a shell of ice on which, where, here and there, the wind had scoured away the snow, the sun- light fell and glittered. Only a few rods below a little precipice marked the edge of the snowsheds of the U. P. R. R., erected to protect the track from avalanches ; and across the great gulf the same line wound its way, seemingly so near that the boys could almost count the knotholes in the tim- bers, yet it was fully five miles distant as the crow flies to their own level on the slope beyond. A single spire of smoke rose per- pendicularly in air from among the distant sheds, and marked the cabin of the section hands. But the boys did not belong to them or, for that matter, to any one. They, with their guns, were all that was left of a strand- ed emigrant family, which an avalanche on one day anda fight over a whisky bottle on the next had broken up. The boys had been hunting at the time, and beyond a fiery sus- picion that a certain villainous half-breed, ‘‘Sulky Pete,’’ knew more about it than he chose to tell, they were in complete igno- rance of particulars of the affray. Pete, how- ever, had picked a quarrel with the foreman of his railroad gang, and had left months ago, and of late a deserted miner’s cabin had been their home. But game was scarce, and their next dinner had vanished around the corner of a bowlder as big as a small house. ‘Never mind, Gate,’’ said the elder, with a wistful look in his eyes as he thrust one of his few remaining cartridges into the rifle chamber with unnecessary emphasis. Gate did his best to be brave, and said he didn’t care; but two big tears would come out into daylight and run zigzag down his face, leaving upon each cheek a trace like the photograph of a very far away lightning flash. “If only I wasn’t so hungry, Life,’’ he began. ‘‘Oh, well, Gate, we can’t expect to have roast ven’son every day, an’ we had a rab- bit yesterday. Come, le’s hiper over ter the spruces ; perhaps we can light on a squir’l or two.”’ And Gate found courage enough to reload his old shotgun once more as he followed his brother toward the spruces. Poor little Gate! he had learned early the hard lesson that most of us must learn, that the only way to succeed is to ‘“‘ peg away.”’ He had learned it well, though ;,and when they reached the corner of the ledges around which were the woods where Life had ‘* lowed there might be squir’Is,’’ it was Gate who stole around first and came to a dead stop before he had cleared the corner. Just an instant the brown barrel rested against the ledge ; then came the report and a loud

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IN SIERRA VALLEY. hurrah as Gate plunged forward through the cloud of smoke. “‘O Life, Life! two of ’em to once! Two jays ! an’ they sat thar just as sassy, an’ I’ve got’em! Here’s our dinner !”’ ‘An’ our breakfast, too! Gate, yera brick! We’ll start a fire right here now! ”’ and Life began to break off dead limbs from a spruce with his hatchet, and soon had a fire crackling. And when it was ready— my! how good that jay did taste ! ‘Pity birds ain’t got four drumsticks !”’ he said reflectively, as he dismembered his jay. ‘‘ Never mind, we'll play they’re tur- keys. ’N you may have one of mine; my bird’s the biggest anyway.”’ ‘‘?Tain’t neither !’’ said Gate, indignant- ly. ‘‘An’ I won’t take it. Didn’t mother say that we’re to share alike—ef only she were back !’’ And his voice choked suddenly, as he thought of the poor tired mother who had laid down her white face to rest at last before they had left the States. ‘*Don’t!’’ and Life jumped up and then sat down again, his face working, too. ‘Here! you’ve got ter! She told me ter look after yer, an’ I’m goin’ ter do it. Come, may be we’ll shoot another by-an’- by.”’ How still it was, as they sat around the flame and looked out through the little clump of spruces that shielded them and their fire from view of possible game, while they themselves could see across the gulf and up and down the valley. It was quite an am- bush, especially as the dry branches used in their cookery had left no smoke. High above them they still heard at inter- vals the steady strokes of an axe ; long ago they had caught the harsh, roaring crack of a falling tree, and now the strokes began again, ‘‘tick-tock, tick-tock,’’ like a giant clock ; and then—something curious hap- pened. The strokes ceased, and almost on the instant the earth began to tremble in dis- tinct shocks, growing heavier and heavier, with an ever increasing thumping. Life scrambled to his feet. ‘Look out, Gate! it’s an earthquake or a ‘splosion, I guess.’’ But it was something more terrible; for even as little Gate had responded to the call and stood, drumstick in hand, and reaching for his gun, down came a hugesawlog, lunging end over end, leaping in great leaps. One bound carried 117 it among the spruces, which flew up in the air like twigs as it plowed through. Then up it rose in a frightful somersault, turned in the air, and like a great javelin crashed .down upon the snowshed, crushing the roof like cardboard, and making kindling-wood of beams and sleepers. A silence followed the echoes so profound that it made the just- ended turmoil seeyy doubly loud. Gate Penly drew a long breath. ‘* Well, I never !”’ ‘* Hush !”’ Down the mountain footsteps rang crisply on the icy crust. With unsteady lurches a man followed the path of the timber, axe in hand. Life knew him in an instant, and his fingers trembled as they rested on the hammer of his rifle. It was Sulky Pete! He could not see the boys, but they saw him, saw him examine the crushed shed, from the roof of which the three-foot log projected like a chimney ; saw him take a drink from a bottle which he took from his pocket, saw him shoulder his axe, shake his fist at the distant cabin across the valley, and tramp leisurely away. ‘* Life, he meant ter do that !’’ ‘*Correct.’’ And Life watched until the half-breed was out of sight, trembling the while with excitement, and wondering what would have happened had they been dis- covered. ‘* Gate, he meant ter wreck the train ; le’s go down !’’ and down they hurried. ‘* Life,’ said Gate, as they stood looking at the ruins, ‘‘that train ought ter be along pretty soon.”’ And at the thought Life, who had been excitedly poking about at the crushed tim- ber, jumped as though a bee had stung him. ‘“Why, Gate, that’s so! We must do suthin’ or all those people will go down there like a house afire ; we must tell the section-men. Come!’’ And he began to tighten his belt with hasty fingers. ‘It'll take so long, Life !’’ objected Gate. ‘Can’t we set ’er afire and burn it up?”’ ‘‘No use ; don’t you see it’s twisted the iron rails as though ’twere cedar? But twill take powerful long to cross ther valley —why, Gate, le’s make a sled an’ slide down !”’ ‘* Slide down the mountain ! our wuthless necks !”’ ‘‘No, we won’t. Here, cut down that sap- We'll break

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I 18 lin’ with yer hatchet, quick! I'll take this. There, now, trim ’em.’’ And the sharp strokes resounded. ‘‘Good! Here’s a plank ; now bend yer saplin’ double over the end of it as I do, an’ lash ther tail ends together behind the other end o’ ther plank —gimme yer whiplash ; now we'll tie ther poles together in ther middle so ’t they won't slip off’n the plank, ’n we’ve got a sledge with two runners ’n no time wasted. Pile on, now! an’, Gate, keep yer heels grind- in’ down for a brake all the way. Ready? Grip hard!’’ And with a quick shove the excited boy started the mountain sled upon its way. For a moment it moved slowly enough, although the crust was smooth and hard ; but then came a sudden pitch ! Right there, years before, had been an avalanche. Tons on tons of rock rolling down the mountain-side had leaped from the ledge above the snowshed, cleared all, and plunging onward down the mountain scoured it tothe bone: and through the great trough like a shuttle down a flume the boys were flying ! Of what availthen were grinding heels ? On, on they swept with the speed of light, barely touching the tops of the little ridges. Steer? What mockery! With set teeth Life did all he could; he reached far back with his guiding heel swaying like a streamer, steadying the flight of the sled as the trailing stick the rocket. But what could that avail? It did avail, that was all they knew ; and all the rest was one long, breath- less dream—so long !—of point after point appearing, rushing up and bythem, and van- ishing with astartling hiss and roar. They clung to their saplings with desperate tena- city. They lived in a gale that swept their very breath away and left them gasping. And when, at last, after what seemed an eter- nity of motion, they shot out from the im- pulse of that frightful slope, and shooting clear across the valley began to rise at last upon the other side as though they were to go on and on over valley and mountain for- ever and ever, Gate gave one little cry, threw up his hands, and fell back at full length upon the sledge, and lay without a sound or motion. The sledge stopped at last as gently on the upward slope as though in a quiet pas- ture. Life drew along breath. ‘‘O Gate!” but Gate did not reply. IN SIERRA VALLEY. ‘‘Gate? what is it ? speak ter me!” And down in the cafion beyond the valley the far-away rumble of the train came echo- ing along the rocky chasm. ‘‘Gate! little Gate! wake up, quick! the train is coming! Oh! what shall I do?’? But little Gate moved not, breathed not. Was he dead? must he go on and leave him ? The rumble grew louder fast. He must ! With a sob Life tore himself away and toiled up the mountain side. Every crisp rasp of the crust seemed to cry out beneath his feet : ‘‘ Come back ! Come back !’’ But he kepton. It was not far now, the cabin was near at hand. The section-men were away, but that did not matter. Rushing in, he snatched a couple of signal torpedoes from a shelf and running down the line a rod or two he laid them on the track. The engineer was sitting on his seat laugh- ing at a joke of the jolly fireman. It was Christmas Day, and their engine was wreath- ed with evergreens, and in its flag-staff sock- et on the pilot stuck a pert young Christ- mas-tree. So they rattled on with a rumble and din, their ears and eyes doing their duty like faithful servants quite independent of orders from their masters, who were other- wise enjoying themselves, when there was a flash, a report, quick and sharp! An- other ! ‘* Down brakes, Jim !’’ And instantly the big engineer laid his hand upon the revers- ing bar. With a mighty grumbling and shaking the great engine slowly stopped its shining wheels, and the fireman leaping down found himself confronted by a very whitefaced boy. ‘*Oh, sir! ther’s a big tree on the track across ther valley ! an’ me an’ Gate, we slid down ther mountain ter tell yer, an’ little Gate ’s down thar—dead !’’ And he broke down at last, brave little fel- low that he was, in a wild flood of tears, for Gate, little Gate, brother and playmate through all these hungry, weary years, was dead ! The big engineer sprang down and caught him up. ‘Jim, this must be looked to ! conductor to send some one down.”’ And hestarted down the mountain at arun. It was plain enough, that little black heap on the snow. The conductor came himself, Tell the

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THE BLIND INDIAN GIRL. puffing and sliding. So did the fireman; so did others ; among them the superintendent of the road, who was on thetrain. He bent over little Gate to lift him up, and as he did so the boy’s eyes flew open. “O Life ! say, have we lit?’’ Ina twink- ling, amid a hearty roar of laughter, the boys were in each other’s arms. The big engineer picked them both up. The brakeman picked up the sledge, and the superintendent, looking at the sailing run- ners worn nearly to the heart, and up the great sweep down which it had come, gave a great shudder at the thought, and led the way up the mountain without a word. But when the train had started, and had moved circumspectly along around the head of the valley to where the crushed shed lay, he went back to the Pullman car and asked for silence. ‘“Men, do you see that gulf? Well! Those two boys slid down that mountain on a plank to save us. If they hadn’t we would have gone down, trainandall. Take a good look over, and think of it! Now, men, they’re going East to school—the company will see tothat. But they haven’t a thing but what they stand in.’’ 119 The superintendent paused ; and as he did so up jumped a quick-eyed Westerner. ‘‘Conduc’, that’s enough. Gentlemen, here’s a hat, and to-day’s Christmas ! ’’ It was enough ; and when that hat in the conductor’s hands reached the end of the car, big sombrero as it was, two strong hands were none too many to hold it up ; and there were no silver dollars in it, either ! The obstruction was cleared away, and the track was duly mended, and as the train moved on were there two boys living who were happier than patched and ragged Life and little Gate Penly? They sat on the fireman’s seat in the engine cab all day long, watching the play of the polished lev- ers, basking in the great rush of light and heat as the furnace door was opened and coal flung in ; looking out of the cab win- dows at mountain, valley, and plain, with gleaming eyes. For they were Eastward bound. Back from the desert, back from the great stone land, back from the land of crags and ledges, where they had known of nothing but want, and cold, and hunger ; journeying on without toil or weariness to- ward what to them was Heaven,—toward friends and comfort and home. THE BLIND INDIAN GIRL. By W. H. H. MuRRAY. ve yy 20, j (ha = SOLA) 2 ELL, it may be you are right. r =. Don’t stand as good chance nowadays as they used to = When the Lord was on earth and made it his business It may be that sinners To trail through the country, doing deeds of sweet mercy. But at Ste. Anne de Beaupré* I saw something happen That set me to thinking; and I more than half question If the Saviour has gone clean back into heaven. It may be his love for trees, lakes and mountains, And his habit of healing the blind and the crippled, Hold on to him still. Blind? She was blind as a bat. You don’t think so? Well, listen. Born so they told me. She was half-breed Montagnais, but good blood was in her. That was plain. For her step was that of a princess, And her face was the face of one who is blooded With the blood of old races when it flows reddest In veins untainted without cross with mongrel. * The Shrine of Ste. Anne de Beaupré is one of the most noted in the world to-day. Most extraordinary cures are effected there each season. Lawrence, and at the base of a mountain. It is located on the north shore, some fifteen miles below Quebec, on the bank of the St. Over two hundred thousand pilgrims visited it last summer. A steam- boat runs daily from Quebec to the Shrine, and the curious or reverential tourist can easily visit this noted and—to many—holy spot.

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THE BLIND INDIAN GIRL. She was telling her beads on the bank of a river One day when I passed with my furs going downward. And she cried, ‘‘Oh, take me down with you, John Norton, To that Chapel which stands close by the great river Where it sweeps widely downward under the mountain, By which for man’s healing stands the Shrine of Ste. Anne.’’ It was evening. The light on the altar burnt dimly When we entered. I signed the Sign, touched the water Of cleansing with her. For I said : ‘‘ It won’t matter If I be as a child for one night. The symbol Is useless to one who looks onward and farther, But harmless. Different habits and forms mean the same If honestly held to. By whatever channel It reaches the ocean, still, water is water.’ So we, two heads and one heart, went into the chapel, Went in hand-in-hand and knelt down together, Two faiths in one God seeking help at one altar. So we knelt while above us the candle burned dimly. Both prayed, one in spirit, but in different fashion. Prayed that blindness might pass and the blessing of seeing Might come to her eyes. When, suddenly, praying, I felt the slow motion of hands softly passing Through the air dimly lighted above our raised faces, And I heard in the stillness the murmur of voices Low and sweet as mothers when loving their children. At least so it seemed. Then she rose softly, saying, ‘‘John Norton, rise up! I see a light glowing Before me! Oh, trapper, thy face is revealing Itself unto me! Sweet Mother of Heaven ! Can it be that this which is coming is vision? ’”’ Then I took her brown hand and we passed to a window. And I said: “Child, look thou forth, look now, believing.’’ So she looked. Looked up to the hills glooming darkly, Looked at the river flowing downward in silver, At the sky, star-lighted, which roofed the world over, And she said as she looked, speaking quickly and panting, ‘‘Ts that a hill? Are those stars? That glory—a river? Is that earth,—all that beauty out yonder, John Norton ? Or say, have we died? Have we passed out of bodies? It must be. And I am above blindness forever ! We have come, you and I, to the land of the Spirits’”’ ! Then she pulled at my hand and doorward she started Saying, ‘‘ Trapper, let us go forth and see heaven !’’ So I say—and I've said it many times in my cabin When thinking at night of the girl that was blinded, And how she found sight and with it found heaven At the Shrine of Ste. Anne on the bank of the river— I say: That it may be that we who are sinners Stand as good chance to-day as those of past ages. That the love of the Lord for trees, lakes and mountains, And his habit of healing the blind, sick and crippled, Hold on to him still. No? Well, perhaps you are blinded With a blindness far worse than the Montagnais maiden.

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MISS LOU.—PartT VIII.* By EDWARD P. Rok. CHAPTER XXX. GLIMPSES OF MOODS AND MINDS. tgs BORDEN’S predictions were verified in regard to his friend and patient, Captain Hanfield, but not before the officer had dictated calm, farewell letters to his wife and ‘‘ little Sadie.’’ To Miss Lou were left the serene, smiling likenesses, a graveto be cared for beside Yarry's, and a memory that could never be blotted out. She was kept from witnessing the terrible convulsions which began soon after her interview, but was pres- ent at his death and held his hand until it was cold and lifeless. Within two weeks after the battle very few patients were left, and all these were to go with Dr. Ackley on the following day, Lieu- tenant Waldo excepted. He was still too weak to be moved. His mother had become so skillful in the care of his wound that she would be competent, with the help of an aged resident practitioner, to carry him through his convalescence. Mrs. Whately now spent most of the time on her plantation, her presence being needed there to remedy the effects, as far as possible, of the harsh meas- ures at first adopted by her son. It wasdis- couraging effort. The strong ebb tide in the old order of things had set in even far from the Union lines, and only the difficulty in reaching them prevented a general stam- pede of the negroes. of her best hands would steal away from time to time, and run the gantlet of many dangers in their travel by night northward. Her attempts to mollify and render her slaves contented were more than counterbalanced by the threats and severity of her son, who was too vacillating to adopt a fixed policy, and arbitrary by nature. Her chief hope for him still centered in Miss Lou, upon whom his thoughts were fixed with a steadfastness and earnestness which his mother fondly believed would win her eventually. ‘‘I’m sure,’’ she reasoned, * Copyright, 1888, by Dodd, Mead & Company. Begun in THE COSMOPOLITAN for March, 1888. As it was, two or three. ‘Captain Maynard has made no deep impres- sion. He is about to depart. All will soon be gone, and the old monotony of plantation life will be resumed. After what has hap- pened Louise will not be ableto endure this. Madison will return, older and wiser from experience, and she, with nothing else to occupy herthoughts will react, like all impul- sive natures, from her opposition. Next to winning her or her favor fromthe start, he has scored a success in waking a hostility far removed from fatal indifference.”’ She maintained an affectionate manner towards her niece, and never discussed the hope she entertained and expectation of call- ing her daughter. In truth, she had won the girl’s respect and good-will in a very high degree. She had been a kind and successful nurse among the wounded, confining her efforts chiefly to the Confederates. She had also been a dignified lady in all the scenes they had passed through. Her weakness was her son, yet the girl was compelled to admit that it was the weakness of love. In seeking to bring about the detested union a motherly heart and feeling towards her had ever been apparent. The girl was already becoming depressed by a presentiment of the dull, stagnant days tocome. Scoville had been lost in the great outside, unknown world completely. She was suffering from reaction after the strong excitements and fatigues of her experience. Her two lovers, remaining on the scene, pos- sessed a sort of goading interest which com- pelled her to think of them, but she contem- plated their near departure without regret. Nothing in her nature answered to their looks, words and evident desires. She felt that she would as soon marry one as the other, and that she would rather be buried beside Captain Hanfield, and take the jour- ney of which Uncle Lusthah had quaintly spoken, than wed either. Yet in her lassitude she feared that she could now be compelled to marry either or any one if enough active force was employed, so strangely had ebbed her old fearless spirit. It was with a kind of wondering pity that

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122 she looked at Maynard and saw the evidences of an honest, ardent attachment. ‘‘ Why does he feel so?’’ she asked herself. ‘‘I have done nothing for him, given no en- couragement, and would not care if I never saw him again. I merely wish him well, as Ido so many others. Why can’t he see this, and just act on the truth? He says he is coming to see me every chance he gets, and tries to make me feel that he’ll never give me up. Perhaps if I should let him speak plainly he would see how useless it all would be.’’ Circumstances apparently favored the half- formed purpose. Languid from the heat of the day, she went out on the piazza after supper, sat down on the upper step and leaned against a rose-entwined pillar. May- nard was entranced by the picture she made and promptly availed himself of the oppor- tunity. Every one else had disappeared ex- cept Zany, of whom glimpses could be caught through the open windows of the supper- room ; but she did not count. Sitting on a lower step so as to be in a measure at her feet Maynard began. ‘‘Miss Baron, I am thinking very sadly, if you are not, over the fact that I am to go away in the morning.’’ ‘“*Yes,’’ she replied, half-consciously ignor- ing his personal view, ‘‘ the old house and plantation will soon be as quiet and deserted as before.’’ ‘*Do you regret this ?’’ ‘IT scarcely know. I am very tired and feel sad over all that has happened. Per- haps I’ll feel differently by and by, when I’ve rested and had time to think.’’ ‘*O Miss Baron, if you knew how earnestly I hope to be remembered in those thoughts, to give you something definite to think of.”’ She had scarcely the energy to check him, the thought occurring more than once, ‘‘I might just as well let him speak his mind and see how vain his hope is.”’ ‘* You have not given me encouragement,”’ he resumed. ‘‘ You have seemed too preoc- cupied, sad or weary ; but this phase of your life will pass away. Our glorious cause must soon be crowned with success. If I survive, may I not hope that when I come again you will give me a hearing, a chance? I can be patient, even though not patient by nature. I will do all that a man ’’— ‘‘Captain,’’ interrupted the girl, at last, ‘tional and appropriate. MISS LOU. ‘‘T suppose, from the books I’ve read, I should make some fine speeches about the honor you are bestowing on me, and all that. I’m too tired and sad for anything conven- I’m just going to answer you like a simple, honest girl. One of my chief reasons for sadness now is that you feel as you do. I see no reason for it. I’m glad you say I’ve given you no encourage- ment, for I know I have not. Why should you care so for me when I do not and can- not respond at all? I do sincerely wish you well, but it seems to me that it should be enough fora man when a girl listens to such words as yours in weary sadness only.”’ “‘It may be hard indeed for a man to recognize this truth, Miss Baron, but I am not speaking of the present—of the future rather. There has been much to make you sad and weary. Your very youth and high spirit will soon lead you to react from your present depression. Let me speak of the future. Please let me fill that with hope for you and for me.”’ ‘Oh, I don’t know about the future. some reason I dread even to think of it.’’ At this instant Whately galloped to the piazza, threw the reins on the neck of his horse as he dismounted, evidently not caring in his perturbation where the animal wan- dered. He was in a bad mood, for things were not going smoothly at home. The attitude of his rival at his cousin’s feet stung him into a jealous rage and he remarked bit- terly as he strode past them, ‘‘ Don’t let my inopportune arrival disturb this charming téte-a-téte. Infact, I had no business to remain at my uncle’s home at all, even at the call of duty, after Captain Maynard sig- nified his intention of making it the long continued field of his operations.”’ Cut to the quick, Maynard sprang to his feet, but Miss Lou merely made a gesture of annoyance and went to her room. ‘‘Lieu- tenant Whately,’’ began the captain in low, stern tones, ‘‘ were I not in some sense a guest, even though an unwelcome one ’’— ‘You are no guest of mine, sir, nor indeed of any one that I am aware of.’’ ‘Thank you. I was haunted by some restraining consideration of Southern hospi- tality, but if I am free ’’— ‘* You are perfectly free, sir,’’ again inter- rupted Whately, dropping his hand on the hilt of his saber. ‘‘ Let me also add that a For ”

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MISS’ LOU. Southern gentleman would not have made Southern hospitality a subterfuge for an opportunity to press a suit repugnant to the family concerned. We have never failed in hospitality to any invited guest.’’ ‘* Your words are offensive, sir.’’ ‘*T mean them to be so.”’ ‘‘Very well ; then I have but one answer. I challenge you. Choose your weapons hour and place of meeting.”’ ‘* Revolvers, if you please. Meet me back of the grove yonder, at the right ofthe house, at daybreak.”’ ‘‘T’ll not fail you. There is no need of seconds in this affair, I take it, and we areto keep our purpose secret. Dr. Ackley would interfere and the family be distressed were our intentions known.”’ ‘*No one need know till our shots are heard, and then it will be too late to inter- fere. I insist that we fight to the death.”’ ‘‘Certainly, if that’s your wish. Good- evening, sir.”’ ‘* Good-evening,’’ and Whately went to his room to remove the dust of his ride and prepare for the late supper which his aunt had ordered for him. This lady, hearing his step in the hall, hastened down stairs and called for Zany. ‘“Yassum,’’ came in quick response. The young woman emerged from the dining- room looking as stolid as a wooden image. ‘‘Attend to Lieutenant Whately’s supper and see that he has the best you can get for him.’’ ‘* Yassum.”’ Mrs. Baron then repaired to her husband’s office, where he and Sergeant Ackley were closeted, making up the accounts relating to the occupation of the property for hospital purposes. Maynard lighted his pipe, and strolled out into the grounds. He wasina cold, deadly mood of anger. There was just enough sting of truth in Whately’s words to make the insult unendurable. Added to this was intense exasperation that he had been interrupted at acritical and as he believed, a hopeful, moment. He had seen that the girl was not ready for his suit or that of any one at present, but was quite sure he could have won permission to renew his addresses in the future. Now—well, he was ready enough to fight to the death, and utterly oblivious of the still, serene beauty of the night. He appeared but a shadow as he walked quietly ” 123 under the trees, but it was a shadow of death, An hour since and he was but a passionate youth, full of ardent love and longing, vaguely inspired, under the influence of his passion, towards all noble enthusiasms. At the touch of a few words his heart overflowed with bitterness, and a cold, vindictive hate rendered the hours interminable till he could aim a bullet at his rival’s heart, reckless meantime that another bullet was aimed at his. In his walk he passed the tent in which Lieutenant Waldo and his mother were talk- ing quietly of their home and the prospects of maintaining it during the troublous times clearly foreseen. ‘‘Mother,’”’ said Waldo, ‘‘have you any definite idea as to the success of our arms?”’ ‘*No, Vincent, nor do I suppose we can at this remote plantation. We only knowthat there is heavy fighting at various points and great successes are claimed; but it seems very hard to get at the realtruth. Our chief confidence must be in the sacredness and justness of our cause and in the prayers of so many sincere hearts to the God of justice. In giving you, my son, toour country, when you were scarcely more than a boy, you can understand why I feel that such sacrifices cannot be in vain. Now that I have watched beside you in your patient, heroic suffering, the feeling becomes a conviction that our sunny land must be enriched and blessed for all time by such blood as yours.”’ ‘Well, mother, I do not begrudge my blood or my life. You have taught me that to die is gain ; but almost hourly I pray for recovery that I may soon rejoin my regi- ment and do more towards achieving our liberty. How strange it is that men of the North should be animated by much the same spirit! Miss Baron has been showing me the lovely faces of the wife and daughter of a Federal officer who died heroically a few days ago. She says the war is all a dreadful mystery to her.”’ ‘“‘T am beginning to understand her bet- ter,’’ replied Mrs. Waldo musingly, ‘‘ for to some extent she has given me her confidence. If she had been brought up as you have been, she would feel as you do. I can see why her uncle and aunts have not won her sympathy, while her cousin’s conduct has been well calculated to alienate her. I can also under- stand why the negroes on the place have so

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124 enlisted her sympathy. I do not think they have been treated very harshly, but it is too clear that they are regarded simply as prop- erty, and Mr. Baron has allowed himself to be represented among them by a brutal, course-fibered man. If she had been your sister and had witnessed the spirit in which our slaves are governed and cared for she would feel as you do, not vindictive hatred of the North—such feeling is not permissi- ble towards any of the human race—but a stern, lofty spirit of independence, such as our fathers had in separating from England.”’ ‘* Well, she is a brave, good girl, mother, and has been as kind to me as if I were her brother.”’ ‘*Very true, Vincent. She is a remarka- bly good girl for one brought up as she has been. She has told me much about her past repressed, unhappy life. I hope she may visit us some day.”’ Meantime, the subject of this conversation sat at her window looking out into the warm, fragrant, starlit night. The words of May- nard, the passionate resentment of her cousin towards the young captain merely added to the heavy burden of experience which had been crowded into the past few weeks. ‘*Oh,’’ she sighed longingly, ‘‘If I could only see Allan Scoville! He is sostrong, unself- ish and restful. I could tell him everything. He would know just how weary and de- pressed I am, nor would he want me to do what I can’t, what I’m not ready for. Oh, what a blessed thing it would be to havea friend near who wasn’t always exacting or expecting or passionately urging something or other. I wouldn't need urging in his case, and would even know his hand would be the first to restrain me for my own good. Where is he now? Oh, he’d be here if my thoughts could bring him, yet my two lovers would be eager to take his life. Lovers, indeed ! Well it’s a strange, tangled-up world that I’m learning about.”’ Meantime, Zany, bursting with her secret, was unable to tell any one, and not yet sure she wished to tell. For one at her point of civilization her motives were a little complex and sophisticated. In a vicarious way she felt nota little the elation ofa many high-born dame that two men were about to fight over her young mistress, regarding it as an un- deniable compliment. She was also inclined to indulge the cynical thought that it might MISS LOU. save Miss Lou, Scoville, Chunk, indeed all in whom she was interested—further trouble if, as she phrased it, ‘‘Dat ar young cap’n gib Mad Whately he way onst too of’un. He des natchelly bawn ter mek folks trouble, en I reck’n we git on wid he spook bettah ner hesef.’’ Whately would not have relished his sup- per if he had divined the thoughts of his waitress. As it was, he had little appetite for it and paid his respects chiefly to his uncle’s decanter. He felt no need of false courage, but was irritated and depressed over the general aspect of affairs, and here was an easy way of raising his spirits. By the time he was ready to dispense with Zany’s services he was so affected by his potations that his aunt, who had appeared on the scene, hastened his retirement. He told the sergeant of the guard to have him called at day-break and was soon asleep. The indomitable housekeeper, Mrs. Baron, kept the girl busy until everything was put away and the dining-room in perfect order. Meantime Zany concluded that she had bet- ter tell Miss Lou. Her young mistress might blame her severely if she did not, and keeping such a secret over night would also be a species of torture. When she was dismissed she watched her opportunity, whisked up to Miss Lou’s room, and was glad to find the girl still awake. ‘“O Miss Lou,’’ she whispered breath- lessly, ‘‘ I des got de orfulest, quarest news, en I darsn’t kep hit eny longer. Marse cap’n en Mad Whately gwine ter fight ’bout you fo’ sun-up.”’ ‘* What !” ‘*Dey sut’ny is. Dey gwine ter fight one a noder ’bout you wid ’volvers—fight ter de deth dey said. I yeared dem troo de dine- room winders.”’ **O Zany ! this is horrible ! ”’ ‘‘Hit mout be wuss. Yo’ cousin hot fer hit. He say orful tings ter marse cap’n who didn’t gib back a inch en sez, sez he, ‘ I chal- ling you. Shoose yo’ weapons en place ob meetin’.’ Dem he berry words. Den yo’ cousin shose ‘volvers en de far side ob de grobe up dar, en said ‘ we fight ter de deth.’ Deth useter seem orful, Miss Lou, but sech a heap ob mens die dat ef Mad Whately des set on dyin’, w’y not let ’im hab he way? Dat orter suit ’im bes’. I reck’n he mek we

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MISS LOU. 125 uns en Marse Scoville en Chunk berry lil trouble arter he dead.”’ ‘“‘Zany, Zany, that’s a dreadful way to look at it. You should know better. This meeting must be prevented. Where is my cousin ?”’ ‘‘He des sound a sleep ez a log,’’ and she made it clear that there would be no use in trying to remonstrate with him. ‘‘ Where’s Captain Maynard?’”* “Dunno. Sleepin’ in he tent too, ’spose. Hit too late now Miss Lou ter do any ting fo’ mawnin’.”’ The girl thought deeply a few moments and then muttered, ‘‘ Shame on them both !”’ ‘‘Dar now, Miss Lou, you doan recker- member dey payin’ you a big compelment.”’ ‘‘T shall tell them to their faces how I re- gard this outrage rather. Still, for their sakes, as well as my own, I will keep the affair quiet if I can. Zany, you must stay with me to-night and at the earliest dawn we must watch them and be on thé ground as soon as they are.”’ ‘*Berry well, Miss Lou. bettah.’’ ‘Go to sleep, then. night.”’ I lak not’n I won’t sleep to- CHAPTER XXXI. THE DUELISTS VANQUISHED. ZANY’s tidings brought the spur ofa great necessity to Miss Lou’s jaded spirit, and as her waking thoughts dwelt on the proposed encounter a slow, deep anger was kindled in her mind. ‘‘ What right have they to do such a thing?’’ she asked herself over and over again. Even more than at the barbar- ism of the act she revolted at its injustice. ‘“‘T never wronged either of them,’’ she re- peated, ‘‘and here they are recklessly bent on what would embitter my life. The idea of being fought about! Two animals could- n’t do worse.” And so the long night was passed in bitter, painful thoughts. With the dawning the birds’ innocent songs jarred on her over- wrought senses. She looked out of the win- dow by which she had kept her vigil, inhaled the dewy freshness of the air and then bathed her tired, hot eyes. ‘To think that men would disturb the peace of such a morning by their miserable, causeless hate? Where is Madison’s love for his mother? Why don’t they remember the distress and horror that would follow their mad act? Zany, wake up. It is time we were on the watch.”’ Even as she spoke there was a heavy step in the outer hall, that of the sergeant coming to wake Lieutenant Whately. Miss Lou glanced from her window in time to see Cap- tain Maynard striding from his tent towards the grove which would screen the combatants from observation. Waiting a few moments for the sergeant to retire she and Zany slipped down and out before Whately left his room. They reached the grove from the back en- trance of the house, and concealed them- selves in some copse-wood, watched for Whately’s coming. He soon appeared, walking rapidly as if fearing to be behind time. He was in fact some moments late, having stopped to advise Perkins of the affair on hand. He passed so near his cousin’s leafy screen that she could look into his flushed, troubled face and could hear him mutter, ‘‘ Curse it all! I’m forever getting into scrapes.”’ For the first time since Zany’s news, pity overcame her anger and she murmured, ‘‘Poor spoiled boy! It’s well for you and your mother that I’m here.’’ Swiftly she followed him through the still dusky grove, keeping the boles of trees be- tween herself and his:form. Beyond the grove was an open grassy field, facing the east, where the light was distinct. Clearly outlined against the rose-tinted horizon was the figure of Maynard standing with his arms folded and his back towards them, apparent- ly lost in deep thought. ‘* Well sir,’’ said Whately sternly, ‘‘ Isup- pose I should ask your pardon for keeping you waiting.”’ ‘‘T reckon there’s plenty of time for the purpose of our meeting,’’ replied Maynard coolly. ‘‘Since you are the challenged party and we have no seconds, arrange the matter to suit yourself.’’ Whately was about to pace off the ground when a girl’s voice rang out clearly, ‘‘ Stop that !’’ ‘*Miss Baron !’’ cried Maynard, taking off his hat. Whately threw back his head proudly. This was better than he had dreamed, for now his cousin would be compelled to recogr

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126 nize his high and haughty spirit. A glance at the girl’s pale, stern face as she stepped out between them was not altogether reassur- ing. She glanced coldly from one to the other for a moment and then said firmly, ‘I have something to say about this affair.”’ ‘‘Pardon me, Miss Baron,’’ Maynard be- gan, bowing, ‘‘ if Iam compelled to disabuse your mind. This is a little matter between Lieutenant Whately and myself. Ism sur- prised beyond measure that he has invited you to be present.’’ ‘* That’s alie!’’ thundered Whately, draw- ing his weapon from his belt. ‘* Stop, both of you,”’ cried the girl. ‘‘ Cap- tain Maynard, my cousin has not invited me. Your purpose of meeting was discov- ered by accident and revealed to me late last night—too late for me to do any thing then. All the long night I have sat at my window that I might be in time to keep you from disgracing yourselves and me.”’ ‘* Great heavens ! Miss Baron, you do me injustice,’ cried Maynard. ‘‘I have been insulted. I never thought of wronging you. Perish such a thought !”’ ‘* Evidently neither of you has thought of me, nor cared for me or others. Yourselves, your own vindictive feelings have engrossed you wholly, yet I know I’m the innocent cause of this brutal encounter, and the world would know me to be the cause, whether it believed me innocent or not. I tell you plainly that if you fight I shall brand you both unworthy the name of gen- tlemen and I shall proclaim to all your outrage to me.”’ ‘‘Outrage. to you, Miss Baron!’’ said Maynard, with a bitter, incredulous laugh. ‘*Yes,” she replied, turning upon him fiercely. ‘‘What can you think of me when you fight about me like a wild beast ?”’ ‘‘I am prepared to fight Lieutenant Whately on entirely different grounds,”’ he replied, his face flushing hotly at her words. ‘*You can not do it sir. I would know, and so wouldall, that I was the cause. What right, sir, have you to embitter my life, to fill my days and nights withhorror? I never wronged you.”’ ‘*But, Miss Baron, in all ages such en- counters have been common enough when a man received ample provocation, as I have.”’ MISS LOU. ‘*So much the worse for the ages then. I say that you both were about to commit a selfish, cowardly, unmanly act that would have been an outrage in its cruelty to an in. nocent girl, to whom you had been making false professions of regard.”’ ‘* Now by the God who made me, that’s not true, Miss Baron.”’ **Cousin Lou, you are beside yourself,”’ cried Whately. ‘*Miss Baron,’’ said Maynard, coming to her side and speaking with great earnestness, “IT can endure any charge better than your last. No man ever declared truer love than I to you.”’ ‘*T can tell you ofa man who has declared truer love,’’ she replied, looking him stead- ily in the eyes. ‘“Who, in God’s name ?’’ he asked savage- ly. ‘* Any man who thought more of the girl than of himself,’’ she answered with passion- ate pathos in her tones, ‘‘ any man who con- sidered her before his own reckless, ungov- ernable feelings, who would save her heart from sorrow rather than gratify his anger. Any man who asks, What is best for the woman I love? instead of What’s my humor? what will please me? Suppose you both had carried out your savage impulses, and lay on this ground, wounded or dead, what would be said at the house there about me? What would be your mother’s fate, Madison, that you might gratify a causeless spite? Have you no home, Captain Maynard, no kindred : who would always curse my name? If you had died like the brave men who lie in yon- der graves, your friends would ever speak your name proudly ; but even I, all inexperi- enced, know the world well enough to be only too sure they would hang their heads and say you flung away your life for a heart- less girl who was amusing herself at your expense. Fight if you will, but if you do, I pledge you my word that I will never will- ingly look upon either of you again, living or dead !’’ She was about to turn away when May- nard rushed before her exclaiming, ‘‘ Miss Baron, I beg your pardon, I ask your forgive- ness. I never saw this act in the light you place it.’’ ‘* There cousin,’? added Whately with a sort of shame faced laugh, ‘‘I’m hanged if you aren’t in the right and I in the wrong

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A LOVER SENDS CHRISTMAS ROSES. again. As you say, the bullet that killed me might do worse by mother, and I should have thought ofthat. As for you, we didn’t think you’d look at it in this way. There’s plenty of girls who’d think it a big feather in their caps to have men fight about ’em.’’ ‘*T can’t believe it.”’ ‘‘Tt’s true, nevertheless,’’ said Maynard earnestly. ‘‘ What can I do to right myself in your eyes?” ‘“‘Tf you wish to be men whose friendship I can value, shake hands and use your weap- ons for your country. If you truly care for my good opinion, forget yourselves long enough to find out what does please me, and not rush headlong into action I detest. Con- sider the rights, feelings and happiness of others.’’ ‘“Well, Whately, what do you say ?”’ asked Maynard with a grim laugh. ‘‘I am ready to obey Miss Baron as I would my superior officer,’’ and he held out his hand. Whately took it with an answering laugh, saying, ‘‘ There’s nothing else left us to do. After her words, we could no more fight each other than shoot her.”’ “Thank you. I—I—dZany,”’ she faltered, turning deathly white. She would have fallen had not her cousin sprung to her aid, supporting her toa seat on a moss-grown log lying near. For a few moments the long strain and reaction proved too much for her, and she sat, pale and panting, her head resting (To be Continued.) 127 against Zany, who had rushed from her cov- ert. The young men wereoverwhelmed with compunction and alarm, but she restrained and silenced them by a gesture.. ‘‘I’ll be— better—in a moment,’’ she gasped. It proved but a partial giving way of her nervous force. In a few moments she added, ‘*Please go back to the house by different ways. No one need know anything about this. No, don’tcallany one. I'll get better faster if left with Zany. I beg you doasI ask and then my mind will be at rest.’’ ‘There, Miss Baron,” said the remorseful Maynard, ‘‘I pledge you my word I’ll never fight a duel. I can prove my courage suffi- ciently against the enemy.”’ She smiled, held out her hand, which he carried to his lips and reluctantly departed. ‘*See here, Cousin Lou,’’ said Whately impulsively, ‘‘ I’m going to give you an hon- est, cousinly kiss. I’m not so feather-headed as not to know you’ve got us both out of a devil of a scrape.’’ He suited the action to his words, and strode off in time to intercept Perkins, who had the scent of a vulture fora battle. ‘‘ We have arranged the affair for the present,’ said the young officer curtly, ‘‘and won’t need any graves to-day. Keep mum about this.”’ ““T’ll keep my mouth close enough till I kin begin ter bite on my own account,” muttered the overseer as he sullenly fol- lowed. A LOVER SENDS CHRISTMAS ROSES. By MARGARET STEELE ANDERSON, you will wear them just against your heart, And smile upon them with your morning eyes, As on some face you love—they say love lies So soft on roses !—they will catch the art Of smiling back ; if then, in gracious part, One rose returns to me serenely wise In its new learning, with a glad surprise Like deeper bloom upon its bloom a-start, I shall forget, perhaps, how winter snows Between our lives are spreading, for the grace Of your dear smile upon my winter rose Shall call me into love’s sweet summer-land, Along whose fadeless greens I ever trace The paths we’ve walked together hand in hand.

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SALVETTE AND BERNADON. (A FRENCH CHRISTMAS SKETCH.) By ALPHONSE DAUDET. (TRANSLATED BY MARY FERGUSON, | 4 T is Christmas eve in a large town of Bavaria. Through the streets, whiten- ed with snow, in the confusion of the fog, the noise of car- Tiages and of bells, the crowd are hasten- ing, joyously, to the cook-shops, which are in full blast, to the barracks, and to the stalls with their tempting display of goods. Against the shops loaded with ribbons and blossoms, some branches of holly, and entire fir-trees loaded with hanging crys- tals, brush lightly as they are carried past, rising above all heads, like a shadow of the Thuringian forests, a souvenir of nature in the factitious life of winter. Daylight fades. Yonder behind the gar- dens of the nobles a glimmer of the set- ting sun, red through the mist, can still be seen ; and there is such an appearance of gayety throughout the town, so many fes- tive preparations, that each light that shines through the windows seems to go with a Christmas tree. It is because to-day is not an ordinary Christmas! We are in the year 1866, and the birth of Christ is only an addi- tional pretext for drinking to the illustrious Von der Than and celebrating the victory of the Bavarian warriors. Christmas! Christmas! Even the Jews of the lower town are jovial. There is old Augustus Cahn, who is turning the corner of the Grappe Bleue. Never have his little fer- ret eyes shone as they do this evening. Never has his little bushy queue fluttered so briskly. Over his threadbare sleeve is passed a nice little basket, full to the top, covered with a brown towel, with the neck of a bot- tle and a branch of holly protruding. What does the old usurer expect to do with all that? Is he going to keep the Christmas festival, he too? Will he assem- ble his friends, his family, in order to drink to the German fatherland? But no. Every one knows that old Cahn has no father- land. His Vaterland is his coffer. He has no longer any family, nor any friends, nothing but debtors. His sons, a little while ago his partners, have been with the army for three months. They traffic there behind the wagons of the land-owners, selling brandy, buying watches, and, on the nights of battle, going to empty the pockets of the dead, to open the bags that have fallen into the ditches by the road. Too old to follow his children, father Cahn remained in Bavaria, and he there does some profitable business with the French prisoners. Always prowling about the bar- racks, it is he who redeems the watches, the aiglets, the medals, the. post-drafts. He may be seen slipping into the hospitals, into the ambulances. He approaches the beds of the wounded and asks them, very low, in his hideous gibberish : ‘* Ofez-fus guelgue jésse 4 fentre?’’ you something to sell ?) And here! at this moment even, as you see him trotting so quickly with his basket under his arm, it is because the military hospital closes at five o’clock, and there are two Frenchmen who await him up stairs in that great gloomy house with grated and narrow windows, in which Christmas has, to light its eve, only the pale lights which guard the pillows of the dying. These two Frenchmen are named Salvette and Bernadon. They are two foot chas- seurs, two Provencals from the same village, who enlisted in the same battalion and were wounded by the same shell. But Salvette was hardier than his comrade, and he already begins to get up and to take the few steps from his bed to the window. Bernadon does not seem to improve. With- in the pale curtains of his hospital bed his face seems thinner and more languishing from day to day; and when he speaks of home, of return, it is with that sad smile of the sick in which there is more of resigna- tion than of hope. To-day, however, he is a little more ani- (Have

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SALVETTE AND BERNADON. mated, thinking of the beautiful Christmas festival which in Provence resembles a great fire of joy lighted in the middle of winter ; recalling the midnight mass, the church decorated and illuminated, the dark village streets full of people ; then the long feasting around the table, the three traditional tapers, the winding staircases, and the pretty cere- mony of the cacho fio (yule-log), when the grandfather walks around the fireside and sprinkles the burned wine. ‘““Ah! my poor Salvette, what a sad Christmas we are going to have this year ! ; If we only had enough to pay fora little white bread and a bottle of claret wine ! It would have been pleasant to me, before dying, to water once again the cacho fio with you.”’ Even at the mention of white bread andclar- et wine the sick man’s eyes shone. But what could they do? They had nothing, these un- fortunate men, neither money nor watches. Salvette guards well, still, in the lining of his jacket a post-draft of forty francs. But that is for the day of their liberation, and the first halt that they make will be at an inn in France. That money is sacred. By no means to be touched. Nevertheless poor Bernadon is very ill! Who knows whether he will ever be able to return home? And here isa fine Christmas that they might keep with festivity together. Would it not be better to profit by it ? Then, without saying anything to his fel- low-countryman, Salvette ripped his tunic so as to get the post-draft, and when old Cahn came as usual every morning to make his circuit of the wards, after long debate and discussion, he slipped into his hand that stiff and yellow piece of paper, which smelled of powder and was stained with blood. From that moment Salvette assumed an air of mystery. He rubbed his hands and laughed to himself while looking at Berna- don. And now as daylight fades he watches, with his forehead pressed against the win- dow-pane, until he sees through the mist of the deserted place old Augustus Cahn who comes, all out of breath, with a little basket on his arm. This solemn midnight, when all the bells of the town are ringing, falls sadly on the white room of the sick. The ward of the 129 hospital is silent, lighted only by the lamps suspended from the ceiling. Great wavering shadows undulate on the beds and on the bare walls with a perpetual: swinging which seems as though it might be the oppressed breathing of all the people lying there. Oc- casionally some dreamer speaks, some one in nightmare groans ; while from the street rises a vague murmur, footsteps, voices, mingling in the cold resonant night as though under the porch of a cathedral. One hears the hasty preparations ; the feel- ing of a religious festival traverses the hour of sleep, and ushers into the darkened town the glimmer of dark lanterns and the burn- ing of the church windows. ‘** Are you asleep, Bernadon?’”’ Very softly on the little table near the bed of his friend Salvette has placed a bottle of Lunel wine, and a round loaf of bread, a pretty Christmas loaf, in which a branch of holly is set upright. The sick man opens his eyes which are burning with fever. In the fluctuating light of the night-lamps, and under the white reflection from the high roofs dazzling with snow in the moonlight, this little apparition seems a fantastic feast. ‘“‘Come, wake up, comrade. It shall not be said that two Provencals would let Christ- mas Eve pass without moistening it with a glass of claret.”’ Salvette raises him with a mother’s tender- ness. He fills the glasses, cuts the bread, and they touch glasses, and talk of Provence, the sweet home-land. Little by little Bernadon grows animated, becomes enthused. The red wine, the sou- venirs, are too much for him. With that childlikeness that sick people find again in the depth of their weakness, he asks Salvette to sing to him a Provencal Christmas song, and his comrade desires nothing better. ‘*Let us see, which will you have? That of 2’ Hote, or the Trois Rois, or Saint Joseph, m’adit ?’’ ‘“‘No! I like the Bergers better. always sang that at home.’’ ‘* Here goes for the Bergers /”’ In a low voice, his head in the curtains, Salvette begins to hum. Suddenly, at the last stanzas, when the shepherds, that came to see Jesus in his stable, had placed in the crib their offering of fresh eggs and of We

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130 marsh-mallows, and as they were affably dismissed : ** Joseph leur dit : Allons! soyez bien sages, Tournez-vouz-en et faites bon voyage. Bergers, prenez votre congé,” ... , behold, poor Bernadon slips and falls back heavily on his pillow. His comrade, thinking that ‘he has fallen asleep, calls him, shakes him. ~ But the wounded man remains motionless, and the THE METROPOLITAN THE METROPOLITAN MUSEUM OF ART. little branch of holly, lying across the rigid sheet, seems-to be the green palm that is placed on the pillows of the dead. Salvette understands. Then weeping, a little beside himself from the feast, and from so great a grief, he resumes in the silence of the dormitory, in full voice the joyous re- frain of Provence : ** Bergers, prenez votrecongé !”’ (‘‘Shepherds, take your leave !”’) MUSEUM OF ART. By EDWARD DWIGHT. extension of the Metro- ’ politan Mu- seum of Art, = which is the chief ornament of Central Park and the finest art collection in America, presents a timely opportunity for a brief review of its chief treasures. The enlargement of the building doubles its former capacity, and yet it is now fully occupied with objects which have been patiently stored until they might be prop- erly exhibited. The handsome new entrance on the southern side will not be opened to the public until the latter part of this month, but the readers of THE COSMOPOLITAN will appreciate the earliest introduction to the increased riches of art that have long been preparing for the general gaze. Unlike the great European art museums, the Metropolitan is a private institution, re- ceiving but a small sustenance from New York City. The Louvre, the British Mu- seum, the art galleries of Dresden, Vienna, Naples, and Madrid, are national institu- tions, and some of them centuries old. But this is a corporation of individuals, who de- vote some of the benefits of their wealth in this way to the people; and although the older part of the museum was erected less than ten years ago, it stands unique in the world in its Cyprian antiquities, is second only to the British Museum in its Babylonian cylinders, leads all American collections in paintings and statues, and has recently ac- quired a series of mummy cases that can not be matched anywhere. The total value of its possessions is about three million dollars, independent of the precious loan collections that swell its riches to half as much more. It would take twice that sum to duplicate the collections in value. The original plan of the building provided for an extension on the northern extremity, similar to that just finished on the southern, and the rapid accumulation of new objects by the munificence of art-lovers renders it likely that such a growth would be speedily occupied. In fact, the coming Spring will probably see that portion of the handsome structure under way. The corporation in charge of the museum has for several years maintained an estimable art school in New York City. Arrangements are now in prog- ress for the erection of a suitable building on the east side of the museum for the Metropolitan School of Fine Arts, which will be in immediate connection with the museum, having ready access to all its rich- ness of art models in painting, sculpture, carving, laces, etc. Here, for a moderate tuition, promising pupils will be able to ob- tain an excellent art education, with facili- ties unequaled on this continent, under the instruction of such artists as cannot be found in America outside of New York City. The museum proper is under the charge of General L. P. Di Cesnola, whose Cyprus collection was the first nucleus of its art riches. Professor Joseph A. Hall, the well- known expert upon antique art, is also at- tached to it, and a large corps of attendants and watchmen keep everything in perfect order. An intricate series of electric signals

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hk THE METROPOLITAN MUSEUM OF ART. Photographed by R

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THE METROPOLITAN MUSEUM OF ART. NAPOLEON I. is now attached to every case, giving instant alarm when anything is disturbed, and in- suring absolute safety. It will not be pos- sible, hereafter, for anything to be secretly stolen, as was the coiled bracelet of solid gold, which was one of the prizes of the Cy- prus Collection, but which, fortunately, was replaced by the replica which Tiffany & Co. had made of it. Upon entering the new building one is met by a splendid multitude of plaster casts of antique sculpture, Greek, Roman, and Assyrian, including all the finest objects of ancient art. Friezes from Greece and Nine- veh line the walls, and a masterpiece of porcelain high relief salutes you at the end of the central hall as you enter the glass- domed main room—the older part of the museum. On the eastern side of the new building is the Egyptian and Cyprian room. Hereisa royal group of mummies, the most beautiful of the series discovered by Maspero in 1884, along with Rameses II. and his retinue in their hiddentomb. There are no kings here, but many nobles. The seventeen cases contain an incom- parable cluster of wood- en sarcophagi, all most richly carved and pol- ished with colored lac- quer and hieroglyphs, often within as well as outside, while the mum- mies that sleep in their double caskets amid winged scarabei and other sacred figures, are decorated as befits princes and princesses, lords and ladies, with bead embroideries, and papyrus scrolls from “The Book of the Dead.’’ Several of the objects found with these royal Thebans, as the little paint-incrusted boxes, inclosing relig- ious images, have never before been found com- plete; and the house- hold implements illus- trating the art and surroundings of the old Egyptians are particularly valuable. Following this double procession of hearses, four thousand years old, out into the main room, you find that the front of the line is led by massive stone crypts of Roman and Babylonianorigin. This Egyp- tian room has been pronounced by visitors from the Louvre to be superior in its exhibits and in arrangement to the Paris Repository of Art. On the other side of the same room (as shown in the illustration on page 145), are shelved the Cyprus potteries, hundreds of statuettes, Roman lamps, vases, penates, etc., a step toward modern civilization, in bewildering profusion, extending out into the adjoining rooms, and covering the walls of the central salon. There they are joined by huge sculptures and dainty glasses, many of these decomposed by long burial into a delicate scaly condition that shatters the light into a thousand rainbows—all from the luxurious Isle of Cyprus. By A. Canova.

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METROPOLITAN MUSEUM OF ART. SEMIRAMIS. Around the galleries of the large and beautifully lighted main room are placed the Parthenon friezes, shining with white hero- isms upon theliving throng below. Beyond this space are the modern sculptures, over fifty in number, and every one a treasure, in marble and bronze. Here are Canova’s ‘“Napoleon I.,’’ Story’s ‘‘Semiramis,’’ ‘“*Cleopatra,’’ ‘‘Medea,’’ and ‘‘ Polyxena,”’ Halbig’s ‘‘ Venus,’’ Benoni’s ‘‘ Pompeii,”’ Voss’s ‘‘Ganymede,’’ Connelly’s ‘‘ Thetis and Achilles,’’ Jackson’s ‘‘ Eve and Abel,”’ Rinehart’s ‘‘Rebecca’’ and ‘‘ Latona,”’ Powers’s ‘‘ California,’ works by Thorwald- sen, Benzoni, Barbedienne, and dozens of others. Powers’s ‘‘Greek Slave’’ was here until a few months ago, when the owner, who had loaned it, removed it to Phila- delphia. Here, too, are W. M. Hunt’s ‘‘Horses of Quahita,’’ the plaster study for his famous painting, ‘‘ The Flight of Night;”’ the original death mask of Washington, and the bronze crabs, with Greek and Latin inscriptions, which the Romans put under the great obelisk when they removed it to Alexandria—the obelisk that cost W. H. Van- By W. W. Story. derbilt one hundred thousand dollars to have moved to its present site as a sun-dial for the Metropolitan Museum. Completing the circuit of the main floor, we enter the new southwest room shown on page 143. To the right of the picture is the magnificent collection of glass, the most gorgeous in the world, including hundreds of exquisite specimens of the master skill of all ages, from ancient Egypt, through Pheenicia, Greece and Rome, bursting into a glory of curious designs and complex colors from the Venetian craftsman, and concluding with many beautiful works of modern arti- sans. Some of the ancient specimens, glorified by their entombment, are glowing sunsets of gold, purple and ruby, marvels of irides- cence such as only the oxidizing touch of centuries can produce. In the center of the room are the Astor, McCallum, and Stewart laces, which cost a fortune, a kaleidoscope of exquisite patterns. The Astor laces are European,—coming from Italy, and France, and Belgium. A full display of them is made now for the

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THE DEFENSE OF CHAMPIGNY,

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THE METROPOLITAN MUSEUM OF ART. 5 HE SR Ba iat reeds ets 2 i all A QUARTET, first time. They were prepared and placed on frames in the museum by Mrs. Carter, one of the most expert workers in laces in this country. This display is arranged in a series of revolving stands, on which the frames are set, to be opened like the leaves of a book. Each of these frames or leaves presents a background of satin, of the color best adapted to bring out the intricacy of the delicate patterns. A glass covers the lace, which is so arranged that artists can copy the patterns by placing above them on the glass the tracing paper on which theoutlines are to be marked. The arrangement of these laces was a work of the most painstaking character, and only a few hours daily could be devoted to it. The figures all had to be v ag ’ a ill By W. T. Dannat. laid out smoothly on the frames, each figure examined and any break repaired. The threads are of linen, of almost cobweb texture. There are scores of pieces, lace handkerchiefs, collars, dress flounces several yards in length, that could be rolled up and concealed in the palm of the hand ; a single piece of some of these specimens could not be duplicated for one thousand dollars. It was stated by Mr. Astor that Mrs. Astor expended upward of fifty thousand dollars in the purchase of her collection. The McCallum collection of laces, which was given to the museum sev- eral years ago, has many pieces quite as fine and delicate us the Astor laces. This collec- tion is mounted in the same manner as the Astor laces. With them is still another col-

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A STORY FROM

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THE METROPOLITAN MUSEUM OF ART. Painted by Alexandre Caodane:. CATHERINE LORILLARD WOLIE. lection of laces which recently came to the museum, and which will be a great surprise to all ladies and every one interested in laces. In value, beauty, variety and artistic merit, this collection is only second, if it is second, to that of Mrs. Astor. ‘‘I was thoroughly surprised,’’ said General Cesnola, ‘‘as’ all have been who have seen it, to learn that there was such another collection of laces in this country ; and still more pleased to learn that the museum was to secure it.’’ Itis the gift of Mrs. Robert L. Stuart, and the laces are chiefly oriental, from India and Turkey. On the other side of this room are ancient potteries, chiefly Cypriote. High upon the walls may be seen the valued Rhodian vases that, previous to the Cyprus excavations, were known only by fragments. They were sent from Rhodes to Cyprus during the Roman Empire, each bearing.on the handles the name of the Em- peror who then reigned, containing wines, oils, and other fine mer- chandise. No two are alike, and none like them can be seen else- where except one that went to Eu- rope from this group. At the other end of this room is a curious collection of musical in- struments of all ages, including sev- eral old spinnets whose keys re- verse the arrangement of black and white on our pianos. This is an endowment from the late Joseph W. Drexel. Supplemented by other gifts, it shows the development of the violin, the guitar and the piano through all the centuries. Ascending to the floor above we enter the galleries of paintings, which display the genius of all the great artists. On the eastern side are gathered the old masters,of whom there are many rare examples, in- cluding the Italian, Venetian, Flor- entine, French, German, Flemish, Dutch, English and American schools—if it is proper to call Sir Joshua Reynolds and John Trumbull old masters. Instinctively the pop- ular eye selects the princes of the palette, and sustains the universal verdict in lingering longest before the canvases of Rubens, Murillo, Correggio, Diirer, Van Dyck, Ruys- dael, and the quaint monk-painters of the sixteenth century. The kings of old Italian art, whose paintings are monopolized by Europe, are represented in a form even more interesting to art-students by crayon cartoons, many of them evidently the first sketches for the greatest of all paintings, from the hand of Raphael, Michael Angelo, Leonardo da Vinci, Guido and many others. But the modern galleries are the favorite haunt of all visitors. Here the monarch of all is Rosa Bonheur's celebrated ‘‘ Horse Fair,’’ painted by her in 1852 when she was thirty years, upon which her reputation is chiefly based; because it has been so widely exhibited, and which justifies Hamerton’s estimate of her as ‘‘ The most accomplished female artist who ever lived.”” After A. T.

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NI 4 2 eater en be Labhdbdad edbadda AhRMMS Nts \ - oe > 2+ oe 8 wre & > - 1B ee se eet aay Diam earn Nien . “a Ane 1s a See ee ee ek

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THE METROPOLITAN ML THE STORM. Stewart purchased it, fifteen years ago, it never left his gallery until the auction sale of his collection in 1887. It was then pur- chased by Cornelius Vanderbilt for fifty- three thousand five hundred dollars and presented to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. A still more famous picture, though not one quarter the size of it, is Meissonier’s ‘Friedland, 1807,’’ painted to order for A. T. Stewart, at the price of eighty thousand EUM OF ART. dollars, and pur- chased at the auc- tion sale of the Stewart collection for sixty-six thou- sand dollars, by Henry Hilton, as a present for the mu- seum. The char- acteristic letter of the artist to Mr. Stewart, accompa- nying the picture, should be read as a commentary up- on it: My DEAR Mr. STEWART : I have delayed writ- ing you because my letter must be a last adieu to a work of many years—an act of final separation. You will compre- hend why I wished to do so only at the last moment ; as, however great may be my sat- isfaction to know you are to be its possessor, I can only part with it with pain—a picture which has been for so long a time the life and joy of my studio. Le voila, that which will soon be in your possession, be good enough to receive as a friend; not as one that first then soon forgotten, but as who, by pleases at the contact, and is one of those By P. A, Cot. a intimate ac- quaintance, is loved more and more. Permit me to believe that when you are looking at this picture— on which I have bestowed all the science and ex- perience I have been able to acquire in my art— your pleasure will constantly grow greater. I did not intend to paint a battle—I wanted to paint Napoleon at the zenith of his glory ; I wanted to. paint the love, the adoration of the soldiers for the great captain in whom they had faith, and for whom they were ready to die.

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THE METROPOLITAN MUSEUM OF ART. 141 I previously had represented in the picture ‘©1814 the heartrending end of the imperial dream—those men, only recently intoxicated with glory, now shown exhausted, and no longer believ- My palette then did but to- wishing everything to ing in their invincible chief. not have colors sad enough for the purpose day, in ‘‘ Friedland, 1807,” appear brilliant at this triumphant moment, it seemed to me I was unable to find colors suf- ficiently dazzling. No shade should be upon the imperial face, to take from him the epic character I wished to him. The bat- already commenc- was necessary to the enthusiasm the soldiers, and make the subject stand forth, but not to diminish it by sad- details. All such shadows I avoid- dening ed and _ presented nothing but a_ dis- mounted cannon and some growing wheat Be would which never ripen, This was enough. [The men and the Emperor are in the presence of each other. The soldiers cry to him that they are his, and the _ impassive Chief, whose imperial will directs the mass- es that move around him, salutes his de- voted army. He and they plainly compre- hend each other, and absolute confidence is expressed in every face Such was the idea as it leaped from my brain at the first in- tant when I embod- ied the picture in thought, and which, spite of the long time I have taken to put it on canvas, has always ‘remained with me so clear and plain that I have never in any manner modified it. As to the execution, only a painter (and one of great experience), can say what time, labor, and patience have been brought to bear upon this work to produce a single whole out of so many diverse elements. Only he can say how difficult it is, from such varied materials, to put aside all these artifices which so often are used in art to cover defects. ate ee FALLING LEAVES. By Hughes Merle

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THE METROPOLITAN MUSEUM OF AR7. THE BASHFUL SUITOR. The growing wheat is even proof of the difficulties I have encountered in covering it with the dust which hides so many things. Your devoted, E. MEISSONIER,. Poissy, ¥anuary 27, 1876. Another renowned French military picture is Edouard Détaille’s ‘‘ Defense of Cham- pigny,’’ which is best explained by the art- ist’s letter to its purchaser, Judge Hilton, who presented it to the museum : Paris, May 29, 1879. Mr. HENRY HILTON :, My Dear Sir: I have learned with great: pleas- ure that you have become the purchaser of my painting, exhibited this: year in our Art Salon, and I am happy that it finds a place in your gallery, which enjoys a very great reputation in France. I know that I shall be ** in good company ” with you, and it is so much the more gratifying to me, as I consider this last painting the most important work I have ever produced. The episode which I have chosen gives scope for a great development of subject. It is the moment when the division of General Faron (now Inspector of Marine), after having taken Champigny, situated above the Marne, fortified itself in the village and defended, foot by foot, the houses and inclosures against the return attack of the Saxony and Wur- By Josef Israels. temburg divisions, in the battle of 2d December, 1870. The chateau which I have shown is one of those which is found at the fork of the two roads of Chenneviéres—a place well known to those Parisians who took part in the scenes of the siege of Paris. The officer shown in the center of the picture is General Faron, who was appointed General of Division on the field of battle. belong to the 113th Regiment of the Line, who lost a great number in the three days of fight. The Sappers who are making the embrasures in the wall to allow the sharpshooters to fire under protection, and are barricading the openings with all kinds of material, the artillerists, who are placing the battery guns in position—all likewise were under the orders of General Faron, who at this time commanded the The foot soldiers right wing of the French army. I have endeavored to portray, in the most exact manner possible, the various scenes of which I was a witness, having been myself a soldier in the ** Garde Mobile” during the siege of Paris ; and in painting this work I have had the advantage of being able to reproduce some souvenirs absolutely personal. . I have always been very sensible of the favors shown me in America, and I am happy to be able to testify this to you especially. Receive, sir, the expression of my distinguished regards, etc. Epovarp D&TAILLE.

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IN THE GLASS AND LACE ROOM.

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144 Among the long list of other notable pict- ures are Alma Tadema’s beautiful ‘‘ Story from Homer,’’ in which the golden-haired Greek maiden, crowned with daffodils, listens with her olive-skinned lover and two other youths in fur and toga, to the spell of the master epic, as it rolls mellifluently from the lips of a young poet, over the marble seats of Corinth, by the blue Aijgean Sea ; Brozik’s thrilling portrait of the beardless ‘‘ Columbus at the Court of Ferdinand and Isabella ;” Carl Marr’s ‘‘ Mystery of Life,”’ in which an old man who has in vain courted death, discovers the lifeless form of a beautiful young girl on the rocky sea shore ; Piloty’s ‘‘ Thusuelda at the Triumphal Entry of Germanicus into Rome ;’’ Hellquest’s picture of the derided bishops ‘‘ Peter Sonnavater and Master Kunt entering Stockholm ’’ on the way to their execution for rebellion against Gustavus Adolphus ; Boughton’s quaint ‘‘ Judgment of Wouter van Twiller;’’ Lerolle’s spacious ‘‘Organ Rehearsal ;’’ Maiquan’s ‘‘ Pope Bon- iface VIII. meeting his Insurgents ;” George Fuller's dreamy ‘‘ Nydia;’’ and many other great works. Two ofthe prize paintings of the American Art Association are also here; C. F. Ulrich’s ‘‘Glass Blower of Murano”’ and R. Swain Gifford’s ‘‘ Near the Coast.” The new galleries display many paint- ings recently acquired, including Stewart's ‘* The Ball after the Chase,’’ Géréme’s “‘ First Kiss of the Sun’’ (the reddened tips of the Pyramids), and paintings by Rousseau and Isabey, with scores of others. The Catherine L. Wolfe paintings, be- queathed to the museum last year, with an endowment of two hundred thousand dollars for the care and extension of the gift, occu- pies a large double gallery in the new baild- ing. As required in the terms of her will, the room is doubly fireproof, being lined with sheet iron within the stone and brick walls. This superb collection, reflecting the refined culture of one of the most noble and wealthy ladies of New York city, contains nearly one hundred and fifty choice works. In the group shown on page 139 will be no- ticed conspicuously Gabriel Max's painting of the Christian maiden of Imperial Rome, whose death among the tigers in the Coliseum was softened by ‘‘ The Last Token,’’—the rose at her feet.* To the left of it is Schenck’s * A full-page reproduction of this picture appeared in THE COSMOPOLITAN for August, 1888, THE METROPOLITAN MUSEUM OF ART. picture of sheep ‘‘ Lost’’ in the snow storm. Beside it is ‘‘ The Shulamite Woman ”’ paint- ed by Cabanel to Miss Wolfe’s order. At either extremity of the room are the portraits of Miss Wolfe and her father. Some of the beauties in this collection are shown here, —‘'The Storm,’”’ by P. A. Cot, ‘‘ Falling Leaves,’’ by Hughes Merle, ‘‘The Bashful Suitor,”’ by Josef Israels, and Ludwig Knaus’ famous ‘‘Holy Family.’’ Two commonly seen reproduced in the art stores, are Piloty’s ‘* Wise and Foolish Virgins,’’ and Sir Fred- erick Leighton’s Head of a woman ‘‘ Lucia.”’ It is only necessary to mention such names as Meissonier, Jules Breton, Bonnat, Mun- kacsy, Détaille, Schreyer, Géréme, Fortuny and Doré, occurring in the Wolfe catalogue, to show how sumptuous a galaxy is included in this one chamber. Passing on we enter the new ‘‘Gold Room,”’ where hundreds of the most precious small objects, from the ‘‘ Bryant Vase’’ down to rarest coins and cameos are especially guard- ed. In adjacent rooms are the Art Library and the Trustees’ Council-chamber. There are also many other noteworthy departments, as the wood carvings, elegant and numerous ; the Japanese curios, crystal balls, inlaid work, ivory carvings, bronzes and lacquers ; the tapestries, Turkish, Flem- ish, French and Italian ; the silver ware; the agate seals ; the ancient rings ; the in- taglios ; and many other side avenues in the entrancing domain of art, but space forbids our admiration of them here. We must be content with guiding the reader toward the noblest of American Art Museums, in which every lover of the beautiful may freely revel, and by which the art education of our coun- try may be exalted to the highest ideals. An indication of the far-reaching interest which is developing in the Museum of Art, is seen in the increasing number of gifts to it from persons who are almost unknown to the trustees. Such gifts are not always of value, but several extremely rare and valu- able ones have been received within a year or two. Almost every day brings some. These gifts are always passed upon by the trustees for acceptance or rejection, and if they are deemed worthy of a place in the Museum they are located in their proper department. The plan of the Museum ad- mits of several more extensions, and before many decades it will equal the Louvre.

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Zz 4 Z Z 4 < x 5 4

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In The Wolff Collection. THE HOLY FAMILY, From the painting by Ludwig Knaus.

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MAKAR’S DREAM. (A RUSSIAN CHRISTMAS STORY.) By VLADIMIR KOROLENKO. [TRANSLATED BY MRS. ALICE DELANO:] tai HIS is the dream of poor Makar, who drove his calves to far away and dreary tracts, that same Makar doomed, as all the world knows, toeverysort g of misfortune.* His home, in the remote hamlet of Tchal- gan, is well nigh lost in the distant Yakiit forests. Makar’s ancestors had conquered from the forests a bit of frozen ground, and although the gloomy woods still surrounded it as with a hostile wall, they were contented. They divided the lot thus cleared by rail fences ; hay-ricks both great and small, and smoky yourts + made their appearance, and at last from the hillock, in the midst of the hamlet, like the standard of a conqueror, a belfry shot upward to the sky. Tchalgan had become a large settlement. But while Makar’s sires and grandsires were burning and felling in their struggle with the forest, they were gradually growing less civilized themselves. As they married Yakiit women, and adopted the Yakiit lan- guage and customs, the characteristic traits of the great Russian nationality became ob- literated and finally disappeared. In spite of that, however, Makar never forgot that he was a native Tchalgdan peas- ant. There he had been born, there he lived, and there he intended to die. He was very proudof his origin, and was sometimes heard to talk about the ‘‘filthy Yakiit,’’ although it can not be denied that the differ- ence between the latter and himself either in personal habits or mode of life was not evident. He seldom spoke Russian and that *In Russian proverbs Makar isa symbolical and un- lucky person overtaken by every sort of misfortune. One proverb says: ‘“‘Every acorn falls on Makar.” And another: ‘ To be sent to a place where even Makar never drove his calves,’’ means to be sent to the end of the world.—7>. tSiberian huts.—7r. It very poorly ; the skin of beasts served him for garments, and on his feet he wore tor- bas ;t his daily food consisted of a griddle- cake and ‘‘brick tea,’’? and during the holidays or other gala days he would eat the exact quantity of melted butter that was placed before him on the table. He was rather a skillful rider of oxen, and whenever he chanced to fall ill he called the ‘‘sha- man,’’ || who in a frenzy and with gnashing of teeth would rush toward Makar as if he meant to expel his disease by fright. _ He worked hard, fared ill, suffered hunger and cold. Had he an idea beyond his con- stant anxiety about the griddle-cakes and tea? Yes, he had. When he was tipsy, he would weep. ‘“ What a wretched lot, O Lord !”’ he used to exclaim. And then he would sometimes add that he wished he could give up everything and go ‘‘on the hill.’’ Then there would be no plowing nor sowing, no chopping nor hauling of wood, he need not even grind the grain ina hand-mill. He would have nothing to attend to but the salvation of his soul. He was not sure about this hill, what it was, or where it was; he only knew that there was such a hill, and that it was far away, so far that even the Toydn Ispravnik J himself could not catch him there. And of course he would have no taxes to pay. . When sober he put away those thoughts, realizing, perhaps, the impossibil- ity of finding that wonderful hill ; but when drunk he grew bolder. When he thought the matter over, he admitted to himself the danger of chancing on the wrong hill in case he failed to find the right one. ‘‘ Then I shall be lost,’’ he said, but still he went on making plans for his journey, and if he failed t Yakiit foot gear.—7r. § The poorest kind of tea pressed in the shape of a brick.—7r. | Yakitit quack.— 7+. {Toyén in the Yakiit language means master, chief. Ispravnik is the chief of police of a district.

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148 MAKAR'’S DREAM. to carry them out, it was probably due to the fact that the Tartar settlers always sold him poor vodka that had been steeped in tobacco to increase its strength, which not only weakened him but often made him ill. It was Christmas Eve, and Makar knew that to-morrow would be a grand holiday. This made him long to have a drink, but he lacked the wherewithal to obtain it: his bread was nearly out and Makar was already in debt to the local merchants and Tartars. Still it would be a great holiday to-morrow, no work could be done . . what could he do if he had nochance to get tipsy? The thought was extremely depressing. Whata life was his! Not to be able to drink a bottle of vodka on the great winter feast. A happy thought occurred to him. He rose and dressed himself in his ragged sdna.* His wife, a remarkably strong and muscular woman, as ugly as she was powerful, and who could read his simple thoughts without trouble, at once divined his intention. ‘* Where are you bound, you fiend? You have it in your mind to get some more vodka.,”’ ‘‘Hush! I am going to buy one bottle. We will drink it together to-morrow.”’ He winked at her and let his hand fall on her shoulder. Such is the heart of woman ! She knew perfectly well that Makar would deceive her, and yet she succumbed to the charm of the conjugal caress. He went out to the inclosure, caught his old roan, brought him home by the mane, and began to harness him into the sledge. In a few minutes the roan had carried his master beyond the gate. There he stopped, and turning his head looked askance at Makar, who seemed lost in his thoughts. Then Makar pulled the left rein and drove to the end ofthe village. On its very outskirts stood a small yourt, from whose fire-place, as from all the others, an undulating volume of smoke rose high in the air, veiling the cold stars and the bright moon. The fire flashed cheerfully through the transparent ice of the windows. It was perfectly still in the yard. Here lived strange people from foreign parts. How they came there, what unlucky chance had cast them upon these distant wilds, Makar * Yakiit pelisse. neither knew nor cared to know, but he liked to deal with them, because they did not try to get the better of him, and were not anxious about their pay. On entering the yourt, Makar went straight to the fireplace, and put his cold hands toward the fire. ‘‘Tcha!’’ he said, by way of expressing his sense of the cold. The strangers were at home. A lighted candle stood on the table, although they were not working. One of them was lying on the bed puffing rings of smoke, and watching them, musingly, as if they were interwoven with his own thoughts. Theother man sat opposite the hearth ; he too gazed thoughtfully at the flames as they ran along the charred wood. ‘* How do you do!’’ said Makar, so as to interrupt the oppressive silence. He knew nothing of the sorrow that might be weighing upon the hearts of thestrangers, of the memories that came crowding in their minds that evening. ‘* Ah, how do youdo, Makar! Glad to see you. Will you have some tea with us ?’’ The invitation pleased Makar. ‘“Tea? That will be good!”’ He began to undress with alacrity. After taking off his sna and hat he felt more at ease, and when he saw the hot coals glowing in the samovar he grew quite affectionate toward the young man. ‘*T love you, I do! much! I don’t sleep nights.’’ The young man turned and a bitter smile appeared on his face. ‘* Ah, you love me?”’ hesaid. you want then?”’ Makar became confused. ‘“Yes, I have business,’’ he replied. ‘But how did you know? Well, after I drink my tea I will tell you.”’ As the tea had been offered by the hosts Makar thought proper to ask : ‘* Have you any roast meat ? “No.” ‘* Well, never mind,’’ he said in a reassur- ing tone, ‘‘some other time will do. You will have it some other time? ”’ ‘‘Very well.”’ Now Makar considered this an acknowl- edgment that the strangers owed him a slice of roast meat, and a debt of this description he never forgot. So much, so ‘* What do I like that.’’

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MAKAR'S DREAM. An hour later he was again in his sledge. He had succeeded in getting a whole rouble in advance, having sold five loads of wood on comparatively easy terms. Although he had sworn by all that was holy that he would not spend the money in liquor that day, he secretly meant to do it. But what ofthat? The pleasure in store for him dead- ened the voice of conscience. He gave nota thought to the severe beating that he would have to take from his deceived and faithful spouse if he got drunk. The knowing horse, with a reproachful switch of his tail slowly turned in the re- quired direction, and soon the creaking runners stopped at the Tartar’s gate. Several horses wearing the high Yakiit saddles stood fastened there. Within the narrow hut the atmosphere was stifling with the fumes of the strong and cheap tobacco which the fireplace was slowly absorbing. The Yakiit guests sat on benches in front of cups filled with vodka. In one corner a drunken Yakiit sat rocking himself to and fro on the straw, droning an endless song which reiterated the fact that to-morrow was to be big holiday and that he was tipsy to-day. Makar put down his money and received the bottle. He hid it in his bosom and with- drew into a dark corner, without attracting the notice of the others. There pouring out cup after cup, he swallowed their contents in rapid succession. ‘The vodka was bitter and more than a third part water, being diluted for the occasion of the holiday. At every swallow Makar gasped and red circles swam before his eyes. Presently he became quite drunk. He too let himself fall on the straw, and clasping his knees with his hands, rested his heavy head upon them. He sang of the holiday and of his spending in liquor five loads of wood. Meanwhile the hut grew more and more crowded. New Yakiit guests entered, who had come to say their prayers and to drink the Tartar vodka. The landlord remarked that there would not be room for many more. He rose from the table, and as with one Sweeping glance he reviewed the entire as- sembly, he caught sight inthe dark corner of Makar and his other guest. He approached the Yakiit and taking him by the collar threw him out ofthe hut. Then 149 he went up to Makar. The latter being a local settler was treated with greater respect. Opening wide his door, he gave the poor man a kick that hurled him from the hut into a snow bank. It would have been difficult to discover whether he realized that he had been insult- ed. Extricating himself from the snow bank as best he could, he started for home. The moon was now quite high. The con- stellation of the Great Bear had already begun to droop its tail. The frost was in- creasing. Softly flashing against a dark semicircular cloud in the north, rose from time to time the fiery columns of the Aurora Borealis. The roan, who evidently realized the con- dition of his master, started with prudent intelligence for hishome. Makar sat on the sledge, rocking from side to side and con- tinuing to sing. He sang of squandering five loads of wood and of the beating his old woman would give him. The sounds that came from his throat wailed so pitifully and mournfully through the air, that a stranger who had chanced at that moment to climb up on the top of his yourt in order to close the chimney of the fireplace felt still sadder as he heard Makar'’s song. In the mean- time the roan had dragged the sledge up to the hillock, which commanded a view of the surrounding country. The snow glittered brightly, bathed inthemoonlight. Attimes the light seemed to melt, as it were, the snow took on a darker hue, and the flashing Au- rora was for the moment reflected from it. Then one might fancy that the snow-covered hills overgrown with forests alternately ap- proached and receded. On the edge of the for- est Makar could plainly see the snowy bald- ness of Yamalach hill, on the other side of whieh he had set traps in the woods for beasts and birds. This changed the current of his thoughts. He began to sing of a fox caught in his trap. To-morrow he will sell the skin, and then the old woman will spare him. The first stroke of the bell was echoing through the frosty air when Makar entered the hut. Heat once informed the old wom- an that there was a fox caught in the trap, quite forgetting that she had not been in- dulging in vodka, and was taken by surprise when she began pounding him. He fell flat upon his bed. His head burned.

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150 His stomach seemed on fire. Thestrong infusion of liquor steeped on tobacco was coursing through his veins. Cold drops of melting snow trickled down his face. The old woman thought that he was asleep. But he was not asleep. He could not get that fox out of his mind. He was.sure that it had been caught in the trap ; he even knew which trap it was. He could see the animal, held fast by the heavy log, pawing the snow with its claws in its efforts to escape. The moonbeams darting through the thicket played on its golden colored fur. He sawits eyes sparkle. Hecould endure it no longer, and rising from his bed, he was on the point of getting his faithful roan and starting for the woods. But what was this? Could it be the vig- orous hand of the old woman seizing him by the collar of his fur coat and throwing him back on the bed ? No, it could not be, for he was already beyond the village. The runners creaked monotonously over the firm snow. He had left the village behind him. He could hear the triumphant ringing of the church bells. Standing out against the dark horizon line that intersected the shining sky, he could see the faint outlines of the Yakiit horse- men hastening to church. Meanwhile the moon had set, and to the zenith rose a white cloud shining with a phosphorescent light. All at once it seemed to burst and spread in all directions in many- colored rays of flame, while the semicircular cloud on the north grew darker and darker, until it became quite black, blacker than the forest to which Makar was making his way. The road wound between thick clumps of bushes. Low hills rose to right and to left. The further he went, the taller grew the trees and the denser the forest. It was silent and mysterious. The naked branches of the larch trees were covered with silvery sheen. The soft glimmer of the Aurora, stealing through their tops, flashed to and fro, now revealing a snowy glade, and again the prostrate bodies of the giants of the forest as they lay there besprinkled with snow. The next moment all was lost in the silent and mys- terious darkness. Makar paused. This was the spot where a system of traps began that reached nearly tothe road. By the aid of the phosphores- cent light he could distinctly see the low fence MAKAR'S DREAM. of fallen trees, and even caught sight of the first trap : three long heavy logs propped by an inclined stick and supported by a cun- ning arrangement of levers with hair ropes. These traps were not his, to be sure ; but the fox might possibly have been caught in another man’s traps. Makar hastily jumped off his sledge, leaving the wise pony in the road, stood still and listened. Not a sound to be heard in the woods. Only from the distant settlement, now lost to sight, still came the festive ringing. He had nothing to fear. At this moment the owner of the traps, Alyéshka Chalga- nov, Makar’s neighbor and sworn enemy, was sure to be in church. No footprints were visible on the smooth surface of the snow. He plunged into the thicket. No sound but the snow creaking under his feet. Side by side stood the traps like a row of cannon, their mouths gaping wide expectantly. Hark ! A slight rustling close beside him. He caught the sudden flash of red fur in an open glade among the trees. Makar dis- tinctly saw the sharp ears of the fox, with its bushy tail waving to and fro, as though en- ticing him into the thicket. It vanished between the trunks of the trees in the direc- tion of Makar’s traps, and soon after a dull but heavy thud echoed through the forest. Makar’s heart beat fast. A log had fallen. He rushed toward it, pushing his way through the thicket. The cold branches struck him on the eyes, covering his face with snow. He stumbled and panted for breath. Now he had reached the clearing which he himself had made. On both sides rose the trees whitening with the hoar- frost, and beneath them, growing narrower and narrower, could be seen the winding- path, at the end of which was the mouth of thelarge trap. . Suddenly on the path, close to the trap, a white form glimmered for an instant and vanished. Makar recog- nized Alyéshka Chalganov, his small, thick- set figure lurching along with the gait of a bear, was not to be mistaken. It seemed to Makar, that Alydshka’s dark face, had grown still darker, and his big teeth grinned even more than usual. Makar felt thoroughly indignant. ‘‘ The rascal ! Herummages in my traps.”’ It is needless to remark that Makar himself had just been inspecting those of Alyéshka, but this was a very different matter.

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MAKAR’S DREAM. 151 There was the fallen log, and under it he could see the red fur of the ensnared creature. The fox was pawing the snow, exactly as Makar had imagined, and looking at him with the same sharp, burning eyes which he had seen in his fancy. “Let him alone! . He is mine!’’ called out Makar to Alydéshka. ‘‘Don’t touch him,’’ echoed back the voice of Alyéshka. ‘‘Heis mine!”’ They both ran up at the same instant and began hurriedly lifting the log, thus setting the creature free. As the log rose, the fox rose too. It made one leap, stopped, gave both men a mocking glance, then bending its head licked the sore spot and bounded merrily away, gratefully flirting its tail. Alyéshka started in pursuit, but Makar seized the skirt of his coat. Makar was very angry. He forgot all about the fox in his desire to overtake Aly- éshka, who was running away from him. Faster and faster they ran. Alydshka’s cap was pulled from his head by the branch of a larch tree and he had no titre to pick it up. Makar was on the point ofseizing him, with a cry of rage. But the cunning Aly- éshka had always been more than a match for poor Makar. He suddenly stopped, turned and ducked, bringing his head into violent contact with Makdar’s stomach, and pitching him into the snow. As he fell, that cursed Alyéshka seized the hat from his head and disappeared in the forest. Makar rose with difficulty. He knew he was conquered and felt thoroughly misera- ble. The fox had been in his possession . and now . . he felt as if he could still see it in the dark thicket flirting its tail derisively as it vanished in the distance. Multitudinous rivulets of melting snow trickled down Makar’s body. The snow which had made its way into his sleeves, be- hind the collar of his fur coat, was now streaming down his back, and pouring into his boots. That cursed Alyédshka had carried offhis hat. He had lost his mittens some- where in the course of his race. Matters were looking pretty gloomy. Makar knew that frost has small mercy on people who wander about the forest without hat or mittens. He had been walking for a long time. According to his own calculations he ought long since to have left the Yamalack behind ; the belfry should have been in sight, and he was not as yet out of the woods. Like an enchanted forest it seemed to hold him in its embrace, and the same solemn pealing reached his ears from the distance. It seemed to Makar that although he was going toward this sound, it kept receding further and further, and as the tones grew fainter by degrees, Makdar’s heart sank within him. He was tired and disheartened. His feet were benumbed. The thought ‘‘it may fare ill with me,’’ came oftener and oftener to his mind. But still he kept on. Young trees struck him rudely on the face, jeering at his helplessness. In one spot he saw a rabbit run out into the clearing, and there resting on his haunches and prick- ing up his white ears spotted with black, he began to wash himself, making all the while the most impudent grimaces at Makar, as if he would give him to understand that he knew him for the very same Makar who had set cunning traps in the woods for his undo- ing. And now it was his turn to laugh. Makar was much disturbed. Meanwhile the forest had grown full of hostile life. As he passed: along, even the distant trees stretched forth long branches barring his path, caught at his hair, or switched him across the face and eyes. Woodcocks came out of their hiding places, and looked at him with their round, curious eyes, and the wood- pecker ran to and fro angrily spreading his long tail and wings and clamored to his mate about the evil doing and cunning de- vices of Makar. To cap the climax he saw in the distant thickets the glimmering faces of thousands of foxes. Snuffing the air and moving their sharp ears to and fro, they gazed at Makar. The hares stood before them on their hind legs and laughed as they listened to the tale of Makar’s woes. This was beyond all endurance. ‘‘T am certainly coming to grief,’’ thought Makar, and decided to make the best of it. He stretched himself out on the snow. The cold was increasing. The last feeble reflections of the Aurora glimmered across the sky, peering through the tops of the trees at the spot where Makar was lying. The last reverberations of the bell reached him from the distant Tchalgan. The light flickered and disappeared. The ringing had ceased. And Makar died.

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152 He could not tell how it all happened. He was waiting for that something which he knew must leave his body, to depart. But nothing left. He realized, however, that he was dead, and therefore lay quiet and motionless. Thus he remained for a long time, so long in fact that he grew quite tired of it. It had already grown dark when Makar suddenly felt some one kicking him. He turned his head and opened his eyes. The beech trees now rose above him meek and peaceful, as though repenting of their former tricks. The shaggy fur trees stretched forth their broad, snow-covered arms, gently sway- ing from side to side. Shining snow-flakes fell softly through the air. From the deep blue sky overhead the kindly stars looked down through the thick branches as much as to say: ‘‘ See, the poor man is dead.” Over the body of Makar, kicking him with foot, stood the old priest Ivan. The snow lay on his shoulders ; in fact the whole of his long surplice, as well as his beard and fur hat, were covered with it, but the strang- est part of it was that this was the self-same priest Ivan who had died four years ago. He had been a kind priest. He never op- pressed Makar on account of his fees, never even asking for his pay when he officiated for him. Makar paid him whatever he pleased for christenings and Te Deums, and now remembered with shame that often he had paid him too little, and sometimes even not at all. But the priest Ivan had never resented this ; the one thing that he required was a bottle of vodka for every service. If Makar had not the money, priest Ivan would send for it himself, and they would drink it together. The priest was forever getting drunk, but he seldom fought and had no malice in his nature. Makar generally car- ried the helpless man to his home and left him to the care of his wife. Yes, he had been a kind priest, but he had met with a painful death. Once, when every one was out, and the drunken priest lay alone in his bed, he was seized with a long- ing tosmoke. He rose, and staggered up to the wide fire place, where a fire was burning, to light his pipe, But he was too much in- toxicated ; he reeled and fell into the fire. When the family returned, there was noth- ing left of him but his feet. MAKAR'’S DREAM. Everybody was sorry for the kind priest Ivan, but as nothing was left of him but his feet, no doctors in the world could cure him. They buried the feet and another priest was appointed in his place. Now this same priest, made whole again to all appearances, stood over Makar and was gently pushing him with his foot. ‘Rise, Makar,’’ he said. ‘‘ We must go.” ‘‘ Where am I to go?’’ asked Makar, some- what vexed. He had supposed that once he ‘‘ had come to grief,’’ he would have nothing to do but to stay perfectly quiet, and that there would be no need of roaming aimlessly through the forest. Otherwise why should he have come to grief? ‘‘We must go to the Great Toyon.’’ * ‘‘Why am Itogo to him?’’ asked Ma- kar. ‘*He is to judge you,’’ said the priest, in mild and sorrowful tones. Then Makar remembered, that after death one had to appear at the judgment bar. He used to hear about that in church. Of course the priest was right and he must go. Grumbling under his breath, Makar rose ; it seemed that there was no peace for a man, even after death. The priest walked ahead and Makar fol- lowed. They walked straight onward. The beech trees meekly made way before them as they passed. They went towards the east. Makar noticed with surprise that Father Ivan left no foot-prints on the snow, and glancing downward discovered that it was even so with himself. The snow was as white and spotless as a tablecloth. The thought occurred to him how con- venient this would be for rummaging in other men’s traps without the risk of getting found out ; but the priest, who had evidently guessed his secret thought, turned toward him and said : ‘‘Beware! You do not know what you will have to suffer for every thought like that.’’ ‘‘Am I not to be allowed even to think as I please? You have become very severe all at once,” said Makar. The priest shook his head and continued on his way. ‘* How far have we to go?’’ asked Makar. * Master, host, chief.—Author’s note.

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MAKAR'S DREAM. * A long way,” replied the priest, in a sad voice. ‘*And what shall we have to eat?’’ un- easily inquired Makar. “You forget that you are dead,” replied the priest, turning toward him, “‘ and that you will need neither food nor drink.”’ Makar did not like this. It was all very well, as there happened to be nothing to eat ; but it would have been better to remain lying where he was after he died. ‘*Don’t grumble,’’ said the priest. ** All right,’’ replied Makar, in an injured voice; but still he went on grumbling to himself and complaining of this unreasona- ble arrangement. ‘‘To make a man walk and not allow him to eat.’’ They had been walking a longtime. Al- though it was not yet dawn, it seemed to Makar, judging from the distance they had traversed, they must have been walking for a week at least, so many ravines and mount- ains, rivers and lakes, forests and plains had they passed. Whenever Makar looked back it seemed to him that the forest was re- ceding from them and the high mountains dissolving away in the twilight and disap- pearing below the horizon. They seemed to be rising higher and higher. The stars grew larger and brighter. Then over the ridge of the hill they were climbing appeared the rim of the setting moon. It seemed as if in haste to get out of sight, but Makar and the priest were over- taking it. At last it began to rise again above the horizon. Now they were walking along a high level plain. Suddenly Makar, who had been looking closely at one of the horsemen, turned and ran after him. ‘‘ Wait ! wait!’’ cried the priest. But he did not hear him. He had recognized a Tartar of his acquaintance who six years be- fore had stolen his sorrel horse, and who died the very next year. Now this Tartar was riding the same sorrel horse. The horse was galloping wildly. From beneath his hoofs flew clouds of snow, sparkling with the variegated reflections of the star rays. Makar could not understand how he, a foot passenger, could so easily overtake the Tartar at full gallop. When, however, the latter perceived that Makar was within a few paces of him he stopped. ‘‘Come to the Stdrosta,’’* Makdr cried. 153 ‘This is my horse! His right ear is cut! You ride another man’s horse, while the master is walking like a beggar!”’ ‘*Wait,’’ said the Tartar, ‘‘why should we go to the Starosta? You say this is your horse. Take him then ! Cursed beast ! I have been riding him for five years and make no progress whatever. Every day foot-men get ahead of me ; it is a\disgrace to a Tartar.’’ And he raised his foot to dismount, but just then the priest, all out of breath, ran up to them and seized Makar’s hand. ‘‘Wretched man! what are you doing?’”’ he exclaimed. ‘‘Can’t you see that the Tartar is trying to deceive you ?’’ ‘“‘Of course he is,’’ exclaimed Makar, gesticulating. ‘“‘It was a good horse!—a capital horse for work. I was offered forty roubles for him when he was three years old. No, indeed! If you haveinjured my horse, I will kill him for his flesh, and you shall pay me incash. You think because you area Tartar you can do as you please?”’ Makar grew excited and talked louder and louder to attract a crowd about him, for he was afraid of the Tartars. But the priest checked him. ‘‘Hush, hush, Makar. You keep forget- ting that you have died. Of what use isa horse to you? Besides can’t you see that you are walking faster than the Tartar rides? Would you like to be traveling a thousand years?’’ Makar now understood why the Tartar was willing to give up the horse. ‘They are a cunning tribe !’’ he thought. ‘‘ All right!’’ he cried, ‘‘ go along with your horse. Ishall complain of you all the same.’’ The Tartar angrily clapped on his hat and gave thehorse a blow. The horse pranced, clouds of snow flew from under his hoofs, but not one step did he advance while Makar and the priest stood there. He spat angrily, as he said to Makar : ‘“‘Have you a leaf of tobacco, friend? I am suffering for a smoke, and I used up my tobacco four years ago.”’ ‘*Calla dog your friend !’’ angrily replied Makar. ‘‘ You are a shrewd fellow. You stole my horse, and now you are begging for tobacco! I have no pity for you.”’ * Elder of a village commune.— 7yY.

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154 And saying this Makar went on. ‘* You were wrong not to give him a leaf of tobacco,’’ remarked Priest Ivan; ‘‘ for an _ act like that, the Great Toydn would have forgiven you not less than one hundred sins.”’ ‘“‘Why did you not tell me so before?’’ snapped Makar. ‘*It is too late to teach you now. You should have learned it from your priests during your lifetime.”’ Makar was vexed. He had gained nothing from the priests. They had taken their fees, but had never taught him the proper time to give the Tartar a leaf of tobacco, that he might receive absolution for his sins. ‘* Wait a moment,” he said ; ‘‘ one leaf will do for us, and the other four I will give to the Tartar at once.”’ ‘** Look back,’’ said the priest. Makarturned. Behind him stretched the deserted snow-covered plain. The Tartar looked like a dot shining in the distance. ‘* Well, never mind !’’ said Makar, ‘‘this Tartar can do without his tobacco. He hurt my horse, the cursed fellow !”’ ‘“No,’’ said the priest, ‘‘he has not in- jured your horse. Have you never heard the old saying, one can not go far on a stolen horse’? ? Makar had, indeed, heard this saying, but as he had often seen the Tartars enter the very town itself on stolen horses, he had naturally put very little faith in it. Now he perceived that there is truth even in old sayings. He began to overtake a good many riders along the plain. They all seemed to be making the same sort of prog- ress as the first one. The horses flew like birds, the riders were reeking with perspira- tion, and still Makar left every one. of them behind. They were mostly Tartars, but now and then he met a Tchalgdn settler ; some of these were riding stolen oxen, urging them along with sticks. Makar regarded the Tartars with displeas- ure, and every time he met one, he would mutter something to the effect that they were not getting suitable punishment ; but whenever he met a Tchalgdn settler he paused and entered into friendly conversation with him : they were friends, at least, even if they had been thieves. Now and then by way of expressing his sympathy, he would even pick up a stick from the road and try to MAKAR'S DREAM. urge their beasts along; but after a very few paces on his side, these riders diminished to barely perceptible specks, a long way be- hind him. There was no apparent limit to theplain. Although he was constantly pass- ing both riders and foot passengers, it was of so vast an extent that it still seemed de- serted. It seemed as if hundreds, nay thou- sands of versts lay between each traveler. Among others Makar encountered a strange old man, evidently from Tchalgan,—Makdar knew that from his face, his dress and even from his gait, but he could not remember to have met him before. The old man wore a tattered sdna, a large projecting fur hat, old leathern trousers, no less ragged and worn out calf skin térbas. But the most pitiful part of it was, that in spite of his age and infirmities, he bore on his shoulders a still older woman, whose feet dragged along the ground. The old man panted, he could not rightly control his feet and he leaned heav- ily on the stick. Makar pitied him. He stopped. The old man stopped also. After a short silence Makar thought he might venture to question the old man whence he came and whither he was going. The latter told him what his name was. Long ago, he had forgotten how many years ago it was since, he left Tchalgan and went to ‘‘the hill’’ to save his soul. There he did nothing whatever ; living on berries and roots, he neither plowed, nor sowed, nor did he grind the grain, or pay the taxes. After his death he went to the old Toy6n to be judged. When the Toy6én asked him who he was and what he had done, he replied that he had lived on the hill for the salvation of his soul. ‘‘ Very well,’’ said Toy6n, ‘‘and where is your old woman? Return and fetch her.’’ So he went after her; now the old woman had died a beggar, for she had no one to support her, and neither house, nor cows, nor bread. She had grown very feeble and could hardly drag one foot after the other. And he was obliged to carry her to the great Toy6n. The old man wept, and the old woman kicked him, as if she were driving an ox, saying in a faint but angry voice : ‘*Go along !’’ Makar pitied the old man still more and was thankful that he had not gone to ‘‘the hill,” for his old woman was tall and heavy,

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MAKAR'S DREAM. and he would have had a hard time carrying her. Journeying onward Makar met no more people upon whom he bestowed special at- tention. They were thieves bowed down like beasts of burden, with stolen goods, barely able to drag themselves forward ; stout Yakiit Toyéns jolted along on their high saddles, almost touching the skies with their tall hats; they looked like towers. Here, too, the poor workmen hobbled along as light and thin as rabbits. With wild and wandering gaze, a gloomy looking, blood- stained murderer stalked along. In vain he threw himself into the snow hoping to wash away those stains of blood. The snow in- stantly reddened and seethed like boiling water, the stains came out brighter than ever, and wild despair and horror were de- picted on his face as he strode onward, trying to avoid the terrified glances of those whom he met. The souls of little children fluttered in the air like birds. Makar felt no surprise when they flew past in crowds. The poor, coarse food, the filth, the open chimneys and the cold draughts in the yourts caused the death of hundreds in Tchalgdan alone. As they drew near the murderer, they dashed aside in a frightened crowd, and for long after they had passed one could still hear the swift fluttering sound of theirtiny wings. Makar could not help seeing that he was making rapid progress as compared with the others, and he lost no time in setting this down to the account of his virtue. ‘‘ What do you think about it, father?’’ he asked. ‘‘I acknowledge that I loved the cup, but after all I was a good man. God loves me.’’ ‘Do not pride yourself on your virtue. We are not far from the goal. You will soon find out for yourself.’’ Makar had not until now observed that daylight was breaking over the plain. A few bright rays, like the first strains from a full orchestra, broke upon the horizon, and swiftly traversing the sky put out the burn- ing stars. The fogs arose and hovered like sentinels around it. Toward the east they shone like bright warriors clad in golden armor ; they wavered, and bowed their heads. Above them rose the sun, pausing to rest upon their golden crests and overlook the plain, which was illumined by an unseen and dazzling light. 155 Then the fogs rising majestically heaven- ward were rent asunder in the west, and Makar heard a wondrous song. It seemed no other than the well-known anthem with which the earth each morning greets the sun; but now Makar perceived the won- drous beauty which had before passed un- heeded. He stood listening with but one desire, that so listening he might remain forever. But Ivan touched him on the sleeve. ‘*Come,’’ he said, ‘‘ this is the place.’’ Then Makar perceived that they were standing near a wide open door, that had been hidden from them by the mists. He felt reluctant to enter, but obeyed. It was not until they found themselves within a spacious hut that Makar noticed that it had been frosty outside. In the mid- dle of the hut stood a beautiful fireplace of pure silver and fine workmanship, wherein burned golden logs, diffusing a gentle warmth that enveloped the whole person. The blaze from the mournful fireplace did not try the eyes, nor scorch the face, it merely sent forth a grateful warmth, and here Makar again longed to remain forever warming himself. The priest Ivan also drew near the fireplace and stretched forth his cold hands. The hut had three inner doors and but one outer one, and through the former young men clad in long white garments passed in- cessantly to and fro. Makar took them for Toy6n’s servants. He felt as if he must have seen them before, but he could not re- member just where. He was much sur- prised to discover large white wings at- tached to their shoulders, but he decided that the Toyon no doubt had other servants, for with those wings they could never make their way through the dense forest, either to chop wood or gather fagots. One of the servants approached the fire also, and turning his back to it spoke to priest Ivan. ‘* Speak !’’ ‘*T have nothing to say.’’ ‘* What have you heard in the world ?”’ ‘*T heard nothing.”’ ‘* What did you see? ”’ ‘“‘T saw nothing.”’ Both were silent ; then the priest said : ‘*T have brought you a man.”’

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156 ‘**Is he from Tchalgan ?’’ asked the laborer. ‘* Yes.” ‘*Then we must prepare the large scales.”’ And he went through one of the doors to give orders,while Makar asked the priest for what purpose the scales were needed and why they wanted large ones. ‘*Well, you must know,’’ replied the priest, slightly confused, ‘‘that the scales are needed to weigh your good and evil deeds. With most persons the good and evil will nearly balance the cups. But the inhabitants of Tchalgan have committed so many sins that for them the Toydén was obliged to order special ‘scales, with a large cup for sins.’’ Makdr’s heart sank within him when he heard these words. The big scales were brought in and set up. One cup was made of gold and very small, the other was of wood, and very large, and beneath the latter a deep and dark chasm suddenly appeared. Makar approached the scales and carefully examined them to make sure that they were correct. They proved to be perfectly true. The cups hung motionless on the same level. But he did not quite understand their con- struction and would have chosen the common scales, on which he had learned to buy and sell to his own advantage. ‘* The Toy6n is coming,’’ said the priest Ivan, and he began hurriedly arranging his surplice. The middle door opened and a very aged Toyon appeared with a silvery beard ex- tending below his waist. He was clad in rich, and to Makar unfamiliar furs and stuffs, and on his feet he wore boots trimmed with velvet. The very first glance revealed to Makar that this was the same aged being whose picture he had seen in church. His son, however, was not beside him. Makar thought that he was probably absent on business. A dove flew into the room and circling around the old man's head, it set- tled on his knees, and he caressed the dove with his hand, while he sat on a chair that had been specially prepared for him. The old Toy6én had a benevolent face, and whenever Makar felt oppressed he looked at that face and took courage. Now Makar began to feel sad, for suddenly he remem- bered every smallest detail of his entire life, every step he had trodden, every stroke of MAKAR'S DREAM. the axe, every tree he had ielled, every de- ceitful action and every glass of vodka. And he felt not only ashamed but afraid, and still as he gazed on the face of the old Toy6n he took heart. And taking heart the thought occurred to him that perhaps he might be able to conceal some things. The old Toy6én looked at him and asked him his name, his age and whence he came. Makar had replied and the Toyén asked: ‘* What have you done during your life?”’ ‘“You must know yourself what I have done,’’ replied Makar, ‘‘ you have it written down.”’ Makar was feeling his way, so to speak, trying todiscover whether all the deeds of his life had actually been written down. ‘*It is for you to tell,’’ said the old Toydn. And Makar felt encouraged. He began to render an account of his labors, and although he remembered per- fectly well every stroke of the axe, every pole he had chopped and every furrow he had plowed, yet he multiplied his poles by thousands and his loads of wood as well as his poods * of sowing by hundreds. After he had enumerated everything, the old Toydn turned to the priest Ivan and said: ‘* Bring hither the book.’’ Then Makar saw the priest Ivan served as a clerk to the old Toy6n, and was vexed that he had not been told of that. The priest Ivan brought in a big book, opened it and began to read : ‘‘Tell me how many poles,’’ said the old Toyon. After looking carefully priest Ivan said in a tone that expressed his disappointment : ‘* He has added three thousand.”’ ‘‘He lies,’’ exclaimed Makar angrily. ‘* How is he likely to be right? he was a drunkard and died a bad death.”’ ‘* Be silent !’’ said the old Toyén. ‘‘ Has he ever charged you an extra fee for wed- dings or christenings? Did he press you for his pay?”’ ‘‘No, I can not say that he did,’’ replied Makar. ‘‘T have always known that he was fond of drinking,’’ said the Toyon. Then the old Toyén waxed angry, and he said to the priest Ivan : * One pood equals thirty-six English pounds.

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MAKAR’S DREAM. ‘*Now read the list of his sins that is written in the book, for he is proved a liar, and I can not trust him.”’ Meanwhile the servants of the Toydn had thrown into the golden cup Makdar’s poles, his wood, his plowing and all his work. And this weighed so heavily that the golden cup sank low, and the wooden one rose so high that no hands could reach it ; then the young Toy6n’s servants soared upward by means of their wings and one hundred of them pulled it down with ropes. The Tchalgan settler had worked hard in- deed. Now priest Ivan began to count his lies, and it was made manifest that there were twenty-one thousand nine hundred and thirty- three of them ; then he began to count the number of bottles of vodka he had drunk, which proved to be fourhundred. The priest had not yet finished his reading when Makar saw that the wooden cup of the scales al- ready outweighed the golden one, sinking lower and lower toward the pit. Then Makar began to think that his chance was a poor one, and approaching the scales he tried to hold the cup with his foot. But one of the Toy6dn’s servants observed him. ‘“What is the matter?’’ asked the old Toyon. ‘‘He was meddling with the scales,’’ re- plied the Toy6n’s servant. Then the Toydn turned angrily to Makar and said: ‘‘It is plain that you area liar, an indolent fellow anda drunkard! More- over, you have left your taxes unpaid, you owe fees to the priest, and you have tempted the Ispravnik to sin.”’ Then turning to priest Ivan, the old Toyén asked : ‘‘Who is it in Tchalgan that loads horses most heavily and drives them hardest? ’’ The priest Ivan replied : ‘The church bursar. He carries the mails and drives the Ispravnik.’’ Then the old Toy6n said : ‘Let this lazy fellow become a bursar’s horse and carry the Ispravnik, till he falls to the ground.”’ But just as the old Toy6én had said this, the door opened and his son entered the hut, taking a seat on the old Toy6n’s right hand. The son said: ‘‘I heard your verdict. I lived with the world many years and know how matters go onthere: it will be hard for the poor man to carry the Ispravnik! Per- 157 haps he may have something more to say in his defense. Speak, poor man !’’ Then a remarkable thing happened. Ma- kar, the very Makar who never in all his life had uttered more than ten words at a time, grew suddenly eloquent. He spoke, and great was his own surprise. It was asif there were two Makars: one speaking and the other listening. Heexpressed himself easily, and in forcible language, the words followed each other in rapid succession, arranging themselves in long, well-framed sentences. He felt no fear. If he chanced to hesitate, he at once recovered himself, and continued in more loud and impress- ive tones. And it was consoling to feel that his words carried conviction. The old Toyén, who at first had been somewhat vexed by his audacity, afterward listened to him with close attention, as though he had begun to realize that Makar was not such a fool as he seemed. At first the priest Ivan was really frightened, and pulled Makar by the skirt of his sdna, but the latter put him aside and went on as before. After a while even the priest lost his fear, and smiled to know that his parishioner is speaking the truth and that this truth pleases the old Toydn. Even the white-winged youths in their long, snowy garments, who were the old Toy6dn’s servants, came to the doors and listened in amazement to Makdar’s words. He began by saying that he did not wish to be a bursar’s horse, not that he feared work, but because the sentence was unjust. And to an unjust sentence he refuses to sub- mit; not an inch will he budge. Let them do with him whatever they please! Let them even give him up to the devil for a servant, he would not carry the Ispravnik, because it was unjust. And they need not think that he dreaded to be a horse: the bur- sar drives his horse hard, to be sure, but he feeds him with oats; he himself had been driven all his life, but no oats had ever fallen to his lot. Driven by starostas and elders, by assessors and Ispravniks collecting their taxes, he had been driven by priests who would have their pay; driven by necessity and hunger, by frost and heat, by rain and droughts; driven by the frozen ground and the malicious woods! Beasts travel with eyes down, not knowing whither they are driven. Thus it was withhim. Did he un- derstand what the priest read in church and

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158 why he required his fees? Did he know the reason why they took his oldest son and car- ried him off to be-a soldier, or where he died, or even where his poor bones lie? They ac- cuse him of drinking much vodka! He does not deny it ; itis true, but he was forced to it. ‘* How many bottles did you say?’’ ‘* Four hundred,’’ replied the priest Ivan, looking into the book. Very well! But was this vodka? Three- quarters water and but one-quarter of real vodka, and steeped on tobacco; three hun- dred bottles ought to be deducted. ‘* Does he speak the truth ?’’ asked the old Toyon, turning to the priest Ivan; it was evident that he was still vexed. ‘He is telling the simple truth,’’ replied the priest, hastily, and Makar continued. He had added three thousand poles to his account! What of it? Supposing he had only chopped sixteen thousand, would that be called a small piece of work? And more- over, two thousand of these he had chopped while his first wife was ill, and his heart was aching, for he wanted to stay with her, his old woman, but necessity drove him into the woods, and there he wept, while the tears froze on his eyelashes, and the cold entered his sorely stricken heart. ’ But he went on chopping ! Then his old woman died. He must bury her, and where was the money to pay for it? He hired himself out to chop wood, to pay for the old woman’s lodging in the next world. And the merchant, knowing him to be sorely pressed, paid him only ten copecks a load, his wife meanwhile lying alone in the cold, fireless hut, and he in the woods chopping and weeping. Loads like those might well be reckoned five times over, or even more ! Tears came to the eyes of the old Toydn, and Makar saw that the cups of the scales had begun to waver, the wooden cup was rising, and the golden one sinking. And still Makar went on. If everything is set down in their books. then let them look and see if ever he received a caress, a welcome, or any joy whatever from mortal being? Where are his children? If they died his heart grew heavy and sadness filled his soul, and if they grew up, they left him to struggle alone against the most abject poverty. Then he grew old, with no com- panion but his second old woman ; he could MAKAR'’S DREAM. feel his strength grow less and helpless old age came creeping on. They were alone, like two solitary pine trees in the steppe, buffeted on all sides by the wintry gales. ‘“‘Is that true?’’ again asked the old Toy6n. And the priest hastily replied : “Tt is quite true !”’ Again the scales wavered. But the old Toy6n had grown thoughtful. ‘How is this?’’ he said. ‘‘On earth my righteous people have eyes clear, faces bright and garments unsullied. Their hearts arelike rich soil ; they receive the good seed and re- turn the white lily of the fields and fra- grant harvests, whose odor delights me. And behold this man. ‘Your face is dark,’’ continued the old Toyon, ‘‘ your eyes are dim, your garments are torn, your heart is overgrown with weeds, thorns and wormwood. The right- eous are dear to me, but from the evil doer I turn my face.”’ Makar’s heart sank within him. He felt ashamed of his own existence. His head dropped, but again he raised it, and spoke. He knew not whom the Toyén meant by the righteous. If they were such that lived in rich houses when Makar was on earth he knew them. Their eyes were bright because they had shed fewer tears than he, their faces shone because they bathed in per- fumed waters, and their spotless garments were woven by the hands of others. If Makar could have known the effect of his words on the old Toy6n, if he could have seen that every angry word he uttered fell into the golden cup like a weight of lead, he would have controlled his anger. But he saw nothing of this, for blind despair filled his heart. The old Toy6n said to him : ‘‘ Wait, poor fellow, you are no longer on earth. There will be justice for you also.’’ And Makar trembled. He felt that he was pitied and his heart softened, and as he be- held a vision of his wretched life from first to last, he felt unspeakably sorry for him- self. And he wept. The old Toydn wept also. So did the old priest Ivan and the young servants of the Toy6n shed tears, wiping them away with their broad white sleeves. And the scales still wavered, but the wooden cup rose higher and higher.

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A HISTORICAL DINNER-PARTY : A REMINISCENCE OF LIFE IN RUSSIA. {OW, Mr. Ker, if you’re in want of a subject to write upon, I’ll give you oneto-night,’’ said Madame M—., the wife of a lead- ing Russian states- man, at whose house in St. Petersburg I was spending several months of the intermina- ble Russian winter, intending to go on into Siberia as soon as the snows melted. ‘‘ We are going to have anumber of historical ce- lebrities here to dinner this evening, and you will have a chance of seeing for yourself what. the men are like whose names fill every newspaper in Europe.”’ The slightly sarcastic tone of my charming hostess was quite enough to assure me, even without the mocking smile which for a moment lighted up the dark Circassian beauty of her wonderful eyes, that she her- self had no very high opinion of these ‘‘ his- torical celebrities,’’ and that familiarity had indeed bred contempt so far as ¢hey were con- cerned. ‘“No one knows better than myself, Maria Agsievna,’’ answered I, ‘‘ how little cause one has to be proud of seeing one’s name in the papers. A man in the pillory is raised high above those around him, but I doubt whether he derives much pleasure from his exaltation. But—if you will forgive my asking a somewhat indiscreet question— don’t you find it a great bore to have to entertain so many people for whom you really don’t care a straw ?’’ ‘* Que voulez vous ?’’ said madame, with a meaning shrug of her beautiful shoulders. “You have seen enough of our political system by this time to know that we often have to be specially polite, for reasons of state, to people whom we privately hate with all our heart and soul. Now, here, for example’’ (taking up a photographic album as she spoke), ‘‘is a man of whom I’m not particularly fond; but just now he’s the foremost man in all Russia, and everybody By DAviIp KER. has to be civil to him—/or the present. He may possibly be here to-night, though I don’t much think he will. Look at him,’’ she added, putting her hand over the penciled name beneath the portrait, ‘‘and see if you can find out who he really is.’’ The photograph represented a smooth- faced old gentleman with a pleasant smile, and short gray hair neatly parted over a broad, white, perfectly unwrinkled forehead. His plain, black coat had no ornament of any kind except (a somewhat important excep- tion, however) the star of the famous Russian order of St. Alexander Nevski ; and beneath his gold-rimmed spectacles his eyes were half-closed in a sleepy contentment, worthy of a well-fed cat before a fire. About the whole man there was an air of such guile- less good nature that I had good cause to start when Madame M—— removed the hand that concealed his name, and I saw that this innocent old patriarch was no other than Prince Gortschakoff himself, then Chancellor of the Russian Empire, and prob- ably the most consummate hypocrite and most practiced liar in the whole civilized world. ‘‘Physiognomy’s not infallible, it seems,’’ remarked I ; ‘‘ but at all events I know now what to expect when I do see ‘his Splen- dor’ ’’ (the formal title of a prince in Russia). To my great disappointment, however, Prince Gortschakoff was not among the guests that evening, nor was it till several weeks later that I actually met him face to face. Another great name lacking to that historical muster-roll was General Todleben, the defender of Sebastopol, whose towering figure and frank, manly face I had recently had a chance of admiring at an evening party at Peterhof, one of the Czar’s country seats on the Gulf of Finland. But notwithstanding the absence of these two great central figures, the group which gathered around the ministerial dinner- table that evening was one which few men see twice in a lifetime. The first two arrivals were both in the

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160 olive-green uniform of the Russian army, but this was almost their only point of re- semblance. The.one was a thin little man with a pointed black moustache, a keen, glittering, rat-like eye, and a nose so sharp that it looked as if pared down to a point with a penknife. The other was a huge, brawny, hulking fellow, whose broad, heavy jaw, thick lips, flat nose, and low, re- ceding forehead were strongly suggestive of a prize-fighter. Indeed, any stranger might well have been startled to hear these two sinister-looking men (whom he would have probably mistaken for a burglar and a pickpocket) announced as Count de Berg and General Mouravieff, the former being the ex-Governor of Poland, and the latter the famous military butcher whom Europe, still shuddering over the atrocity of his wholesale executions at Warsaw, had brand- ed with the appropriate title of ‘‘ The Hang- man.’’ ‘““If there were such a thing as transmi- gration of souls,’’ whispered I to Madame M , ‘‘I should say that in a previous state of existence one of those gentlemen had been a rat, and the other a bulldog.”’ ‘‘You’re not far wrong,’’ answered she, laughing ; ‘‘ but you'll see that my husband will be specially polite tothem for policy’s sake, although they both hate him, and he can’t abide either of them.”’ Sure enough, M himself came up at that moment to welcome his two strange guests, to whom his own appearance pre- sented a magnificent contrast. In actual years he was then but little past his prime; but it was only too plain that he was well- nigh worn out by the mighty labors that have linked his name forever with the cause of national Liberalism and the aboli- tion of serfdom in Russia. His hair was already white as snow, his noble features were seamed with many a deep line, and the most careless observer could not have failed to be impressed with the air of sad and dark experience that looked forth through his large, lustrous, thoughtfil eyes. Suddenly his pale and careworn face light ed up with a very unwonted brightness, as he heard his children shouting a vociferous welcome in the passage outside to ‘‘ Dyadya Mitya’’ (Uncle Dmitri) while the door open- ed to admit the silver-laced uniform, slight, active figure, and iron-gray hair of my host’s A HISTORICAL DINNER-PARTY. ‘ brother, Gen. Dmitri M——, at that time Minister of War, and not less famous in litera- ture than in politics through his masterly his- tory of the Franco-Russian struggle in South- ern Switzerland. The brothers had barely had time to ex- change a few hasty words when a fresh vis- itor entered, to whom the whole company hastened to offer an ostentatiously hearty welcome. Not till the day when all Europe was startled by the explosion of Servia’s revolt against Turkey did I fully compre- hend the real significance of that guest’s visit and his enthusiastic reception ; but his appearance riveted my attention at once. That he was an ecclesiastic of some kind was evident from the long silky hair that streamed down over his shoulders, and the dark robe that covered him from head to foot, while his high rank was made manifest not so much by the massive crucifix of gold and jewels that hung at his neck (which he offered to the reverential kiss of each guest in turn) as by the air of power and command that seemed habitual to his worn, pallid, but undeniably handsome feat- ures. ‘*That’s the ‘ Patriarch’ of Servia,’’ said Madame M—— to me; ‘‘he has come here to ask charity for the relief of his people, who are in great distress just now.” This sounded plausible enough ; but, from a few chance words that reached my ear later on, during the whispered conference which this benevolent Patriarch held with General Mouravieff, I became convinced that the charity which was sent to relieve the distressed Servians would take the form of rifles and cartridges instead of bread and fuel, and would be employed in taking away the lives of Turks rather than the troubles of Christians. Involuntarily I called to mind a quaint old Puritan psalm, one verse of which is a perfect photograph of the mod- ern Russian diplomatist : **More soft than butter were his words, While in his heart was war ; His speeches were more smooth than oil, And yet drawn swords they are.”’ A few minutes later arrived two more guests, both of considerable note in the inner diplomatic circles of St. Petersburg. The one was Count Mouravieff-Amourski, a brother of the terrible General, but happily unlike him in every way ; for the clear bold

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A HISTORICAL lines of his handsome, intelligent face con- trasted as strongly with the heavy, brutal sullenness of the formidable ‘‘ hangman ’”’ as the latter’s horrible nickname with his ‘ brother’s honorable title of ‘‘ Amourski”’ (he of the Amour), won by his untiring ex- ertions in developing the resources of East- ern Siberia during his term of office as its Governor-General. With the Count came his wife, a handsome, clever, lively Frenchwoman, whose piquant remarks were a great addition to our table- talk. With all her cleverness, however, the Countess was not wholly proof against that strange superstition which one often finds so startlingly mingled with the pol- ished cynicism of French and Russian soci- ety; for at one stage of the dinner she deliberately reached across me and my next neighbor to help herself to the salt, rather than risk the evil omen of letting either of us hand it to her. Last, but certainly not least, arrived Dr. Vasili Petrovitch Botkin, the Czar’s court physician—a tall, pale, gloomy-looking, taciturn man, who never opened his mouth from first to last except to put something into it. When we took our seats at the dinner-table, I found myself placed next to Count de Berg ; and, having already begun to plan that jour- ney through Central Asia which I after- ward executed in concert with poor Mc- Gahan during the Khiva war of 1873, I was naturally pleased to have a chance of learn- ing something about it from a man who had been there so recently. It was certainly not a pleasant thought that my polite and fluent neighbor had shed blood like water for weeks together, and had breakfasted tranquilly up- on a balcony beneath which thirty-six half- hanged Polish insurgents were writhing in their last agony ; but the information which I received from him was well worth having even through such a source, and did me good service later on. When dinner ended, I had the opportunity of witnessing a ceremony not often seen nowadays except in Russian novels and paintings. As we filed out to go to the draw- ing-room, each man in turn kissed the hand of our beautiful hostess in acknowledgment of the entertainment which she had given him ; and I fully sympathized with the slight but perceptible shudder of poor Madame M——, as Gen. Mouravieff's huge bristly DINNER-PARTY. 161 moustache left a path of soup and gravy across her smooth white hand. Presently the after-dinner visitors began to drop in, and the drawing-room filled so rap- idly that I thought it best to slip away into a safe corner, lest I should ‘‘ put my foot in it’’ unwittingly ; for, only a few days before, when sallying forth for a walk, I had unex- pectedly all but upset a big man in military uniform who proved to be the Czar ! My nook of retreat was partially occupied already by the stalwart frame and heavy brown moustache of Major Abaza—Madame M——’s brother, and Mr. George Kennan’s companion during the first of his adventur- ous journeys through Eastern Siberia—who was watching the proceedings intently, with the keen, calculating look of a future Minister of Finance in his deep gray eyes. But we had barely had time to greet each other when the door opened once more, to give entrance to a figure that seemed to dwarf every other in the room. I had no need to ask who fe was, for although we had never met before, his countless portraits had already made me familiar enough with that towering form and lion-like gray head, and the sad, earnest, penetrating eyes that looked forth from beneath that broad, massive fore- head, to enable me to recognize at a glance the Thackeray of Russia, the great novelist whose works had been translated into almost every European tongue, Ivan Turgenieff. ‘‘Doesn’t he look grand?’’ said Madame M , as she passed me a little later, glanc- ing toward the spot where Turgenieff’s mighty figure towered above the tallest of the group around him. ‘‘Poor Ivan Sergei- vitch ! what a terribly sad life he has had! You know, of course, how shamefully his wife behaved to him; and then to think of his being driven out of Russia for a Nihilist, when it was he himself who was the first man to denounce them by that very name, which was never heard till Ae used it in his novel of ‘Otsi i Dyéti’ (Fathers and Chil- dren). Come and speak to him, and tell him you know his friend Thomas Carlyle; I know that will please him.’’ I had just exchanged a few words with the great writer (of whom I was afterward to see much in a very different place and among widely different surroundings), and was re- tiring to my corner again, when the Minister of War came hastily up to me.

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162 A HISTORICAL DINNER-PARTY. ‘“‘Here’s just the man for you to know,”’ said he, pointing to an old man in the uni- form of a general officer, sitting a little apart from the rest, whose appearance (despite the snow-white hair, wrinkled faceand stooping nervelessness of extreme age) had in it a nameless something that suggested what a gallant show he must have made in the ranks ofan army, long years ago. ‘‘It’s not every day that you meet a man who has seen Na- poleon face to face upon a field of battle.”’ ‘* And has /e done so, then ?’’ asked I. ‘‘He has, indeed. He fought at Borodino as a boy of fourteen, and he was all through the retreat from Moscow. Go and ask him about it; there’s nothing he likes better.”’ A few minutes later I was listening to a story which impressed me in a way hard to describe, told as it was by one who had met face to face on the battle-field, beneath the deepening shadow of death, the men who are to us mere dim historical phantoms, sepa- rated from the present age by an incalcula- ble distance. We vead of these things, but this man had seen them. As the stirring tale proceeded, I seemed to hear the roar of Russia’s greatest battle, to watch the long lines of bayonets come glit- tering through the rolling smoke, and to see the quiet little village of Borodino crackle into a red blaze beneath the fire of the French bombshells. I could almost fancy that I caught the first far-off hoof-tramp of Cau- laincourt’s charging cuirassiers, ‘‘ like rain pattering on withered leaves,’’ swelling grad- ually into a thunder that shook the very earth, as the sea of steel-clad horsemen came surging up over the breastwork of the Great Redoubt, sabering or trampling to death all who opposed them. ‘‘T was flung under a gun-carriage and stunned,’’ continued the old soldier, ‘‘ and when I came to myself again all was still around me except the groaning of the wounded. Far in the distance, Borodino was still burning, and its flames stood out brightly against the darkness that was fall- ing fast over the battle-field. Suddenly I heard voices close to me, and the French im- perial staff came riding past, with many a face among them that I knew well. There were the grim visages of Rapp and Daru, and old Ney’s fierce eye and bulldog jaw, and Murat, all ribbons and spangles like a circus-rider, with the white plumes waving over his head, and a riding-whip in his hand. And there, in the midst of them all, was the man himself, in his gray coat and little cocked hat, calm and cold as ever, with a far away kind of look in his eyes, as if he’ saw Moscow somewhere in the sky, and could see nothing between. ‘** A glorious victory !’ cried Murat, flour- ishing his whip. ‘ We havecleared our road to Moscow !’ ‘** We've lost half the army in doing it, though,’ growled Ney, ‘and I think the best thing we can do now is to retreat.’ ‘‘Then Napoleon turned his head slowly and looked at him, just as a statue might have done. ‘** Thou counseling retreat, Michel? That is something new from thee! No—no re- treating ; I must date my bulletin from Mos- cow. And as for the army—well, one can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs.’ ‘“When I heard him say ¢hat,’’ added the old man, solemnly, ‘‘I knew that God had forsaken him, for no man who was not given over to destruction could have spoken so lightly of the slaughter of fifty thousand brave men.’’ And then the veteran began to speak of the awful retreat from Moscow, and to de- scribe, as none but an eye-witness could do, the multiplied horrors of that mighty march of death. He told of man after man drop- ping down in the snow never to rise again, of the flesh of fallen horses gnawed from their bones before it could grow cold, of sol- diers by hundreds marching in their ranks fast asleep, worn out by sheer fatigue. One scene which he described might have served Vereshtchagin himself as a fit theme for one of his terrible pictures—the finding of the body of a French grenadier, seated against a leafless tree in the snow, stiff and frozen, with the red sunset making a kind of corpse- light upon his dead face, and the cold white distance outspread interminably all around him, while in his lap lay a splendid gold goblet plundered from the treasures of Mos- cow, with nothing in it but a half-gnawed shred of raw horseflesh, which the poor wretch had not had strength to swallow. But just as the story was at its best, it was unfortunately interrupted by the coming up of two or three officers to speak to the old general ; and half an hour later this histori- cal party broke up.

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THE CHALICE BEARERS. By ELIZABETH S. MCCHESNEY. The darkness grew luminous around me; Strange shadowy forms, an eager throng, Were surging past, with hands upreached In attitude of fierce desire, as those who long And have not learned to rest. Slowly the dazed earth eyes found strength to gaze, (For the light was not of sun, which strongly shone, In lines of flame, about each pale, set face And lifted hand, until each strove alone, Although a mighty multitude still pressed). In folds all undefined the garments fell, Nor woman grace, nor vaunted strength of man was there, But forms that yearned, and in their yearning swayed Till all were massed, save strong and fair, Each face’s faintest line revealed Against that mystic light, and in each hand outlined A cup, and for the cup’s uplifting, seemed This strife of discontent, this stir of wild unrest. And yet the cups were rare and quaint, I deemed As to some solemn service sealed. I heard no sound of prayer or praise, So watched the silent plaint of outstretched hand Which thrust its cup far outward, then held high The yearning chalice, while hot eyes scanned The heavens, as if for rain. Then light showers fell of lustrous lambent drops ; Some cups were filled to the wet, sparkling rim, Lifted to lips athirst, or held in trembling hand, Which joyed in that proud measure to the brim, Then quaffed or spilled, the cup again 12

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THE CHALICE BEARERS. To the bright drops outstretched, nor ever wearied Though lips which oftenest drank, most feverish grew, And in the wild strained faces no coolness came As from the touch of summer shower or nightly dew. Then some hands failed, and emptied cups fell low. Then one I saw, by me beloved, Who long time held a cup of massive make ; Golden it shone, and deep, and wide. I broke the silence with my prayer “ For her sweet sake, Oh, be that brave cup brimmed with drops that glow!”

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THE CHALICE BEARERS. But cups there were, that filled and over- flowed, While still that patient hand its chalice held, Which few drops caught, and in its golden depths No sparkling waters welled ; There seemed but bitter lees. I looked again upon those cups upborne, Upon each chalice-form the strong light played, And some were small, though opal-hued, And some were dark, with fierce flames rayed, Whose light was not of peace.

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THE CHALICE BEARERS. Others were quaint of workmanship, but gave No depth or breadth for generous filling; Still more were bright like jeweled vase ; But the few drops they held were spilling, And the mocking light shone through. And a few as loftily, eagerly held, Too sombre to catch the mystic rays, Were narrow of form, and earthly of mold; Yet did their uplifting also pray For some drops of quickening dew. Then my heart was hushed, the vision shone clear, The showers that fell were of earthly joy, And the cups uplifted showed taint and trace Of the clay of earth’s alloy, Which endures not to the end. But the cup of her holding, I saw, by God’s light, Was golden, made pure as by fire, And its form (the workmanship not of our earth) Was fashioned with symbol of palm and lyre— Eternity thy chalice fill—O friend !

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‘**CARMEN SYLVA.”’ ROUMANIA’S POET-QUEEN. By JoHN P. JACKSON. A FEELING of regret comes over one read- ing that Alphonse Daudet is to visit Chateau Sinaia, there to collaborate with Carmen Sylva, Roumania’s Poet-Queen in the production of a novel. The offer was made by Queen Elizabeth herself, and ac- cepted by the French novelist ‘‘ with alac- rity.’ A pity; for the especial charm of Carmen Sylva’s stories and poems has been their naiveté, their sweet simplicity of thought and language, their freedom from all conventional methods, their homely beauty. The French Academy has offered an exceptional prize to her for the beauty of her literary work. And Pierre Loti de- scribes his visit to her as the days he spent in an enchanted palace with a fairy queen. Queen Elizabeth complains in her letter to Daudet at ‘‘the exuberance of her fancy, which makes it impossible for her to cling to reality, and makes fairy tales out of her fiction.’’ What acharming admission ! and what a pity it will be if Carmen Sylva sacrifices her delightful fancies, which writ- ten down have bound the hearts of a whole country to her husband’s throne, for the de- sire to gain the empty plaudits of the Paris- ians and of the great world beyond the bor-

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168 ders of the little Danubian kingdom to which she was transplanted, now some twen- ty years ago, by Prince Carol. Queen Eliza- beth has written much, too much, in fact, and her work shows often the necessity of the editorial break. Novels, poems, chil- dren’s stories, legendary tales, a drama, and an operatic libretto, have followed one after the other in quick succession ; but among them are delightful things, such as the ‘‘ Pensées d’une Reine,’’ and her Carpathian stories, published under the title of ‘‘ From Carmen Sylva’s Realm,”’ that have made her a high and permanent place in the German literary world. In all, she reveals herself as a very gifted and intelligent princess. Carmen Sylva has not soared to the highest flights in poetry. She has written much, perhaps a thousand pages of it, but a large portion bears the impress in expression of other genius than her own, except when she sings from her own heart, of her past joys and sorrows, or puts a delicious bit of Rou- manian folk or fairy lore into graceful verse. When Carmen Sylva became Princess of Moldo-Wallachia, and a few years afterward lost her only child, she made the decision thenceforth to labor for the good of the children of her adopted country, to unveil to them the treasures of folklore that existed among the dwellers of the hills and valleys of ancient Dacia, and to do her part in edu- cating them in patriotism by the narration of simple stories of peasant life and peasant fidelity. The royal heart that had lost its own child went out and sought to make the children of a nation its own, and suc- ceeded. Year after year from her beautiful castle in the Carpathians, where the wild Pelesch in its calmer moods whispers to her its stories, the poet-queen has devoted her- self to writing for the benefit of her Rouma- nian child-subjects, and with each year she has drawn the bond of sympathy between her husband and his people closer and surer. The Queen’s best-known book, ‘‘ From Car- men Sylva’s Realm,’’ had its origin in this wise: In the spring of 1882, when recovering from a very severe illness, the Roumanian Minister of Public Instruction asked Her Majesty if she would not deign to write a book that could be used in the public schools of the kingdom, as a premium to be given to the best scholars at the close of the year’s work. To this request the Queen readily “CARMEN SYLVA.” consented, and the result was the delightful stories and legends from the mountains and valleys around her home in the Carpathians, with illustrations by her own hand. The queen-poetess has now just finished another book for her Roumanian children, also with her own illustrations, which is also to serve as a premium for the school-children of Rou- mania. Queen Elizabeth loves story-telling and story-writing. In the Roumanian schools a day in every month has been appointed for the reading of Her Majesty’s poems and stories, and sometimes the royal authoress herself takes delight in telling them to the little folk, in the way we imagine Hans Christian Andersen did, with his little Danes gathered around him. One of the pictures at the recent Paris Salon was entitled, ‘‘ The Legend of Queen Elizabeth of Roumania, Relating Her Own Stories to Her Country- Children.’’ The accompanying illustration by a German artist represents the royal story- teller as seen at a little North Sea watering- place. It is best described by the language of Mr. Beattie Kingston, a pronounced ad- mirer of Her Majesty’s genius: ‘‘Schehere- zade—if she ever existed at all and is not a solar myth—is dead and embalmed, but the modern ‘Queen Bee’ of story-tellers is yet alive among us, and we have heard news of her. Far away on the sands of the North Sea watering-place, Westerland, she has been holding a little juvenile court. Every day she plants her camp-stool by the edge of the ripples that furrow the ‘ribbed sea sand,’ and the children call it her throne, decorate it with wild flowers, and dig en- trenchments around it with their little wood- en spades to keep off the krahen and the sea-serpents, who are of course singularly active and dangerous at this season of the year. They build up a huge fort of sand, probably nearly a full yard high, and defi- antly plant their small toy flags, captured at the point of the fork from the sugar bastions and mamelons of many cakes, as a warning to the great powers not to interfere. Then they sit in a circle and listen to the royal ‘Maerchentante’—the fairy-tale aunt—as she weaves them legends of elves, gnomes, pixies, sprites, water babies, and ‘ good peo- ple’ generally.”” The origin of the royal fairy-lore seances on the island of Sylt was this: When the Queen arrived at Westerland

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INWIUALSAM LV VAIAS NAWUVSD Z Lo > MSH HLM ) MIINAAODAI

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“CARMEN SYLVA.” THE KING AND QUEEN OF ROUMANIA AT SINAIA. she was given a picturesque reception by the juvenile portion of the assembled guests, who lined the pathway leading down to the beach, and held ensigns and flags over the head of the royal visitor. Pleased with this welcome, a day or two later she gathered her young friends around her on the beach, and read aloud to them one of her tales, to which, we are told, they and the elder guests listened with rapt atten- tion. The telling of stories in prose and verse has been Carmen Sylva’s greatest delight ever since she was a child. Queen Elizabeth, of Roumania, is a daughter of Prince Her- mann of Ried, and was born on the 29th of December, 1843, at the modern castle of Monrepos, a short distance from the quaint old town of Neuwied, on that part of the Rhine ‘‘ where every rocky height has its romance, and every green valley its legend.’’ Natalie Freiin von Stackelberg gives in her book, ‘‘ Aus Carmen Sylva’s Leben,’’ much interesting matter about the young princess’s early life at Monrepos, where, ‘‘in winter the wind howls through the forest which forms a background to the quiet scene, and in summer millions of rose- leaves flutter through the air, heavy with the scent of flowers.’’ The little princess’s chief characteristics were ‘‘ truthfulness and independence in her boisterous childish sports and gambols.’’ Hermother, Princess Marie, we are told, found it difficult to edu- cate her, until her governess discovered that a fairy tale or story acted as acharm upon the vivacious child.’’ The village children were her playmates ; she grew up in happy igno- rance of sorrow or the difference of rank till she was seven years old, when her mother’s serious illness was her first great grief.’’ The princess early developed a ca- pacity for imbibing knowledge. Prince Hermann, who, after Princess Marie’s illness, removed to Bonn, loved to have the scholars and artists of the quaint university town gather about him, and the little princess was especially fond of being present at the seances in her father’s study, where she saw and heard such men as Ernst Moritz Arndt, Perthes, Bunsen, Berneys, Julius Lessing, and a host of eminent people. Arndt was wont to read aloud his patri- otic songs to her mother, while the little princess, who sat on his knee, breathless and flushed, listened to his stirring poetry. ‘** Possibly,’’ says the Baroness von Stackel- burg, ‘‘ the poetical talent which lay dormant in her soul was first awakened by the gray- haired poet, as, according to the princess’s own words, it was fostered by the Voices of the Woods of Monrepos, for almost uncon- sciously the child put her first rhymes to paper, timidly keeping them from the eye of all the world.’’ Some of these early poems are published in Baroness Stackelberg’s book. They have been accurately described as ‘‘ the half articulate utterances of a young soul overwhelmed by the grandeur and beauty of nature, and vainly seeking for apt words to express its thoughts.” Living in a home much darkened by ill-health and bereavement. the princess’s mind soon took on earnest views of life. Her little brother, Prince Otto, died when she was twelve years of age, and she had constituted herself his unwearying nurse and attendant, trying to lessen his suffering in her own way by telling him fairy stories and imparting to him all the knowledge she herself had gained day by day. After Prince Otto’s death, the little princess asked her father to allow her to become a school-teacher. There dwelt in her father’s house a poor lame boy, named Rudolf Wackernagel, and him the little princess took pleasure in pre- paring for the gymnasium. She also took delight in giving instruction three hours every day to the nieces of Freifrau von Bibra. Three other hours she devoted to reading with her father, and four or five hours more were given to music and art. The Queen is an accomplished musician, the result of her studies in her early days as a pupil of Clara Schumann. But her favorite occupation in youth was that of a fairy story teller. She loved, most of all, the Baroness von Stackel-

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172 berg says, to sit under trees, decorated with flowers by the little children, and recite tales and stories bythe hour. Her mother called her Waldroeschen—Little Wild Rose. Her fa- vorite books at the time, besides German, were ‘‘Ivanhoe,”’ ‘‘ The Wide, Wide World,” Shakespeare and Charles Dickens. As a girl she paid visits to several of the Euro- pean courts. She spent a long time with her aunt, the Grand Duchess Helen, at St. Petersburg, and was there privileged to listen to the most gifted talkers of the day. She kept up her studies all the time, and while in the Russian capital was a pupil of Rubenstein, who later dedicated to her one of his finest compositions, ‘‘ The Sulamite.’’ Her letters during this period are girlishly interesting. She speaks with enthusiasm of her talks about Italy with the painter Piloty, of Joachim’s Himmelsgeige, and of Frau Jo- achim’s voice like a rauschender Bergstrom. The sudden death of her father recalled her to the Rhine, where she spent some years in seclusion and in writing poetry, ‘‘ singing of willow trees and of birds and of mystical sorrows,’’ which she published under the nom de plume of Carmen Sylva—Voices of the Forest-—-and which gained a good wel- come in Germany. Princess Elizabeth's desire to become a teacher of the young grew with her quiet life at Monrepos. But fate had something better in store for her: the kindly Norus had cast the golden thread around her and a fairy-tale prince, who was to fall in love with her and to give herthe opportunity of teach- ing not merely a simple schoo! on the Rhine but the children of an entire nation on the Danube. In 1866 Prince Charles of Hohen- zollern Sigmaringen had been placed upon the throne of Moldo-Wallachia by the Euro- pean powers, with the title first held by General Couza, as Prince of Roumania. He proved himself an efficient and energetic prince, and his popularity was soon so well founded that he was induced to go out a wooing so as to be able to insure the per- petuation of his race to the principality. In earlier years he had met Princess Elizabeth at the court of Berlin, and the princess’s biographers tell the story that he there almost saved her life. She was descending the stairs when her foot slipped, and no one knows what the result might have been had not the gallant prince, then a handsome “CARMEN SYLVA.” young lieutenant, caught herin his arms and saved her. Be this as it may, whilethe prin- cess and her mother were at Cologne in 1868, Prince Charles, then Prince Carol of Rou- mania, paid them a visit. ‘‘ What a hand- some fellow he has grown to be !’’ exclaimed Princess Elizabeth. ‘‘ Yes,’’ replied her mother, ‘‘and the Prince is here for the pur- pose of asking for your hand.” ‘‘He is a man whom every one must admire,” answered the princess, and on the following day her betrothal to the young ruler on the Danube was Officially announced. In November, 1869, the twain were married, and on the 22d of the same month Princess Elizabeth first trod Roumanian soil, and was received by thousands upon thousands of the people, who sang to her the Roumanian national hymn as welcome and greeting. With Prince Carol she was supremely happy ; he worshiped her and declared that she was his better self. Soon a little daughter was born to them, but after a few short years of happy motherhood she bowed in anguish over a tiny grave in which she felt that all her hopes were buried. For a time it seemed as if she herself would die of grief, and as years went by and more children were denied her, she grew sorrowful and longed for death. Then she sang some of her most beautiful, if sorrow-tinted songs, and as she wrote the deep wounds seemed to heal somewhat, though her poems are to this day full of touching regrets for the lost one. This is ever the refrain of her singing: ‘‘ Dimbo- vitza Dimbovitza, I am chained to thee, O dearest; Since beside thy banks they buried One who to my heart was dearest.”’ A little poem of sorrow for the dead princess is especially touching : For thy dear arms outstretched my soul is yearning, For thy dear voice of wonder-sweetest tone : For thy dear lips, for a mother’s kiss upturning, And that clear bird-like song, forever gone. I yearn to hear thy words of child heart’s loving, To hear thy tiny footsteps’ gentle tread ;— Yet is thy spirit presence near me moving, And my own heart is moving with the dead. ‘“The great mission of a queen is to pro- vide descendants for the dynasty to which she has been chosen.’’ So wrote Carmen Syiva in her charming ‘‘Pensées d’une Reine.’’ ‘Read the volume,’’ says a wri- ter, ‘‘and then say if sorrow has ever been more truly analyzed, if grief has not been probed to its uttermost depth before resigna-

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“CARMEN SYLVA.” THE QUEEN AND HER LADIES IN THE ROUMANIAN NATIONAL DRESS. tion was born. So much has never been expressed with so few words, and these pages are at once the evidence of the perfection of a soul and of the imperfec- tion of destiny.’’ These Pensées are not all of regrets and of sorrows. There is bitter- ness in many of them, and the one above quoted was doubtless born during that pe- riod of her sorrow when cruel hints were thrown out that for reasons of state her hus- band should put her aside. But to his credit be it said, Prince Carol refused to listen to the suggestion, and he was supported in his decision by the people of Roumania, who assented to the succession of the throne de- volving upon the Prince’s cousin. These Royal Thoughts contain some sound philo- Sophic truth. The Queen writes: _ “Ifa woman is bad, man is generally the rst cause.’’ 173 “Do not trust a man who does not believe in the possibility of home happiness. “The woman of the world is rarely her hus- band’s wife. ‘‘An unhappy wife is like a flower exposed to the blasts ; she remains a bud for a long time, but when she develops to a blossom she quickly with- ers and fades. ‘“*A wife needs a great amount of virtue ; for she must often have sufficient to serve both herself and her spouse. ‘* If we forgive, we love no longer; true love knows nothing of forgive- ness. ‘“The jealousy of those who love us is the grand- est flattery that can be paid us. ‘*Man and wife should never cease to do a little courting, no matter how old they may have grown. “True happiness is found in doing our duty every day of our lives. ‘*A hundred different and sweet-smelling leaves are needed to form a rose, and hundreds of pure joys are re- quired to make perfect happiness. ‘* Love, hate, jealousy and fate are blind; to see clearly we must go beyond our present existence. ‘‘A prince should possess only eyes and ears. His lips should serve him for smiles only. ‘* Women in politics are like hens trying to crow. ‘““To have received many wounds will make you a hero in the eyes of some, while others will regard you as an invalid. ‘‘ When we wish to affirm anything, it is easy to call on God asa witness, for he never contradicts. ‘“Many persons criticise in order not to seem ignorant ; they do not know that in- dulgence is a mark of the highest culture.

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“CARMEN SYLVA.” **To all mortals is given a tongue, and sometimes a pen, with which to defend themselves.’’ Sovereigns alone are expected to be like God, and to allow themselves to be spoken ill of without making a reply. ‘*Contradiction animates conversation ; that is why courts are generally monoto- nous. ‘To be the friend ofa sovereign, one must be without passion, without ambition, with- out selfishness—foreseeing and clear-seeing —in short, not a man. ‘és “ Study well the human body, the mind is not far off. . ‘*Man’s honor wears armor, and carries a mace—woman’s honor has only soft breezes and perfumes. ‘* Animals are free in their own element ; does our slavery arise from our being so rare- ly in our element ? ‘* Man is a violin, and it is only when the last chord is broken that he becomes a piece of wood. ‘* One needs a knowledge of mankind be- fore one can be simply and wholly one self. ‘* If we are created after the image of God, we must in our turn be creators. ‘‘An assemblage of men is an accumula- tion of ASolian harps, whose notes are dis- cordant or harmonious, according to the way the wind blows.”’ Five years ago Queen Elizabeth was strick- en for a time with paralysis of the limbs and suffered the greatest torture, but she recov- ered in a miraculous manner after a course of massage treatment under a celebrated Dutch specialist at Schevingen. She then returned to Roumania, and confident of the love of her husband and the people of her adopted country, she devoted herself heart and soul to her land’s welfare in every direction. She founded institutions for the CASTLE PELESCH. ‘allotted to benevolent poor, schools for the teaching of weaving, embroidery and useful arts ; she gave bril- liant festivities, the proceeds of which she institutions ; and when the war between Russia and Turkey broke out, and Roumania was called upon to fight against the Turk, she devoted her- self to the sick, meeting the trains as they came up to Bucharest from the Danube filled with the wounded, and superintended the feeding, clothing and nursing of the inva- lids. In doing this she won all hearts in Roumania, and her good works became a legend told at the fireside by the peasants dwelling on the plains of the Danube and in the valleys of the Carpathian. They told about how Mame Regine could even heal the wounded by merely looking upon them. They spoke of her as Muma Ranitilor—the Mother of the Wounded—and when in 1881, Rou- mania was created a kingdom, and Prince Carol and Princess Elizabeth were crowned as king and queen of Roumania, the words ‘‘Muma Ranitilor’’ were seen in golden letters on many a triumphal arch. The queen expressed her happiness when the war was over, saying how delighted she was to get back to her flowers, her birds and her books. ‘I find it an anomaly and a misfortune,’’ she said, ‘‘ when a woman is compelled to go out into public life.”’ In gratitude to her the officers of the Roumanian army subscribed for a memorial group in silver, in which the queen is repre- sented in her Red Cross dress tendering a drink of water to a wounded soldier. In such wise, while Prince Carol did his duty with his troops on many a hard-fought field, and at one time really saved the Russians from disaster, Princess Elizabeth won a place for herself and royalty in the hearts of her people. After the war Princess Elizabeth devoted herself more and more to good works along with poetry. She gave much attention to the Asyle Heléne, an orphan home, where nearly five hundred girls are taught in the practical sciences, languages, bookkeeping, and artistic and plain needlework. In the Scola Elisabeta Doamna the princess (now queen) supports at her own expense eighty of the very poorest girls, who are taught reading, writing, arithmetic, and national embroidery, until they reach an age at which they can support themselves. She founded ‘

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“CARMEN SYLVA.” CASTLE PELESCH AT SINAIA. the Société Elisabeta, whose mission is to supply wood in winter to poor people ; and she gives support to the Albina, an in- stitution wherein a thousand poor women are given sewing and embroidery todo. All in her power the queen does to advance the interests of Roumanian national industries. She herself sets an example to the rich boyar ladies in wearing the Roumanian national costume, and has led the fashion in buying the beautiful national embroidery; thereby saving to the country vast sums that for- merly went to Paris. ‘‘I love the peasant dress so much,’’ recently remarked the queen to an American lady visitor, ‘‘and you must really take some of these costumes home to the United States with you.’’ ‘‘ But how should we know how to wear them ?’’ asked the American. ‘‘ Well, I will give you a photograph of myself at the festival here when I was dressed in that costume,’’ where- in she looks very charming. At the queen’s instigation the Roumanian Chambers voted the sum of 200,000 francs for the erection of a national school for the teaching of weaving and industrial matters ; and other sums have since been voted to provide industrious women with weaving apparatus, for planting mulberry trees, and for the promotion of From a Drawing by Carmen Sylva. the silk industry in the country. In every way she has endeavored to open up new sources of gain to Roumania, showing in everything she does that with all the ideal direction of her mind, she is yet as practical as in the days when her highest wish was to become a school-teacher. And it was the Empress of Austria who, after a visit to Queen Elizabeth at her Castle of Sinaia, said that she could not imagine anything more ideal than the life and surroundings of Rou- mania’s Carmen Sylva. The fame of Queen Elizabeth as a writer is due principally to her writings since the Russo-Turkish war, after which event she was more able to give herself up to her art and literary work than in the early days of her life on the Danube. In 1881 she pub- lished, under her pseudonym Carmen Sylva, a volume of poems under the general title of ‘‘Stuerme’’ (Storms). All of them show skill in versification and, often, the form and manner of Scheffel and Heine. In 1883 fol- lowed her best work, the stories and legends from the Carpathians. A picture of Carmen Sylva's beautiful castle, where the book was written, drawn by the queen herself, forms the frontispiece of the volume, and appears above.

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176 “CARMEN SYLVA.” The stories embtaced in the volume are partly legendary, partly patriotic, partly in- structive, but all connected in scenery with the mountain peaks and valleys around about the Kastell. Thus she begins in the one entitled ‘‘Virful cu Dor’’: ‘‘ There was once a hero in Sinaia (the village close to thechateau) such as had never been seen before ; for it was a great holiday, and the monks in the monastery had distributed food, whole cartloads, and the people had eaten till they could not eat any longer. The peasants had come from long distances, from Isvor and Poena Zapulué, from Comarnic and Predeal, and from over the mountains. The sun shone so warmly in the valley that the maidens had to take their kerchiefs from their heads, and the young peasant youths pushed their flower-decked hats back upon their brows, because they were so hot from dancing. The women stood on the green- sward, all round about, suckling their chil- dren ; their veils gleaming as white as apple blossoms. There was a great stamping and shouting by the joyous dancers; the girls seemed fairly to float, for their feet did not seem to touch the ground. The dancing was kept up unweariedly tothe restless play- ing of the lantari, like the pulsations in the veins, like the waves in larger and smaller circles.’’ Thestory that Carmen Sylva then tells is of a young and handsome shep- herd youth named Jonel, who had been dancing with his sweetheart, the beautiful Irina, and as he is going away with his sheep, and will be away all summer in the mountains, he asks her if she will be true to him and be his when he returns. To this the willful girl replies that she will if he will go to the mountains and spend the night there without his sheep. This was very cruel of her, because there is a legend among the Roumanian peasants, that if a shepherd goes to the mountains without his flock, he will never return, but will come to an untimely end. But Jonel determined to spend the night in the mountains without his sheep ; and there he is surrounded by beautiful fairies, who try te induce him to live with them, but in vain. Then the storm, the thunder and lightning rage fiercely so as to terrify him. Beautiful forms from the upper world appear, followed by clouds that seem like vast flocks of sheep, and he is promised all as his if he will consent to marry one of the lovely sprites. But Jonel is steadfast in his love to Irina, yet he has to be punished by the spirits for entering their mountain realm without his sheep, and next morning when he does not return to the village and his fellow shep- herds go out to look for him, he is discovered on the crest of the mountain by his faithful dog, dead. It is acharming story, revealing a large amount of imagination. Another of the stories ‘‘From Carmen Sylva’s Realm,’’ is intended to teach the virtue of bravery and loyalty to home and country. It tells of the beautiful Pauna, who was called ‘‘the Emperor’s child,’’ so majestically did she carry her head on her well-made shoulders whenever she walked along the village street. ‘‘ But with all this she was not too proud to turn her head and look around and smile when Taunas went past her, or to bend her fair head to listen to him when he spoke to her at the house. If her friends teased her about Taunas, she blushed deeply, and everybody knew that the twain were lovers. Taunas was envied by all his comrades.’’ Then the war broke out and he had to go with the Roumanian troops over the Danube. Pauna wept bitterly when she heard the news, though she never showed her sorrow before the people of the village. But she had always the first in- formation from the seat of war, and when she heard of the first great battle in which the Roumanians took part she had to lean against the stone cross at the entrance to the village, and everything seemed to swim about her. At night she could not sleep, for her thoughts brought up Taunas covered with wounds, dying, and maybe dead. Suddenly there was a knock at the window, and she heard a voice, very softly saying: ‘‘Pauna, dearest Pauna, come to me. Donot fear. It is I, Taunas.”’ ‘*Pauna had her hand on the door-latch . soon she stood outside the house and felt an arm about her. But she repelled the em. brace. ‘Who sent thee away from the army, Taunas?’ ‘Who? No one.’ ‘No one! And thou art here? Is the war over, then?’ ‘Oh, no; the war is going on always, but I came away secretly, out of love for thee, Pauna!’ ‘Out of love for me?’ Pauna laughed bitterly. ‘Dost thou think, then, it gives me pleasure to have a deserter as my lover? Goaway! Do not stay in my sight. ‘AMVUET IVAOCN BNE NI

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“CARMEN SYLVA.” THE CHURCH OF BURTEA DE ARGISCH. Go where thou wilt. But this I will say, I will never be thy wife. For I could not bear to marry a man whom I must despise! I never dreamed I had a coward for a sweet- heart.’ ‘I thought thou wouldst receive me with joy,’ said Taunas, ‘and let me conceal myself here.’ ‘Oh, shameful,’ exclaimed the young girl, ‘that I should have engaged myself to thee. I swear to thee that the peak of the Bucegi shall burn before I will become thy wife.’ ‘And I swear to thee,’ replied Taunas, ‘that thou shalt not see me again unless I am a cripple—or dead.’ ‘‘Pauna went in and closed the door. With beating heart she looked out after Tau- nas, and saw him stealing away under the shadow of the houses. Weeks after- wards came the news of another terrible battle, and Pauna bid good-bye to her moth- er. . . . Gloom was over the battlefield. All around there were thousands of dead and wounded. Great watchfires were blazing ; around them the army camped, and no one paid heed to the groans that came from the battlefield. A tall female figure was seen wandering among the dead and the dying. It was Pauna, and she had asked in vain for Taunas among the liv- ing and unwounded. She wandered around in the darkness; many times she cried out the name, ‘ Taunas ;’ often she would hear a groan in response, but she would shake her head sadly, after giving a refresh- ing drink. The morning began to break, and as she approached a lifeless form, she saw a ring gleam- ing on a hand that held something firmly grasped in it. ‘*Pauna knew the ring, and with a cry ‘Taunas!’ she sank on her knees before the body, whose face was covered with blood and was be- yond recognition. She began to wash the face of the prostrate form she knew so well. She saw, while the tears fellin a stream down her cheeks, how that both eyes and the nose had been cruelly cut with a sword. She saw, too, how :the blood still continued to flow, and then she was sure that her lover was not dead, and hastened to moisten his lips with water and to bind his wounds. Then he began to give signs of life, and when he heard his name spoken he groped with his hands in the air and touched the face of the one bend‘ ing over him. ‘ My Pauna,’ he said, in a voice scarcely audible, ‘let me die. I am blind. I have nothing to livefor.’ ‘No, no, thou hast,’ answered Pauna, ‘thou art my betrothed, and I will take care of thee.’ ‘*Weeks and weeks passed, and Pauna never left Taunas. One day the dwellers in the little village saw two people coming. One was blind, but he was lovingly led by the fair being at his side. It was Pauna and Taunas. And soon after there was a wed- ding in the village, and there was only one who could not see the pleasure on all the faces round about. Poor Taunas. But he found in Pauna a loving and devoted wife, who still lives and takes care of him.”’ Kastell Pelesch, the beautiful chateau where Carmen Sylva writes her stories, is situated near the monastery of Sinaia in the Carpathians, on the pass leading from Aus- tria across the mountains to the plains of Wallachia, in one of the wild, romantic val- leys opening in the Prahova. All round

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“CARMEN SYLVA.” about are the rocks and gorges which the royal writer took as the scenic settings for her stories. The old monastery, in which Princess Elizabeth lived before Pelesch was built, has quite a history. It was built by Prince Cantekuzeno, who, when about to set out on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, vowed that if he returned alive he would build in Roumania a monastery similar to the one on Mount Sinaia, in Palestine. It is a kind of Carpathian hospice of St. Bernard, the monks having the duty imposed upon them, in return for their home, to shelter and feed the people belonging to the caravans cross- ing the pass. The monks still reside there, and they were made very happy when Prince Carol first selected his summer home among the mountains, and willingly gave up some of their room as a temporary home for the royal couple, while the chateau was built. At last Kastell Pelesch, with its hundred rooms, was finished, and Carmen Sylva had a beautiful summer home of her own. Ev- ery detail of the chateau had been super- vised by her. The interior is largely dec- orated with wood-carvings in imitation of the work of the sixteenth century. Inthe queen’s private apartment costly pictures are scattered among gorgeous woven fabrics of the East and a profusion of flowers, of , which the royal occupant is extremely fond. The music room, built from designs by the queen is entirely wainscoted and surround- ed by carved walls like the chancel of a cathedral, while its stained glass windows represent scenes taken from the poems of Alexandri, the national poet of Roumania. The royal lady who presides in the Kastell has often been described ; she is ‘‘ tall and slender, walking with an easy grace and perfect rhythm. Her dazzling teeth and luminous eyes are, at the first view, the most striking features of her countenance ; but when she has spoken, when a slight line furrows her lips, when a shade of thoughtful melancholy sweeps over her broad, fair forehead, it is not difficult to see that the woman has been cruelly tried.’’ A German visitor describes her at din- ner in a room beautifully decorated with flowers. She was dressed in the Roumanian national costume, while the king and his aides wore uniforms. At the table sat four ladies, true types of the Roumanian race, all wearing richly embroidered national cos- 13 179 tumes. After dinner the guests assembled in the music room, where one of the la- dies sang Mendelssohn and Schubert songs, the queen herself playing the accom- paniment on the piano, The music room is one of Carmen Sylva’s favorite apartments. Thither she often resorts at dusk, where she plays or improvises for hours, oftentimes quite alone. The German visitor whom we have quoted describes her as taking him in the early morning for a three hours’ walk, visit- ing her favorite haunts in the mountains, returning at last to a charming little Dick- lerstube or Poet’s House which she has just had built for herself in the park at Sinaia, which is built entirely of reeds, and in sum- mer time is embowered in roses. Inside, the room is provided with small cages for the queen’s feathered pets, and in one corner a small fountain, filled with perfumed water, murmurs alldaylong. Inthe middle of the room is a mossy couch, a table made out ofa single large block of stone, and near by is a hammock in which the royal poetess is lulled to summer sleep by the voices .of the forest. The story of the building of the celebrated church of Argisch forms the subject of one of Carmen Sylva’s latest legendary tales. It is about the compact made by Master Man- oli, the architect, who, to obviate the falling down of the walls, the work of the evil one, vowed to immure in the foundations the first woman who should serve at noontime with refreshments. The victim was his own wife ; but the sacrifice enabled Manoli to complete his marvelous work, which is considered one of the best specimens of the Byzantine Re- nnaissance in Roumania. For a long time the famous church was allowed to go to decay, but Carmen Sylva has restored it. Now the church of Argisch is a place of pil- grimage for all artists who visit Roumania. All its original beauties have been harmo- niously restored in marble and gold and richly colored designs, and up above the hundreds of doves have been set in place and the notes of their magical bells, touched by every breath of wind, ring out like music of fairyland. It is a soft, sweet, gentle sound that is heard by the dwellers in the valley of the Argisch, and an echo of its en- chantment seems to be wafted over the At- lantic with every legendary story or poem that comes from Carmen Sylva, Roumania’s gifted queen.

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POH YUIN KO, THE SERPENT-PRINCESS. (A CHINESE CHRISTMAS STORY.) TRANSLATED FROM THE ORIGINAL BY WONG CHIN Foo. INTRODUCTION. HE Chinese thoroughly believe the Darwinian theory of human evolu- tion from lower animals. The ev- olutionary maxim of occasional re- version to degraded ancestral types is also a part of every Chinaman’s creed. ‘‘Pon Ko Wong,”’ the creator of heaven and earth according to Celestial theology, is constantly watching the actions of all his creatures, even to the smallest. He prolongs their lives and advances their conditions when their actions deserve it. If an ape of the forests has been exceptionally good and kind to his fellows and does not destroy life, intentionally or otherwise, his own life is prolonged until he breaks a law and is then punished by death. Should he continue ten thousand years innocent and good he may transform himself into a higher order of being until he reaches the rank of man, and then of a god. Buta transgression sends him back to his animal condition. The sharks, whales, tortoises, serpents, and many other creatures are given this privilege, provided they live harmlessly for ten thousand years. Many of the national stories of China are founded upon these legends, corresponding to the European traditions of wehr-wolves and mermaids. But whatever pow- ers these Chinese monstrosities possess, they are always limited to their own domain. There are whole cities and empires in human shape at the bottom of the sea, according to Chinese sages and romancers, which are creatures of the deep transfig- ured by long virtue. Yet they can not live upon the land. One must dive to the ocean bottom to find them. And the land animals who have metamorphosed into human form are closely restricted to their proper realm. The following story is universally believed by the Chinese—to such an extent that the principal figure in it was deified (as was Joss, the historical warrior), a few centuries ago, upon the breaking of the bounds of the Great Yellow River, along whose banks are many temples and images of Poh Yuin Ko. This story is one of the favorite subjects of the famous ‘‘Kiang Kon Jin’’—those wandering minstrel tale-tellers who entertain listening crowds, particularly during the festivals of La Bo that end and begin the year. The month of merry-making at that time closely parallels the Christmas and New Year holi- days of the West. But the Chinese Christmas celebrates the departure of the gods, while the Christian Christmas honors the coming of one. Upon the fifteenth day of the twelfth moon the gods all ascend from earth to heaven for a grand convention of

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POH YUIN KO, THE deities, and remain away until the middle of the next moon. Then the Middle Kingdom, released from all hideous and avenging divinities, whose watchful jealousy deter- mines human fate, enjoys a vacation from the reign of the gods. Festivities continue fora month. Pastries, lined with nuts and sweetmeats, are the common diet. Dancing, song and games transform two-thirds of Asia to a carnival scene. And tothe groups of people clustering under red lanterns in the open air, the roving minstrels tell many a story of gods and men, without restraint, for there are then no gods to overhear the things said of them. Gather about me in quiet, friends, and I will, like them, tell you the strange story of Poh Yuin Ko. I. In the village of San Yon, near the Poh Yuin mountains, in the province of Kwong Si, lived a retired mandarin of the fourth grade, Whey Su Toy. His home was a rich estate that he had bought with his wife, and many a happy year had blessed his house. But now he was getting old, like his once beautiful wife, and cares began to weigh upon the aged couple because of their only son, Whey Goon, for he was nineteen years of age and had not yet married. Whey Goon was talented, handsome, and a loyal child of his worthy parents, but the time had come when the son of a wealthy family should have wedded and taught his wife the duties of filial love toward his aged father and* mother. They constantly implored him to choose a girl for his wife. Always he listened dutifully to their pleadings, and bowed submission to the desire of his fond parents, but ‘never said whom he would marry. The mystery of his re- fusal to be wedded deeply pained the hearts of Whey Su Toy and his wife, as no reason could be obtained for his re- luctance and no promise of a time when he would fulfill the customs of his people. And yet the charms of lovely maidens seemed no less sweet to him than to all other youths. ‘His twentieth year is nigh,’’ sobbed his gray mother to her husband one night, as they were talking of their son, ‘‘and then he will be called A bachelor. Even our own relatives will shun and despise him. They will say that we can not find SERPENT-PRINCESS. 181 him a wife. They will say no family will give himtheirdaughter. They will say that his reputation is so and so. Oh, High Heavens, how shall we get him married without force ?’’ Whey Su Toy listened and thought, but said nothing. He rose and slowly paced the floor, drawing great puffs of smoke from his long-stemmed water pipe. Presently he put down his pipe and went out into the cool darkness of his gardens to soften his reflec- tions. All was still under the glittering heavens, and the perfume of the flowers floated like an unseen cloud through the air. But his mind was troubled like a peach or- chard shaken inthe wind. On the other side of the blossoming grounds, at the ancestral Ting, were the chambers of his son, shining with the light of his presence, yet filled with loneliness when they should be happy with a bride. In his musings the father ap- proached the cloisters of Whey Goon, and through the closed door he was surprised to hear soft voices within. ‘* My son was alone but half an hour ago,”’ said Whey Su Toy to himself. ‘‘I have seen no one enter the gate, and besides it was locked. How came his visitors here ?”’ With puzzled thoughts he gently neared the lattice window, which was glazed with thin sheets of paper. With the tip of his tongue he wet the paper, and silently made a small hole in the window. Looking through, he was no less delighted than as

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182 tonished. There sat Whey Goon, the youth whom no girl could captivate, in a large ma- hogany chair. The book: which he had been reading was dropped on one side, and a beautiful young maiden, with arching almond eyes and creamy skin, dressed in lus- trous silks, was sitting on his knees talking to him with mu- sical sweetness, and it was evident that her conversation was highly interesting. ‘*No wonder, no wonder,’’ grunted the happy old man, as he hastily retreated to report the discovery to his wife. ‘‘ No wonder he refused to select a gir] from our acquaintances when he isin love with such a beautifulone. But why did he not tell us? No family could refuse his request and ours to marry into the name and estate of Whey Su Toy.’’ Still chuckling with joy at the happy solution of their troubles, he rushed into his wife’s presence. For several min- utes she could not understand his sudden change, so heartily did he giggle and laugh, shaking his sides with delight. At length he spoke and told her what he had seen. The old lady was incredulous. . ‘* How can it be possible, papa,’’ she said, when neither I nor any of the servanis have seen any one enter, and so attractive a young girl could not enter the walls of this house unobserved ?’’ * ‘*But, mother,’’ replied the happy old gentleman, ‘‘ Love is a very secret thing, you know, and can walk through stone walls. Could he not have bribed the serv- ants? Our eyes are old, and young love does many wonders.’’ ‘*But who can she be?’’ queried the still doubting wife. ‘‘ Have you ever seen such a girl about here? Know youany man who has such a daughter ?’”’ ‘“How could I? Though I am old I am only a man. How cana man see the daugh- ters of other men ? Can he enter the forbidden * Wealthy country places in China are walled with a high inclosure of brick or stone, having but one gate, which is locked at night. POH YUIN KO, THE SERPENT-PRINCESS. chambers? ‘That is the business of women, to find each other out and gossip your hours away.”’ ‘That is true, papa,’’ said Madame Whey, rising from her low blue-cushioned seat. ‘*T will visit Goon’s room and question both of them. He must give me reasons for hiding the secret from his loving mother who has been dying of anxiety, and he must tell me her family.”’ IT. Now the manner of Whey Goon’s discov- ery, of his beautiful beloved one was this. On thetwenty-third day of the third moon, the great Zoo Yoon (ancéstors) holiday, Whey Goon, like all other dutiful children of great families, went out to the graves of his august ancestors to offer sacrifices for their peace, to burn incense sticks and papers, and to leave dainty morsels for the spirits of the dead. For seven generations his fathers and mothers had been buried on the plains near the mountain of Poh Yuin. Thither, with all the young of the village, went handsome Whey Goon, with leisure steps, carrying a willow basket of roasted chickens and other meat offerings. There were many roundly mounded graves to decorate, and some were almost obliterated by age, except for the crumbling tombstones. It was late before

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POH YUIN KO, THE SERPENT-PRINCESS. he made the obeisance and the Ao 7ow (knocking the forehead) before the last of the graves and made the little offerings, and as he packed his basket for home it began to rain. On the way he noticed a beautiful young girl coming toward him. Her tiny feet were encased in pretty red satin slippers that could not have measured more than two inches. She was fashionably dressed in gorgeous silks. trasted charmingly with her soft white skin tinted with pink like the precious lining of shells. Her little cherry lips were parted enough to show two rows of perfect pearls. The sparkling of her eyes made Whey Goon trembl ewith admiration. He faltered with unstable steps and dumbly gazed in rapture at so fair a vision. She was followed by a smaller and younger girl who seemed her servant, and carried a small white basket like hisown. She passed by him as if journey- ing toward the mountain, but Whey stood mutely riveted to the ground as if pierced by a lightning stroke. ‘‘What can so lovely a beauty do in this rain, on the lonely mountain road, with neither sedan-chair nor umbrella?’’ thought Whey Goon. Then rushing to overtake her he called out, ‘‘ Ceau Zean’’ (*‘ Sweet Miss’’). At this she turned slightly toward him and looked with sternness at Whey Goon, as if tosay, ‘‘How dare you disturb me?’’ But Her raven black hair con- « 183 seeing the comely youth bowing politely her lips and eyes changed toa fascinating smile. ‘*T see, Ceau Zean,’’ continued her brave admirer, ‘‘thatit rains now. Please accept this umbrella,’’ handing her his own protec- tion from the storm. ‘*Oh, how kind you are, (eon Goon (un- married youth),’’ replied the blushing girl, as she took it with her perfumed hand, ‘“ but >} you will be wet yourself.’’ ‘Never mind. Rain is good for a man. May Ceau Zean proceed peacefully on her journey,’’ answered Whey Goon, bowing to leave her. And now the maiden was as agitated as the youth. Witha smile like the opening of a lotus bud, she said, ‘‘ Thy august name, please ?’’ ‘‘My humble house is called Whey, and I am named Goon. And thine?’”’ ‘“‘Poh Yuin Ko,’’ she softly answered. ‘‘ Whey Ceon Goon may get his umbrella by calling to-morrow evening at sundown at my house,’’ she continued, blushing like a peach flower. ‘*Where, Ceau Zean ?’’ asked the delight- ed youth. ‘“My house is at Nan Ling Poh, reached through San Qui Tow.”’ This name astonished Whey Goon, for no living man had ever been able to enter Nan Ling Poh. Vast forests surroundedit. The only way was by dangerous precipices, along a chasm called San Qui Tow, meaning ‘‘Death’s Mysterious Alley,’’ for it was in- habited by frightful monsters. Many men had found death there, but none ever pene- trated the horrible pass to.the lonely moun- tain and returned. ‘‘ Why, men never come back from there,’’ gasped Whey Goon. ‘‘That is because they do not know how to go and come,”’ replied the woman, calmly. ‘‘When you go through San Qui Tow, if any one calls you, no matter how familiar the voice, do not answer, nor even look around, and you will safely reach my home. Re- veal the secret to noman. Only my own family know it, but your kindness leads me to confide in you. You can come or not as you choose. If you come not to-morrow evening I shall send the umbrella to you.”’ Whey Goon bowed his promise to call upon her, and with interchange of eloquent glances and smiles they separated. How

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184 could any youth refrain from being captured by so godlike a creature? How could he know that her fresh features that seemed so young were thousands of years old ? III. WHEy Goon’s bed was sleepless that long night, and the day traveled at slow palan- quin pace. As soon as the west devoured the sun, he went to the village Diz Jow, or bar- ber, and had his head, eyelids and ear-open- ings shaved and a new braid and tassel at- tached to his queue. The thick soles of his silk shoes were newly whitewashed. Then he set out upon his mountain journey to ob- tain his umbrella, for an umbrella is some- times highly valued by a youth. It was fully fourteen li (four miles) to Nan Ling Poh, and all the way was crooked, wild and dangerous. Through the dense forests he boldly jogged until he entered the famous mountain pass whose deep cajion was rightly named ‘‘ The Mysterious Alley of Death,’’ for every venturesome tourist or farmer who had gone there had never been seen again. Not even the bones were found. It was supposed that scaly dragons fed on them. It was certain that at the bottom of that long chasm a snake-like trail wound among yawning caverns, shaded by thick woods, and fresh footsteps could always be seen there. Had Whey Goon known the horrible things connected with this gulch in the memories of old res- idents it is doubtful if he would have hazarded the journey, especially at night. But lovers know not caution. As his still steps carefully followed the trodden trail all was tse IS GOT re J oe. POH YUIN KO, THE SERPENT-PRINCESS. silent as thedead. Even the flocks of night- birds, that darted through the grim moon- light above him or moved among the black branches of trees, seemed to be obeying a command of quiet. To brace his boldness he began to sing aloud the national love song of China, the ‘‘ Yan Ko Neon”’: “ Yan yuet ko neon beat ye bear Ur neon tow yaen chay fa yow, How ye ko koo neon pol fa tai, Ku tien lai pot tren san ye hai.” Here he was interrupted. His mother called him by name among the trees to his left. Whey Goon stopped to answer her, but remembered the girl’s warning, and knew it was only an allurement. With trembling legs he trotted on faster, commenc- ing again the love song. Presently he heard noises as if made by a shower of hail- stones in the dense woods around him. Then he heard voices: ‘‘ Whey Goon! Why answer you not your own mother’s call?’’ and ‘‘Iam thy friend and would aid thee,’’ and another, ‘‘ Let him alone, he must be one of us in the secret.”’ Regardless ofall he plunged ahead. The rushing and hissing riots anfong the trees were succeeded by strange spectres. Upon the road just in front of him appeared a band of fantastic creatures with human heads and bodies of wild beasts. There were tortoises, and serpents having human faces and animal bodies. Whey Goon began to fear that the lovely girl was a siren plotting his

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POH YUIN KO, THE SERPENT-PRINCESS. destruction. But he bravely advanced and the entire company bowed politely in si- lence as he passed. A great, black boa with a man’s head flourished its mon- strous tail out of his way: Every hole was the hiding place of some uncouth form, and all poured out to view in wonder the in- truder who had learned the passport. Had he spoken one word he would have been di- vided among a hundred maws. Tremblingly he climbed through the chill- ing chasm toward the mountain-home of Poh Yuin Ko. Atlast passing through a graceful little grove of Shoon Pok (a sacred pine) he beheld a white marble mansion gleaming in the starlight like a structure of moonbeams. On the southern slope of the mountain, in front ofthe palace were fine grand old firs in a majestic line, like royal guards. About the marble edifice was a huge square wall with a jet black gate adorned on either side by a great stone lion. A shower of cold perspiration wet his face as Whey Goon gently knocked at the gate. The little servant of the day before opened the door and eyed him curiously. ‘Is this Miss Poh Yuin Ko’s mansion ?”’ inquired Whey Goon. ‘Yes, sir,’’ returned the tiny attendant. ‘Ts she in?” ‘ Yes, sir.’’ ‘* Anybody else in the house ?’’ “¥en, ae.” ‘Is my umbrella in?’’ impatiently snapped the youth, provoked at the monot- onous answers with no invitation to enter. ‘Yes, sir,’’ the little girl replied again and ran back into the house. Soon she re- turned and said, ‘‘ Whey Ceon Goon, my mis- 185 tress is waiting to receive you at your pleasure.’’ The great ebony gates were swung open by a ven- erable gigantic servant who evidently was master of the house, though he said not a word. Through a paradise of flowers and rare plants, through hillsides of enchant- ing fragrance and fountains musically gurgling instreams of crystal, captivating even the moonlight to their em- brace, through avenues of luscious fruit that shone in yellow among myriads of dwarf trees— through these the little maid led Whey Goon with dilating eyes to the doorway of the palace. There Poh Yuin Ko stood to receive him. The tender looks with which she greeted him and the eager devotion with which he followed every movement of her beautiful form told unspeakable tales of love. IV. WHILE the queen of the weird mountains is conducting her heroic lover through her home we may silently follow them and note

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186 POH YUIN KO, its marvelous beauties. So lavish a wonderland must descend from a royal lineage, any one could see. There are heirlooms and treasures coming from ages too remote totrace. Even Poh Yuin Ko could not explain their ori- gin if she would, for her parents died many cycles ago, when she was very young. The palace, gorgeous and grand as it is, seems chiseled from a single stupendous block of white marble. The halls, of polished marble, gleam with inlaid agateand malachite. The tables and seats are all ofdelicate green jade, shaped like trays and barrels, and carved in exquisite designs. The up- holstering has quaint patterns, more ancient than the most treasured royal cushions. Bamboo mats, of rainbow colors, illumine the floors. Instead of paintings on the walls hang great clusters of fresh flowers and fruit, sus- pended by red silk cords. In the main parlor presides an immense bronze fig- ure of Buddha, surrounded by lesser. saints, and before it stands a sacrificial altar, also of solid jade. The apartments used by Poh Yuin Ko her- self are most astonishing of all, for they seém fashioned as by a queen of nature. Her bedstead, with elaborate carvings, is made from one piece of purest marble, and covered with a profusion of silk textures. The chairs are ingeniously wrought of leaves and reeds, and the floors yield softly to the feet in a depth of silken mats. Six young girls remain in this room playing reed instruments in delicious melodies as quaint as the sigh- ing of winds through a wilderness of rushes. The music is ever changing in an endless variety of enchanting lullabies and sym- phonies. Now and then the fairy-like play- ers rise from their jade seats and move about in pretty revolutions, changing places so deftly that they seem to be scores instead of only six, quickening the music to match their lively paces. In the dining-hall rise tempting stores of grains, fruits, and vege- tables, but not a smell of meat, for meat or wine never enters here. _ the crown ofan emperor. THE SERPENT-PRINCESS. It is not surprising that Whey Goon was infatuated with the queen of this curious palace. She was arrayed in silken robes, as blue as the unclouded sky, and embroid- ered with jewels. The great buttons were radiant diamonds. The hood upon her fore- head was decked with rubies and pearls like With modest sim- plicity Poh Yuin Ko gently placed her tiny white hand glittering with gems into that of the enchanted youth, and led him coquet- tishly toward a sumptuous settee where the tiny maid was bidden to serve tea for his re- freshment. Whey Goon was still timid, with a vague feeling of hallucination and dread, as if he had unwittingly climbed into the chambers of a goddess and would be pun- ished for the outrage. But Poh Yuin Ko reassured him with tender conversation. ‘‘T thank you for your kindness,’’ said Whey Goon, as the tiny teacups scattered his fatigue and fright. ‘*“Ceon Goon, for what?’’ asked the beautiful girl. ‘* That secret. ‘*TIndeed,’’ smiled she. ‘‘ Per- haps I should thank you for ”

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POH YUIN KO, THE SERPENT-PRINCESS. traveling so far. You have shown, most noble one, that you are brave as well as kind.”’ ‘‘Tt would be happiness to die for one so charming and good.’’ The tea had now fanned his love to a passion that was not daunted by the magnificence about him. At these words, which sank like an arrow into the heaving bosom of the lovely girl, she blushed, and her eyes were fastened on the floor in silence. Then she shyly spoke. ‘‘ Well, it is a secret I have never confided to any one but you. I know not why I felt sure that you would keep it and come. Now I know I can trust you fully.”’ ‘‘T thank your Sweetness for her distin- guished regards. But who were the individ- uals I met at the base of the mountain ?”’ A knock at the door prevented the answer. Poh Yuin Ko rose to admit the tall gray man with a tray full of refreshments. With her own hands she prepared a green jade stand and laid the tempting repast before Whey Goon. His attention was absorbed by the delicious viands, the weird music that entered from the adjoining room, and the 187 splendors of the place, and he forgot his question. They ate sweetmeats and fruits, and drank delicious juices. It was past midnight when he rose as if to return home. At this mo- tion the beautiful girl begged him to remain until the next day, and the moisture in her eyes showed her earnestness. ‘* But the old folks would die of anxiety,”’ said Whey Goon, ‘‘ for Itold them not where I was going.’’ Poh Yuin Ko had never known the love of parents, but being well educated, she knew it would be a violation of the sacred laws of the sages to persuade a man to offend or worry his father and mother. ‘*T must, then, yield,’’ she replied. ‘‘ But to-morrow evening, if you wish to come, I will bring you in my own carriage, if you will not reveal me or my secrets.”’ ‘*T would delight, fair one, tocome as often as I may, and all secrets will be treasured in my heart.’’ ‘* Noble Ceon,’’ said she, ‘‘it shall be so. Close now your eyes, and open them not till I bid you.” Whey Goon shut out the splendor from his eyes. There was a swift whir- ring of wind about him, and a tossing sensation, but Poh Yuin Koseemed still sitting beside him, with her hand in his. ‘* Now open,”’ said her sweet voice. Whey Goon was astounded to find himself standing in his own room alone, his candle, burning as usual where the servant placed it by his bed, looking as if it had been long consuming. ‘‘Have I dream- ed?”’ said Whey Goon to himself. ‘*T should be asleep in bed, for the can- dle has burned low.’”

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188 But his white-soled boots still showed the mud of that hideous cafion, and his mock gua still bore.the cluster of fragrant moun- tain flowers that her dainty fingers had at- tached to his coat. ‘‘ Perhaps she is a spirit. But spirits do not have such perfumed hands as the one I held. A monster? Impossible, or she would not have recognized the duties of a son. She must be a deity seeking to reward the good. But a goddess would not show love to a man. She has wonderful powers and beauty. What is she? Well, I care not. I love her. I love her more than all the world. Whether she be beast, human, or spirit, or all three, I will love her the same. Is there any man or woman who is not also an animal and a ghost?’”’ V. THE next evening, Poh Yuin Ko suddenly appeared to him in his room, as she prom- ised. The dainty prolongings of their greet- ing showed they were already skilled in the arts of love. ‘* Are you ready now, my hero?’’ sweetly asked the enchantress. ‘* Yes, my pretty one,’’ said Whey Goon ; ‘‘and I have told the old folks that I expect to remain out all the evening, so they will not fret.’’ ‘‘ That was very kind, dear Ceon. Now close the eyes.’’ A swift rushing of air passed by, and they were in the mountain palace. ‘‘ Now waken, my Noble.”’ This time Whey Goon was introduced to all the inmates, and shown through the whole palace, grander than any mandarin's mansion that he ever saw. He concluded that his charmer was the daughter of either a monarch or a fabulously wealthy merchant. Such lavishness of riches could not be infe- rior to the Emperor’s grandest palace. To be sure, the vegetarian diet was unusual to Whey Goon. His palate relished roasted chickens and pigs, ducks’ livers and feet, sharks’ fins, and many other fleshy dain- ties. And wines and spirits to him tasted good, yet tiey were not admitted to her household. But the infinite varieties of breads, preserves, roots, and fruits solacged him. He would be content to live there always, even though he could learn nothing of her ancestry. In a few days they were married, for Poh POH YUIN KO, THE SERPENT-PRINCESS. Yuin Ko was queen of her mountain, and could act regardless of the delays and cere- monies of thelowlands. Their wedding was very simple. Holding each other by the hand they knelt before the towering bronze Buddha, and the gray old attendant waved three green boughs, of fir, pine and oak, each three times over their heads. Then they rose and embraced each other thrice, and for kisses each tried to bite the other’s neck. After this conclusion of the ceremony they sat on along jade table and were bounte- ously served with a feast of delicacies, while all the time quaint reed music and pretty movements of the players surrounded them with sweet sounds. Their happy wedded life was spent entirely in the mountain palace, but only the dark hemisphere of time was theirs together, as Whey Goon was at his parents’ home throughout the day. VI. Upon tip-toes the old lady and her dear husband slipped to the window of Whey Goon’s chamber, and through the same lit- tle aperture they peeped. But no one was to Even their son had gone. ‘‘ That is very strange,”’ said the perplexed father. ‘‘I know I saw Goon and a pretty girl there a few minutes ago. Where could they have gone?’’ They entered the room. The light was there, the bed untouched, and all in orderly condition, but neither boy nor girl. They sought the outer gate. It was securely locked as usual. They woke the servants. Nothing could be learned from them except that they fastened the doors be seen.

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POH YUIN KO, THE and fixed Whey Goon’s room for his use as every night. ‘“You must have been deceived, papa,”’ said the old lady. Whey Su Toy shook his head and said nothing. He took a lantern and tried to find his son among the flower bushes and through the yard. As he returned unsuccessful to the house he said: ‘‘ Mother, it is a vision from the gods. I know now that Heaven says our boy will be married soon and to a very beautiful girl. I Avow that I saw him holding a most handsome and cultured young lady in his lap. He is probably now at her home.”’ The old couple then thoughtfully retreated to their own room to await the morrow when they would learn all from the boy. VII. THAT evening as Poh Yuin Ko and Whey Goon were happily talking, she suddenly began calculating upon her finger-tips and said in excitement : ‘‘ Why, this is the ninth day of the ninth moon. I should not have gone out, for it is the sacred memorial day of our family, when I ought to have remained indoors.”’ Again she rapidly counted upon her fin- gers, and her face was pale as she said to the frightened Whey Goon, ‘‘ My lord, an old man saw you and me together in your room. Who is he?”’ Whey was white as milk. ‘‘It must be my father, formerly Mandarin of Dan You Foo. If he saw us there will be trouble.”’ ‘‘Do not be alarmed. it,’’ said she, and left him. Soon she returned and asked: ‘‘ Do you know any unprincipled rich man who might buy this palace? Ifso, bring him here to-morrow. I will sell it to him, and we will move to a great city, in a fine house, where we will invite your parents. When they see us happily in luxury they will forgive us both.”’ ‘“Capital,’’ replied Whey Goon indelight. ‘You are as wise as you are beautiful. I know a mean pawnbroker, immensely rich, Ching Ming. He cheats men, women and children out of I will manage living SERBPENT-PRINCESS. 189 their possessions and is hated by all. But how shall I get him here?’’ ‘‘Give him this little arrow. It will pass him safely, or any one who has it.’’ Ching Ming gloated in the oppor- tunity of loaning money to a fair young lady on her costly mansion. Even the dragon’s chasm frightened him not, and when he saw the palace he was inwardly boiling with envy of it. Poh Yuin Ko adroitly exacted from him a sum many times as large as he first offered, and then increased it by giving Ching Ming an absolute sale of the palace and grounds. Ching Ming went among all his friends to raise the enormous sum, saying the mansion and grounds were richer than the emperor’s, and they would combine in a syndicate to sell it to him at a great ad- vance. With this Poh Yuin Ko bought a rich estate in the beautiful city of Soo Chow, hundreds of li away, and there they made their home with the happy blessing of Whey Goon’s parents. When Ching Ming woke the next morn- ing in his mansion, he found himself sleep, ing in a vast cave. His palace had faded into a mountain cliff. His soft bed of silk was apileof grass. The elegant furniture was transformed to bowlders. Only the five great firtrees remained. All else was wild nature. ; Poh Yuin Ko would give no account of her family, or her wealth, either to Whey Goon or to his parents, but they were satisfied with her beauty and goodness. Her happy marriage with Whey Goon lasted for many years. Two sons were born tothem. Poh Yuin Ko made them many beautiful toys. Their kites were always shaped in queer forms with curi- ous faces on them, many having the countenances of strange crea- tures which, shetold herchildren, were very glad to fly amongmen in the cities, and should never be roughly treated, far they had souls that struggled hard to be human, and would indeed some time be beautiful men and . women.

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190 VIII. Upon the fortieth anniversary of their marriage a grand banquet was given by Whey Goon and his wife. All the leading citizens of Soo Chow were present to congrat- ulate them and to enjoy their hos- pitality. It was a merry celebra- tion, and to please the guests their ordinary innocent diet of fruits and vegetables was augmented by meats ofall kinds, as well as wines and spirits. Some of the digni- taries who honored the occasion insisted that the hostess, still petite and beautiful as ever, share the whole course of the feast with them, partaking of the crisp chick- ens’ wings and the white slices of pork, and drinking their health in orange wine and rice brandy. Dur- ing her whole life she had never touched meat or fermented drink, for they had been forbidden her long ago, butto please her friends she now freely indulged. In fear of something unladylikeshe hastened to her chamber and threw herself in a dazed condition upon her elegant couch. Her husband followed his beloved one, and en- tered her room with vague feelings of con- cern. Merciful heavens ! Instead of his beauti- ful wife, upon the carved bedstead was the head and neck of a monster white serpent, whose long body coiled horribly all about the room. Poh Yuin Ko had been trans- formed by one transgression back to her original self—the great serpent of the Poh Yuin mountains, where for thousands of years she had reigned supreme among mon- sters. Her husband, the good Whey Goon, gasped in fright and fell dead upon her body, awakening her to hideous motion. Hearing a noise the feasters rushed in. One of her POH YUIPN KO, THE SERPENT-PRINCESS. sons seized an axe, saying the monster had killed his father, and with a single frenzied blow severed her tail. Hissing in agony the serpent plunged out and away, away like an arrow to the Poh Yuin tains. And ever since, when the memory of her lost tail torments her, she thrashes about in the mountain, and her tortures cause the waters of the Great Yellow River rising there to overflow and drown the people about Soo Chow. And the people erect temples along the banks of the Great Yellow River to pacify her, where her images may be found called Moo Mai Lung Wong, or ‘‘The Short Tailed Goddess.”’ moun-

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SNOW PETALS. (A CHRISTMAS WHISPER.) By ARIEL SIEGFRIED. THE starry flowers, that fly From gardens in the sky To clothe with bloom % The freezing dreary earth, Must fade and find new birth In many a tomb, Before they burst the night In rose and lily white. The heaven-born seed of love, That flutters like a dove To earthly nest, Must travail through dark woe Before its strength may blow In True Love's rest, Full-rounded, noble, pure, That shall the world outdure. My Soul, who hides afar, Shall shine like Bethlehem’s star In the gray East One white-clad winter’s night; Then star-buds locked from light Shall be released In lily and in rose White as their mother snows.

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CHRISTMAS IN THE NORTHLAND. * By W. W. THOMAS, JR. LL Sweaen gives itself up to the enjoyment of Yule- tide. First comes Christmas Eve, next Christmas itself, then Second - Day Christmas, then Third-Day Christ- mas. When I first visited Sweden, all four were legal holidays, and on all four days are the Christmas fes- tivities celebrated. For a month everybody has been at work buying and preparing presents, and planning and deliberating ; all carried on with the greatest secrecy, and in a profoundly mys- terious manner, for no one must know or even guess what is in store for him at Christ- mas. But perhaps Yule is enjoyed most heartily in the country. After an early dinner on the 24th of December, the Christmas tree is dressed by the older members of the family. Presents are not hung upon it as with us, but it is decorated with bonbons, ribbons, and little bright glass globes. From the end of every branch and twig rise little wax tapers, and when they are all lighted you may well believe the tree grew in some fairy bower. Sometimes cotton-wool is laid on the branches, but very thin and white must it be, so that it shall look just like the snow out doors. When it begins to grow dark, which is very early in Sweden, the tapers are lit, and the tree stands a pyramid of light and color. Now the children are first admitted into the room. They press forward with wonder- ing eyes, and eager expressions of delight. Joining hands they dance about the tree, a jolly Christmas dance full of mirth and mo- tion ; while the old folks sit at a distance and quietly enjoy the brilliant light of the tapers, the woodsy freshness of the tree, and, most of all, the innocent joy of the children. When the tapers have all burnt down, the chandeliers and lamps are lit and fruit, con- fections, nuts and goodies are passed around. Soon the family gather about a great round table in the middle of the room ; whereupon the father draws forth from capacious baskets the Christmas presents, one by one, and reads the names inscribed thereon. All the presents are done up in papers, and many of them accompanied by verses of poetry. These rhymes are always read aloud and excite much merriment. Then what a wondering, and guessing, and peeping in, and beholding goes on round the board! How happy are the faces of the children, and how their bright blue eyes gleam! Whole hours are passed in distributing and opening the presents, and it is late in the evening when the happy family troop down to a Christmas supper. At six o’clock on Christmas morn are matins in the parish church. Out doors it is dark as midnight; but the stars sparkle brightly as you drive swiftly along in your cutter. Every tree by the roadside is loaded down with a wealth of snow. In every peas- ant’s cot along the way the Christmas tree blazes brightly. The great church is full of light, which streams forth through the tall arched windows to meet you, while the bells from the lofty tower chime a merry peal that vibrates far and wide through the clear, frosty northern air. I have said that the Christmas festivities last for four days. Yes, in the country the merry-making goes on for a fortnight. Friends and neighbors pay and return visits, often stopping for days at each other’s houses, and throughout this season the time- honored dishes of Yuletide are eaten. I shall never forget the first Christmas I passed in Sweden. I was residing then in the city of Gothenburg. When I awoke on the morning of December 24 and looked out of my windows, the market-place was changed to a forest of spruces, so thickly was it filled with Christmas trees. But the forest was a dissolving one; all day it kept disappearing in every direction, borne off, tree by tree, in the arms of stalwart Swedish housemaids. I was invited to spend the evening at the * Copyright by W. W. Thomas, Jr.

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NI SVWiISIuNHD AA nuaw IwoAnM aM - Z t WwION™

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CHRISTMAS IN THE NORTHLAND. ig Oe ae M CHRISTMAS EVENING IN GOTHENBURG. hospitable home of Herr Hawkes Lyon, a prominent and respected merchant of Gothen- burg. On my way thither in the early dusk, I found the streets full of masked figures. These were all house-servants, but they were disguised as kings and queens, sailors, sol- diers, and harlequins. They trooped along in little companies, with laugh and shout and song, bearing big baskets of their mas- ter’s presents to his friends. Each masked party salutes every other with the utmost respect in passing. Did they not, Christmas law would award them a pair of soundly-cuffed ears. The whole scene seemed like a Protestant carnival. At my host’s were assembled a pretty family party. A large Christmas tree was ablaze with tapers at. the farther end of the room. Soon five masked figures stalked in—a king, queen, two sailors, and a lady. The sailors were evidently girls in disguise. The masqueraders walked to the middle of the room, under the chandelier. One by one they took out the /w/k/appar—Christmas presents—from their capacious baskets and knapsacks, read the name of the lucky re- cipient, who stepped forward out of the circle of friends standing around, and received his gift with a bow, and a Zackar sa mycket— thank you so much. The distribution over, the maskers were invited to a side table, and treated to cake and wine. They were pumped also with all sorts of questions; but they were very cun- ning in their answers, and gave no clew to the sender of the gifts. I noticed also that the knowing ones carried straws, through which they sucked the wine without remov- ing their masks. ‘Then the host gave each one a drickspenning—a small piece of money, —and they departed. But hardly were they gone, when in came another masked party, loaded with presents, and then another, and another ; and so they came trooping in the whole evening. The Christmas gifts were all disguised in nondescript bundles and multifarious wrap- pers. A large box, the size of a seaman’s chest, after being opened, with great dif- ficulty, was found to contain something that Icoked like a leg of beef, and this in turn held the real present,—a handsome dress, all ready to put on. One young lady, after laboriously undoing a thousand and one papers, found as a kernel, a pair of shoe heels; but half an hour after, untying another bundle, she dis-

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CHRISTMAS IN THE NORTHLAND. covered she was the recipient of a pair of beautiful satin slippers, to which the heels fitted perfectly. Another lady who had been engaged to be married for seven long years, and whose be- trothed was standing at her side, received a wedding trunk, filled with useful but sig- nificant articles, such as a single person would hardly need. A merry laugh burst forth at this broad hint, in which the pro- crastinating pair joined as heartily as any. The presents were of all sorts, from jump- ing-jacks and match-boxes to silver sets, oil paintings, silks and satins. Their number, too, was something prodigious to my New England eyes. I am sure the daughter of the house, Fréken Hannah, received over fifty. She sat unwrapping them, and nearly covered up with loose paper, which two servants bore away in huge armfuls, until forced to stop from sheer exhaustion ; and that, too, when a great pile of presents was still unopened. Supper was served at ten o’clock. The sugar bowl made a lasting impression on It was a square box of embossed The lid was closed and locked, and I me. silver. shall never forget the maternal dignity with which our good hostess, Fru Lyon, drew from her girdle a bunch of keys, badge of her housewifely authority, deliberately un- locked the sugar bowl and lifted the silver lid. No servant or child, however sweet a tooth they had, could pilfer sugar in that house. This one little act pleased me greatly. It was a brilliant illustration of the care and watchfulness with which the Swedish mother superintends all her household du- ties. It reminded me of our good New Eng- land grandmothers, and how carefully and conscientiously and grandly they presided in their households. I sometimes wonder 14 195 if the girls of the present day will ever make such grandmothers as we have had. But to return to our Swedish supper. The first course was /ut-fisk. This is acod ora ling prepared for a Christmas delicacy by being buried for days in wood ashes. A piece of /u¢ fish placed on your plate immedi- ately falls apart into flakes; each flake is translucent and trembles like jelly. When eaten alone it is tasteless; but when sea- soned with salt, much pepper, and plenty of butter sauce of two kinds, and well mixed with a mealy potato, the /ut fish is delicious. The next course was rice porridge with powdered cinnamon and cream, and the third and last, a great fat goose roasted toa turn. These are the three time-honored dishes for Christmas Eve; and while we supped every family in Sweden, from the king to the peasant, was eating just the same sort of supper, with the same sort of courses. And in every home throughout the North- land, from the palace to the backwoods hut, stood the ju/-grvan—the Christmas tree, with ribbons fluttering from its branches and wax tapers burning brightly from every bough. One wintry afternoon, at ju/-tide, I had been skating on a pretty lake, Dalsjon, three miles from Gothenburg. On my way home, I noticed at every farmer’s house we passed there was erected, in the middle of the door-yard, a pole, to the top of which was bound a large full sheaf of grain. ‘* Why is this ?’’ I asked of my comrade. ‘‘Oh ! that’s forthebirds. The little wild birds. They must have a merry Christmas, too, you know.”’ Yes, soitis. There is not a peasant in all Sweden who will sit down with his children to a Christmas dinner within doors, till he has first raised aloft a Christmas dinner for the little birds, that live in the cold and snow without.

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LIVE QUESTIONS, IS MARRIAGE A FAILURE? I.—A PHILOSOPHER’S ANSWER. To the Editor of THE COSMOPOLITAN : You asked mea short time since to write a few notes on the above subject. I declined your request at the time, and have since had reason to regret that I did so, seeing that there has been attributed to me in a daily newspaper an opinion, in which I am made to say that ‘‘ Matrimony isa dismal, dreary, horrible subject, so fraught with misery as to be in- describable.” It would certainly be very indiscreet in me without great provocation to arraign an in- stitution so ancient as to have been coeval with the earliest dawn of civilization and which is general and universal throughout all nations ; and if any person has had an experience in marriage that war- ranted such strong language, it is unique and ex- ceptional, and therefore of no consequence. Marriage itself ought to be by this time a thread- bare subject ; but it has always in the general esti- mation been as if by right connected with another and quite a different subject, the interest in which has always remained fresh—has never declined, and never will. Of course, I mean Love, concerning which man’s curiosity is inexhaustible and never satisfied. It may be truly described as the universal malady of our race. Marriage, however, is quite another thing. It is an institution of society ; and by its means society intends to regulate the satisfaction of an imperious physical instinct which we have in common with everything which possesses life. Thus, marriage is very truly a police arrange- But this fact does not hinder annexing to it sentimental considerations which it were safer to omit. This will strike young people as a cynical observation ; but as a matter of fact, restraining regulations of all sorts are in their nature cynical. The marriage institution also concerns itself with Thus, Society presents to us and deals with marriage as a purely business affair—a life partnership of two. It has therefore all the vicissitudes that attend other sorts of business ; ment. the interests of progeny and property. and as these other sorts have their successes and failures, so has the business of Now, it is notorious that in other sorts of business, the failures far exceed the successes. matrimony. From analogy I do not see why marriage should be exempt from the same vicissitudes, and that the failures in it should far outnumber the successes. But this fact is by no means a disparagement of marriage; just as failures in business are no argu- ment against business in general. Failures in ordinary business are mostly owing to bad calcu- lations ; too sanguine views ; too much credulity and trustfulness in human nature. For precisely the same reasons marriage is much more likely to be a failure. How rarely do we see caution, and sagacity (the safeguards of ordinary business), em- ployed in the far more serious business of marriage. I am very far from thinking, and therefore assert- ing, that marriage is a dismal, dreary, horrible sub- ject, but I do think that it is a very momentous, serious, and weighty business, in which, owing to the very self-evident infirmities of our human nature, there can be no assurance of success. Thus a failure is to be reasonably expected; success would be MIRACULOUS ! Practically, marriage has always been thus, and will always be ; nor can either society or the in- dividual alter the result. is always to be approved of and recommended ; not one-sidedly for the happiness we suppose will attend it to the individuals who engage in it, but for the wider interests of society at large. Marriage may be, and probably will be, a fai/ure with the individual, but society, it most certainly is a success. strongly enforced in the discourse of an ancient But for all that, marriage in its general consequences to This view is Roman Censor, who, wishing to exhort his fellow- citizens to marriage, addressed them as follows: ‘“*Romans, if we could do without wives, as- suredly none of us would willingly assume so heavy a burden ; but since nature has arranged things in such a way that we can not live happily wth a woman, nor live without her, let us assure the per- petuity of our nation rather than the happiness of our short life.” Thus even two thousand years ago marriage is openly admitted to be a failure, but in spite of that, a patriotic duty. I have thought that society might diminish much of the tribulation of marriage by making it more of a public matter than it does at present ; that is to say, that the public should decide what would be a suitable union for parties desiring mar- There was in one ancient nation (the Sam- It is mentioned in a Frag- riage. nites) such a regulation. ment of N. Damascenus, taken from Stobeus in the ** The Samnites had a custom which, in so small a republic, Collection of Constantine Porphyrogenitus. and especially in their situation, must have produced admirable effects. The young people were all con- vened in one place, and their conduct was examined.

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LIVE QUESTIONS. He that was declared the best of the whole assembly had leave given him to take which girl he pleased for his wife ; the person that had been declared second- best chose after him, and so on.” An admirable plan indeed if we, too, might adopt it. This method would eliminate from marriage the delusive decep- tions attendant upon courtship, and in the marriage relation itself the scandals of divorce. Both court- ship and divorce were unknown to the Samnites. As to courtship, it has always appeared to me to be a game in which both parties endeavored to deceive each other. Both sides try to present a showing to each other that shall conceal their real In short, courtship is a mutual perfidy which, in most cases, is dearly paid for by both sides in the married relation. At the very best, it is but a fool's paradise ! character and disposition. Mar- riage thus being an institution, and a business affair, I think that the introduction into it of what is called ‘‘ Zove”’ is a most hazardous proceeding. Hazardous, because love being a malady so disables the reason and the judgment that the parties who enter marriage on that basis are the victims of enormous se/f-deceptions. Marrying for love must of necessity prove a failure and disappointment, not to say an irrepara- ble misfortune relievable only by a separation and divorce. The utmost that can be hoped for is a tolerable condition of comfort, provided that the parties to the transaction are not too self-willed. But that is certainly a great deal to gain in this restless, uneasy world of ours, and would seem more than can be gained in the sing/e state. While in ¢heory, marriage promises everything that mankind hold desirable for the promotion of happiness, in practice it performs ttle: and La Rochefoucauld said very truly in one of his maxims that the most perfect marriages are the ast imper- fect, and the most pacific ones are the /east stormy. To those who do not greatly prize their personal independence and have the courage to submit their destiny to caprice marriage may very well answer. Finally, let us candidly and cheerfully admit that marriage, if it must necessarily be a failure for the individual, is from the point of view of the entire community a very tolerable success, because it does afford a fair degree of satisfaction in the general mass of marriages. It is no detter and no worse than any other human institution. JAMEs BELL. Brooktyn, N. Y. Il.—A JURIST’S ANSWER. To the Editor of THE COSMOPOLITAN : There is implanted in the breast of every human being from earliest infancy the desire to love and to be loved. It is this desire that has formulated our 197 present marriage system, and created the home, which is the foundation of our civil society, the basis of the State. The monogamic marriage was ushered in with the Christian religion, or the coming of Christ, which carried with it the inference, if not the direct teach- ing, that a woman had a soul ; in contradistinction to the former teachings of heathendom, which had denied to her this attribute, and had resulted in the woman being considered as an adjunct, or emolu- ment of the husband, whose only use in surviving him was to be burned on his funeral pyre. The idea of the soul in woman premised her equality in the heavenly kingdom, and pre-supposed an equal- ity, or partnership, in the monogamic relation on earth. Had this mutuality of the woman in the human godhead fully secured and maintained its supremacy, the monogamic marriage would have been, and still would be, a divine institution, as nearly approach- ing the heavenly as anything organized on earth. Woman has been, and still is a slave in all the heathen countries. Our remote ancestors were heathens, tyrants, warriors. Our advent into Chris- tendom lifted us up, but not entirely out of our former slavish condition. When war was the most honored profession of civilized life, our English fathers declared in the enactment of the old feudal tenures that only those should hold land who were able to bear arms, and excluded from its privileges women and the priesthood. Thus the man became absolute master of the home, and the mutuality or equality of the woman was lost. She had no voice, no control either of her own person or her children, or power to dispose of the partnership property. But lest the wife should become a public charge, the law stepped in and assigned to her a certain rental of her husband’s estate for life, on condition that she survived him, but without power of aliena- tion, and called it her dower. Christianity failed, and still fails, to lift woman out of the heathen mythologies of the past, to rec- ognize in her a living soul, and to grant to her that partnership in the marriage relation that alone can make it a living reality, and a divine institution. The old English common law was claimed by our progenitors who settled this country as a part of the law of the land, and they brought with it the disabilities of the old feudal tenures, as pertains to women. Slowly we have been emerging from its thraldom by successive state enactments granting property rights to women ; but our marriage system can never be a grand success until there is perfect equality,—a mutuality, a divine partnership in the marriage relation. Our divorce courts are a standing transparency to the failure of the marriage system in individual in- stances, but they are only the beacon lights of a

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198 long funereal array of petty oppressions and wasted lives ; of women who have suffered in silence, whose lips have been sealed, because they courted the decent regard of society, and believed that the system demanded the sacrifice. Our foundling hospitals and street sewers bear record of the woman who has stepped outside the marriage sys- tem, no matter how strong her desire for mother- hood ; for the offspring must ever be sacrificed to a merciless public opinion. Every man and woman’s hand has been against the Ishmaelite for ages back. Society has not only demanded but the majesty of the law has enforced respect for the marriage relation. There has been no escape but the divorce court. ‘*It is not a contest between schedules, but be- tween wide-apart principles ”’ as to whether the num- ber of happy marriages, of beautiful domestic home lives, do not by far exceed those of the unhappy and ill-assorted ones. Our present apparently prosper- ous condition is due to the fact that the masses of American men are better than the system that has its embodiment and sanction in ‘‘ Who gives this woman away?” Too, often, alas ! a real give-away, without even the semblance of a guid pro quo. What is the remedy? The absolute equality of the woman in the marriage relation, and her equal participation in and control of the joint estate. Careful nurture, respect for and reverence for motherhood in whatever form presented, and special favors and honor bestowed upon the mothers who bear and rear comely children. The inculcation of the idea that it is the duty of every individual to contribute to the maintenance and perpetuity of the State. BeL_va A. LockKwoop Wasuincron, D. C. 1Il.—A MAIDEN’S ANSWER. To the Editor of THE COSMOPOLITAN : As far as man is concerned—that is, man in the masculine and not in the generic sense—marriage is, for several reasons, a complete success. It will not be denied that man, in his isolated or unmarried state, is neither more nor less than a beast ; he is normally and by habit a destroyer, and of finer sensibilities, of intellectual observations, of divine affiliations, he knows nothing. His am- bitions are to develop muscular powers, to overcome all other animals, and to maintain his supremacy by force of arms. It is not until somewhere in his wanderings he is met and subdued by the gentleness, the magnetism, and the psychologic influences of woman, that he begins to define the true outlines of what his life should be. The hardness of his nature is gradually softened, and by the slow process of gentle warmth LIVE QUESTIONS. emitted from the glowing presence of the woman, he finally melts, and the crude nature becomes in- corporated with that which is finer and nearer the divine. Little by little the quartz is washed away, the rock disintegrated, until only the shining gold is left. Woman’s association has developed him, and in the marriage relation he becomes the clear, glittering coin. In other words, he is minted, and for the first time bears the true image of his Maker. Practically marriage is a success to the man, as it promotes economy in all the different phases of every day existence. Naturally man is a wasteful and improvident creature. Alone, he is a disorganized, unsys- tematized, unbalanced, and marring influence. He has not yet learned to confine himself to the proper limit of rations, but with unpardonable improvidence, he destroys in one day what should suffice for subsistence during a whole week. Take him in the chrysalis, as a simple lover, or can- didate for matrimony, and the wealth of Gol- conda will not suffice for the enthusiastic extra- vagance of his nature. In the heat and fervor of his passion, he would waste an empire upon the ob- ject of his adoration. What jewel is too rare for her dainty fingers, what robe too royal for her polished shoulders, and what crown too brilliant for her Lucre is filth, coin a trifle, not worthy to be thrown away upon her. There are operas, balls, histrionic displays, all for her entertainment. The costliest exotics are only grown that her bosom may be decorated ; the Diomedian feast of humming- birds’ brains and the tongues of nightingales are only little repasts for her after the play ; but marriage comes and there is no more of that—it is all saved. Upon his sweetheart in bachelorhood, with like improvidence, he wasted a wealth of affection, and showered his kisses like bon-bons upon her ; but when marriage comes he saves all this ; he grows suddenly more careful and develops a strong dis- position to hoard up all of his caresses, stinting the home consumption that the foreign market may be supplied. Thus he learns the science of economy as well in affection as in finance. Now, with regard to woman, there is no doubt that her entry upon the new state is a triumph and her whole career a success. From earliest infancy the teaching of her mother is that the object of the female life is to combine it, happily or otherwise, with that of the opposite sex. There is no other ambition, no other aim, from the time she begins to pinch her foot into a child’s number twelve shoe until she is forced to broaden it out into a number two and a half. She learns early how to make the very best use of her phys- ical graces. Marriage, that acme of her ambition. at last set- tles everything ; her merchandise has brought her brows ?

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LIVE QUESTIONS. the final reward and rest from all her labors— happy, self-satisfied rest that has cost her so many weary days to secure. she is queen of the nursery, and mistress of the situation. In ler cessation from all petty artifices with which she was wont to bait her matrimonial hook, she gradually gains in physical loveliness ; the lines that were drawn on her face by doubts of the future disappear, and the hue of youth and hope reign in their stead. In her married relation she would now be de- scribed by the poet as that beautiful, graceful thing, a vine, a pliant, clinging vine, twined round the straight and sturdy oak. But we have noticed that the vine, after securely fastening upon one tree, in- variably sends out little tendrils toward another, with the instinctive desire that, should her present abiding place sink, she could easily transfer her residence to another, The marriage of the vine and the oak is symbol- ical of that of the man and the woman—both are benefited and rendered, for the time being at least, happy. The union is always a success, and no mar- riage can be a failure, for experience is gained, if Her reign now commences, nothing else. cling to the wrong tree, or a tree take upon itself the burden of an uncongenial vine, but the relation need not be of long duration, for there are divorce It is true that a vine may sometimes courts even in the forest, and relief is always at Sarah Bernhardt has said, in her pithy French fashion, that ‘‘ but for the divorce marriage hand. would be a failure.’ If, in time, from the bulk and strength the vine attains, the giant oak succumbs, the young widow, with her added beauty and ripened experience, may find ample consolation in another oak, for what are a young girl’s chances in the matrimonial mart compared with those of a widow's ripened graces? Therefore we affirm that marriage is not a failure in either sex or in any case. CARRIE J. RousH. Wasuincton, D. C. I1V.—A BACHELOR’S ANSWER. To the Editor of THE COSMOPOLITAN: As the married men and women differ upon this question, you do well, no doubt, to ask those out- side of the wedded inclosure to speak also. I have the fortune, or misfortune, to consider it as an ob- server or theorizer merely. My relation to it is like that of Moses to the Promised Land. In fact, I have always considered marriage as a sort of beckoning Beulah, or Canaan, and freely confess the halo which distance throws over it does not permit a certain enchantment I have always enter- tained concerning it to be in the least degree dis- solved. It was an irreverent wit who said that 199 marriage is a domain into which those who are with- out wish to enter, while those who are within it wish to get out. But I am sure this proverb was too easily thrown off to be either accurate or con- clusive. The tempting apothegm which fits a few uneasy people well enough who could not be happy in any relation, can not, I am sure, sum up the philosophy of the oldest, most sacred, and most uni- versal institution which the world has to show. Punch’s advice to one about to marry is also a wit’s effort, and is still more curtly sententious. If you have any doubt about the propriety of marry- ing, then this one-syllabled and one-worded neg- ative, ‘‘ Don’t,” is true wisdom. With any other enterprise it is equally true you should give your- self, and not it, the benefit of the doubt. if a doubt arises. To tell whether marriage is a failure or not, one must first know what the aspirant on its behalf ex- pects or proposes to secure from it. If he looks upon it as a door through which he can pass, and leave all the troubles and perplexities of the world behind, he will doubtless be doomed to disappoint- ment. To enthusiastic youth it often presents it- self in this guise, or as an Elysium carpeted with rose-leaves, where care and toil mostly subside, and the day is spent in enjoying a spontaneously furnished diet of sunbeams and rainbows. This, in fact, is the early bribe which nature puts over its portal for a purely utilitarian design—the preserva- tion and continuance of the human race. To artists and poets, and to all the highly im- aginative class, marriage always keeps up more or less of this illusion while it is yet in the foreground. If the dream fades on trial, as, to some extent, it must, however happy the marriage may be, perhaps it is well to prolong it to middle life ; to wait and hope, rather than to put it too soon to a test utterly impossible for any scheme of life or any experience to satisfy. And so the homely versifier thought, no doubt, when he wrote, “The happiest life that ever was led, Is always to court and never to wed.” However this may be, there are some valid and practical reasons for delay which are too obvious to require mention. A Tuscan proverb says that a good wife is worth waiting for ; and, if you get a poor one by waiting, you will still have a long enough time to Some wait for that highly idealized, impossible person to arrive who is some day to drop live with her. down from the clouds before the seeker’s eyes. But he or she never comes, though only in the clouds can such a character be found, as none such exists on earth. My impression is—and it becomes a mere theo- rizer to speak modestly—that marriage at its best,

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200 and in its average, is a good and covetable thing, and not a failure. There are failures in marriage, to be sure ; and because there are so many we find it possible to ‘discuss this topic. But I am certain there has never been one which either one or both of the parties to the contract could not be proved responsible for. It is easy to accuse the institution. And it is natural to do so; for who is it that does not like some scape-goat for his own personal sins ? I must say right here, however, that it is not pos- sible to match some people, and they ought to give up the attempt to match themselves. In no con- dition would they be happy, and the lesser relations of life give about all the tension and strain their natures can well bear. It is a pity that Elder Evans, and his sects, could not at once sort this class, and from the world lift them into his pre- celestial order. Too many, as Congreve says, are married in haste, and are left to repent at leisure. These might have chosen better by a longer dec- lination, or if they had used a more critical judg- ment. From these two classes come the bulk of the cases docketed on the divorce calendars. It is a curious fact that the divorce custom is almost a civilized trait. At any rate, dissatisfac- tion with marriage is. Among primitive and bar- barous peoples there may be occasional separations of the married, but, I am sure, they are far fewer than they are with more highly organized races. No doubt, the ways and means problem has some- thing to do with this, the multiplied wants and necessities of life. Something also should be set down in our account to the finer nervous organiza- tion, as with this it is so much easier to get out of tune. We can see by this how it has come to be a say- ing that one should never marry a person of gen- ius; and yet nothing is more certain than that per- sons of genius do get along admirably when mar- ried. Probably history does not give us a better mated couple than were Robert and Mrs. Brown- ing—and this instance is solitary only in the great amount of genius which it embodied. When gen- ius is unhappy when married is it any more dis- cordant than lack of genius is? It would be hard to see how it could be. While marriage itself seems to me to be near enough perfect, I am not inclined to think that the way to accomplish it, as now understood, is just what it should be. Nothing, for instance, seems to me more absurd than that fanatically-held Mede- and-Persian rule of etiquette which says no girl or woman shall marry unless some one asks her to marry. To my mind it is a relic of the purest Oriental barbarism, and belongs to the idea that woman is a chattel simply, and should either have no voice in what is of the most immense concern to her, or else as reduced a choice as is possib.e. If LIVE QUESTIONS. any one can give one solitary sensible reason for this terrible disfranchisement, I would go a thousand miles to confer with him, and to confess my present But I rest assured that no such reason can be given. error. Ridicule, of course, can be rained upon the spectacle of a girl’s going in search of a hus- band, the grotesqueness of which is largely the re- sult of the aforesaid rule. But this is far from either sense or reason. I do not ask that a girl or woman shall do this. She will find a more femi- nine way. It is-easy to whisper to a friendly inter- mediary, and it is not difficult to invent other ways that are not ostentatious, or masculine, which would serve the purpose of expressing her mind, if the privilege were once allowed. This branch of the subject needs more space than I shall be allowed here ; but I am firmly con- I am just as firmly convinced that if women had a permissible vinced it will get attention some day. initiative in respect to marriage that much more harmonious marriages would occur than now do, and the divorce courts would be nearly suspended. But the singular fact concerning the non-aggressive attitude of woman toward matrimony is that while man originally established it, woman might have freedom in choosing, if she wished, but she will not or dare not wish. JOEL BENTON. Amenia, New York. V.—A POET’S ANSWER. In regard to Mrs. Caird'’s ideas on marriage, I would say that I consider our present system all right ; it is the people who abuse the system who When a man and woman choose each other from mutual love and respect, and strive by mutual sacrifices and unselfishness to render married are wrong. life happy, they usually succeed. The rapidly in- creasing number of women who marry for position, title, or money ; the parents who thrust their daugh- ters into wifehood before their bodies or brains are matured ; the men who marry to establish a home, or merely for a new experience having exhausted all other amusements, and with no idea of abandon- ing their vices—all these debase, but prove nothing against our marriage system. The people who debase this system would de- Women must be educated to be- come more liberal-minded ; men must be compelled by public censure to lead purer lives, and the mania ‘ career” must be- base any system. of women without talents for a come secondary to keeping their homes and persons well cared for before we can expect much improve- ment in our domestic relations. ELLA WHEELER WILCOX. New York Cry,

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LIVE QUESTIONS. VI.—A CHEF’S RECIPE FOR A TENDER HUSBAND. The chief cause of indigestion at the table of marriage is that wives do not know how to cook their husbands without making them tough. Some women keep their husbands constantly in hot water ; others let them freeze by their carelessness and in- Some keep them in a stew by irritating ways and words. Others roast them. Some keep them in a pickle all their lives. It can not be sup- posed that any husband will be tender and good managed in this way, but they are really delicious when properly treated. In selecting your husband you should not be difference. guided by the silvery appearance as in buying mackerel, nor by the golden tint as if you wanted salmon. Be sure and select him yourself, as tastes differ. Do not go to the market for him, as the best are always brought to the door. It is far better to have none unless you will patiently learn how to cook him. See that the linen in which you wrap him is nicely washed and mended, with the required number of buttons and strings sewed on. Tie him in the kettle by a strong silk cord called comfort, as the one called duty is apt to be weak. Otherwise they may jump from the kettle and be burned and crusty on the edges, since, like crabs and lobsters, you have to cook them alive. Make a clear, steady fire out of love, neatness, Set him as near this as seems to If he sputters and fizzes, do not be anxious ; some husbands do this until they are quite done. Add a little sugar in the form of kisses, but no vinegar or pepper on any account. A little spice improves them, but it must be used with judgment. Do not stick any sharp instrument Stir him gently ; watch the while, lest he lie too flat and close to the kettle, and so become useless. You If thus treated you will find him very digestible, agree- ing nicely with you and the children, and he will keep as long as you want, unless you become care- and cheerfulness. agree with him. into him to see if he is becoming tender. can not fail to know when he is done. less and set him in a cold place. J. P. Barrows, New York Ciry, VIl.—TWO ENGLISH EXPERIENCES. (From the London Telegraph.) [ have been married for more than twenty years, and can truly say that it has been the happiest part of my life. My husband, like many other Ameri- cans, does not outgrow the little thoughtful atten- There are so many little things which go a long way toward making a woman’s life happy; they cost tions that he paid me before our marriage. 201 nothing, and yet they make such a difference. For example, the morning and evening kiss; the word of praise, of sympathy, or of appreciation; the tap at the chamber door before entering ; the help- ing hand in getting in or out of carriage, omnibus, or train—these things are accepted as a matter of course by thousands of American wives ; and it is only when they go abroad that they are struck with the contrast, especially on the Continent, where they hear on all sides, ‘‘ How the Americans do spoil their wives !” On the eve of my marriage I made three mental They were—never to aggravate him, never to have a secret from him, nor by any selfish or thoughtless act of mine to lead him one step to- ward bankruptcy. Fifteen years afterward I told him of these vows, and although I have been a widow for ten years, I should blot this paper with my tears if I attempted to put in writing the love and tenderness of his reply. vows. VIII.—A HAPPY WIFE’S ANSWER. To the Editor of THE COSMOPOLITAN : Marriage, being not the very structure itself of society, is not a failure most emphatically ; for let any one imagine for one second a state of society without the marriage in- What would it be? Chaos pure and Yet, individually, marriage is very often a lamentable failure ; every one knows and sees it and regrets it, and yet the world goes on year after year making the same old mistakes—breaking so only the corner-stone but stitution. simple. many hearts, marring or utterly ruining just so many Yet this state of affairs might be helped by beginning at the foundations. If mothers would teach their sons that personal virtue and entire morality is just as necessary for a man as a woman there would be the first great step with the man. Said a mother to her son of seventeen, with whom she was having a serious and earnest “‘ talk,” before **T want you to look at this matter in this way, if temptation ever comes to you. Would you marry a girl whom you even suspected The answer lives. an absence from home : of having lost her personal virtue?” came quick as a flash : ‘‘ No, of course not,” with a smile of derision at the very idea. ‘‘ Very well, then,” said this conscientious mother, “ you believe in ‘ fair play,’ don’t you?” The boy’s face flushed. “Fair play! What do you mean?” ‘‘ What I say. Have you any right—is it ‘ fair play,’ to ask a woman to marry you—a good, sweet, pure, true woman, who never got drunk, who never soiled her lips with bad language, or tobacco—to marry you if you become personally impure—if you drink and Is it ‘fair play’? What right have you, or has any man, to expect a good woman swear and smoke?

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202 to marry him, to bring into the world his children, to whom she has given all the sweetness and purity of a true womanhood, and to whom he may give the seeds of an evil life, which will literally go down from one generation to another, never to be ob- literated, no matter how deeply and how truly he may repent ?” The boy’s face grew deeply thought- ful. ‘‘ I never thought about it so,” he said. That boy, now a man, often says to his mother : ‘‘ What I owe you for that home-talk you can never know— I don’t know myself, except that it made me see marriage in a new way.” Marriage is entered into ‘‘ unadvisedly,” contrary to the exhortation of the beautiful Episcopal ser- vice which is read hundreds of times every day to those who enter ‘‘the holy state of matrimony ” in pomp and ceremony, in satin and diamonds, and with wedding marches, and ‘‘ unadvisedly.” When mothers teach their daughters that every true life must be full of work,—that no vocation is higher or more fruitful of results than that of wife, mother, and housekeeper—that she has no right to marry unless she is willing to have—more, wishes to have—children and to do her duty by them, then we shall see fewer evils when marriage is entered into ‘‘ unadvisedly.” Certainly no thoughtful person can go to wedding after wedding without an increasing feeling of awe and dismay, an entire impatience and disapproval of all the show which attends so many weddings. If a man is a vea/ man the whole affair is to him a most fearful ordeal ; he consents to what he supposes he must bear, and goes through it all— from the embraces of all his bride’s relatives to the last grain of rice which gets down his back under his collar and makes a martyr of him until he can get it out—with all the composure he can bring to bear. The bride is worn out—nervously and actu- ally—cries during most of the so-called honey- moon—is cross and utterly unlike herself, and begins then and there to lay the foundations of married unhappiness, by being cross and unreasonable everywhere—which provokes a like state of mind in the new-made husband. If people would only put aside the ridiculous fuss of weddings—with ushers and bridesmaids and best men—with elaborate flower decorations—with kneeling, not in prayer for help and guidance—but to ‘‘one, two, three—kneel—four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve— mind you count slowly now, get up, come up six paces apart, come down the same, keep your eyes on a given point,” and all the rest of it at the church. Also the sending cards to Tom, Dick, and Harry and their wives ; the laborious work with city directories ; the looking up of all the people from whom that modern curse, ‘‘a wedding present,” may be found out. The anguish over the multi- LIVE QUESTIONS. plicity of spoons or a predominance of cut glass— when, in fact, the whole affair settles down in plain words to the one time in people’s lives when they make a violent if not arbitrary attempt to force from friends and relatives just so much “‘ swag,” When people will settle down and see that mar- riage isa partnership, one for Life ; that it means for richer, for poorer, for better, for worse ; when love, honor, and cherish can be truly, soberly said by both parties, and when all question of ** obey ” is left out ; when they see that marriage is the tick, tick, tick of the clock; that it is to be lived from moment to moment in sweet words and looks and unselfish acts, in bear and forbear, in the thousand nameless courtesies and surprises of love ; when familiarity does not ‘‘ breed contempt,” but a tender, wise consideration ; when each discovers the other very human, and not all the angel each felt the other to be, and will not fret and worry against the bars, like Sterne’s starling crying ‘I can’t get out, I can’t get out,” but make the best of the best that is in us all—¢hen marriage will be what in many cases it now is, “In union sweet according minds,” and may it come soon to the masses as it has come to the few, who, fortunate in a wise education, can truly say marriage is a blessed state indeed. KATHARINE B. Foor. SPRINGFIELD, Mass. IX.—A CHINAMAN’S ANSWER. To the Editor of THE COSMOPOLITAN : Whatever marriage may be in the land of the free it is a grand success in the Celestial Kingdom, where two-thirds of the human race enjoy an unparalleled domestic felicity. Some three thousand years ago the customs which now prevail here in regard to the relations of the sexes were the usage There was an unrestrained mingling of Youthful and passionate fancies were permitted to decide mar in China. young men and women in society. riages without any influence of mature judgment. The result was much unhappiness and frequent separations. The sages took counsel and changed the whole system to its present form, which has smoothly ruled while Western empires have risen and det&yed, bringing peace and happiness to uncounted millions. There are no divorces in China, and married life is there universally pros- perous. The intimacy between the young of both sexes here is something that the unbridled most luxuriant monarch never dreams of in Asia. Many would doubtless forfeit their kingdoms to enter such a state of things. But this is the cause of the conjugal nightmares that haunt America and fill

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LIVE QUESTIONS. the divorce courts. It is very easy to get a wife, but very hard to live contentedly with her. Contrast the usage in China which represents not only the great mass of the civilized world, but the oldest and most experienced in philosophy, culture, and the arts. The Chinese stands among Mon- golians as the English race stands among Cauca- sians, leading all in commerce, political supremacy, learning, and manners. The time will ultimately come when the Chinese and English races will absorb all other nations as the masters of antipo- dal civilizations. The principles of social economy in China are these : 1. There should be no individuality or rivalry between members of the same family. All work for the common good. The father is a beloved king with absolute power over his filial subjects. Unusual privileges, such as marriage, are granted in the order of age. The younger son or daughter can not wed until the elder children are disposed of. 2. The wisdom and experience of elders should govern the folly and passion of youth. Young love is hasty, intemperate, and heedless of the future. Aged love is deliberate, symmetrical, and provi- dent. 3. Therefore the intermingling of young men and women is hedged with rules that prevent them wasting their thoughts and time in silly society. They are permitted to meet only after tests which prove their worthiness to know each other, and the parents always guide youthful affec- tions into ways that can not bring unhappiness. When a young man imagines himself smitten with the charms of a young maiden he tells his father, and the father consults the girl’s mother. Each family inquires into the antecedents and circum- stances of the other young person. It is found out whether the young man is industrious, frugal, capa- ble of supporting a wife, and of a kind disposi- tion, and whether the girl is neat, well behaved, intelligent, and amiable. Often the girl’s family will refuse to admit the youth as a suitor until his habits have been observed. As the daughters of China inherit no property, a girl’s parents are bound to furnish her a worthy husband. After interchange of family courtesies the young from 203 people are permitted to see each other, and if they are suited they become betrothed. Even then they are not allowed to meet except once a year at the annual spring holiday, and then only at a distance in the temple or theater, where the men are on one side of the house and the women on the other. They can converse only with their eyes. Their silent love grows by yearly inter- changes of languishing looks. When they become of age the elders of each family arrange the wed- ding, and the young daughter-in-law is brought to the young man’s home amid great pomp and fes- tivity. And even then the bride and groom are together only at stated periods, until the first child is born. This advent at last gives the husband and wife complete possession of each other. These hindrances are designed to increase the attachment of the young hearts to each other by making their companionship a rare and unsatiated happiness. The Oriental looks with amazement at the open and unchecked attentions between men and women. He thinks that if a husband calls his wife ‘‘ Darling,” ‘‘Sugar Plum,” ‘ Dumpling,” and by other fond terms in the presence of others, there can be nothing better for him to say when he is alone with her, and he probably reverses the phrases. The Chinese permit none to marry unless their parents are satisfied that they will be comfort- able and happy. But a bachelor and a childless wife are in dishonor. A married man is an honored guest anywhere. His wife is his card of introduction to the best circles, as her child is the mother’s badge of distinction. The result of this system is happiness and ease in almost every house. Tenderness and devotion If there are discords they are few and hid- Separations between husband and wife are well-nigh unknown. Let just a little of the American unrestraint flow into the Chinese customs, and some of the Chinese co-operativeness and deference to elders strengthen American independence, and the two greatest na- tions of the earth would be completely happy. rule. den from sight. Wonc CHIN Foo, New York Ciry.

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AMONG THE BOOKS. (in this depessin_at THE COSMOPOLITAN will give careful and concise attention to new publications received. ) RosE PorTEeR has compiled a beautiful gift- volume,* whose purpose is to give an outline story of Mary the Mother-Maid, as told in the Holy Book, and by historical and legendary art, and in poetry. The story is told in the purest devotional spirit. The curious legends which have been handed down or created by the religious writers of the Middle Ages are put into consecutive order, and illustrated by reproductions of pictures by the old masters, and of those by two or three modern painters. Deger’s famous picture of ‘‘ The Annunciation” serves as the frontispiece. Then follow in order Ittenbach’s “St. Mary the Virgin ;”’ Titian’s ‘‘ Presentation ;” the ‘‘ Annunciation,” by Murillo; ‘‘ The Saluta- tions,” by Albertinelli ; *‘ St. John and the Virgin,” by Dobson ; ‘* The Assumption,” by Titian ; ‘* Ma- ter Dolorosa,” by Guido Reni ; ‘‘ Mater Dolorosa,” by Carlo Dolce ; and ‘‘ The Madonna Addolorata,” by Sassaferrato. A similarly handsome volume is Margaret De- land’s ‘* Old Concord.” + This is a happy group- ing of the chief facts and scenes of interest in the famous old town which, ever since it cradled the Rev- olution, has been the-home of genius and greatness. Among the most attractive places described and illus- trated are Thoreau’s Walden Pond, and the homes of Emerson, Bronson Alcott, and Hawthorne ; the last now the enlarged and beautiful home of the author. The famous originator of the Concord grape also figures with other characters and haunts, known through the world. The book is a very handsome souvenir of the most classic of New England cen- ters. ** Days Serene of a new art-book which Lee & Shepard have just published.{ The book is a royal oblong quarto, with emblematic cover, and contains twenty-six full- page original illustrations. Beautiful landscape scenery, the grand and picturesque in nature—has been photographed, as it were, upon these enchanting pages by this student of nature and new competi- tor for artistic honors. Down by the sea as its billows pound the rocks and the shore ; on the side of the mountain, with its appealing grandeur ; in the midst of forests ; in the blooming meadow, and beside playful streams, has this lover of nature is the restful and dreamy title * Mary the Mother. Compiled by Rose Porter. Il- lustrated. Boston: D. Lothrop & Co. Price, $3.00. + Old Concord. By Margaret Deland. 8vo. trated. D. Lothrop & Co., Boston. $3.00. t Days Serene. Illustrated by Margaret MacDonald Pullman. Royal oblong quarto. Lee & Shepard, Boston. $5.00. Illus- wandered that she might transcribe the charming pictures for the pleasure of the multitude. There is evidence in this artist’s work that her conceptions of nature are mellowed by a gentle sympathy with her beautiful subjects. The poetic selections—the choice thought of some of our favorite poets—which are associated with this artistic production still fur- ther and forcefully appeal to ‘* the better angels of our nature.” The book’s magnificent proportions, rich binding, creamy paper, and handsome letter- press, make it deservedly a choice art volume. ‘“* A Queer Little Princess’ § is a unique and alto- gether charming story, which will be read and re-read in thousands of homes, and with increasing interest and delight. The ‘ princess” is a little American girl who has been named Henrietta, but who has been called by her pet name from babyhood, and it still clings to her at the age of seven. She is sen- sitive, truth-loving, graceful and ingenuous, a coun- terpart in character to ‘little Lord Fauntleroy,” and, of course, is the idol of the household. Professor Matthews’ latest book, ‘‘ Men, Places, and Things,” | is a worthy successor of his emi- nently popular volumes, the best known of which is ‘* Getting on in the World.” Like his other books this last is replete with choice and appropriate anecdote, pointing many forcible maxims of char- acter and work. The vivid and graphic style de- lights the reader with lively entertainment, while stocking the memory with terse narratives not commonly known. The best of recent French handbooks for the swift guidance of the student into such control of the language as will be practically useful is, ‘* La France,” §[ by Professor de Rougemont, of the Adel- phi Academy, Brooklyn, and manager of the Chautauqua French school. It is written upon the ‘* Natural Method ” of instruction, being entirely in French, dispensing with grammar, and giving in the graduated series of chapters the principles and vocabulary of common conversation and writing, along with helpful lessons upon the French people, their customs, characteristics and genius. It is an admirable introduction to France for one about to visit Europe. It is a royal road to France for one who remains at home. §A Queer Little Princess. By Frances Eaton. Illus- trated by Bridgman. D. Lothrop & Co., Boston. $1.50. | Men, Places, and Things. By William Matthews. LL.D. r2mo, 394 pp. S.C. Griggs & Co., Chicago. $1.50. § LaFrance. Notes d’un Americain, Recueille et Mise en Ordre, par A. de Rougemont. 16mo. The Writer’s Publishing Co., New York, go cents.

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