Lippincott's Magazine, December, 1885

d in a gown of some soft white fabric which he had noticed and praised. She had roses in her

to talk about her father, asking the professor how long he

f the kind interfered materially with advancement in our studies. But your father had already met your mother several times when we made this agreement. Their tastes were very similar, and her quiet, tranquil manner was extremely pleasa

oung people, had never cared for young friends and pleasant times, it did not occur to him that I ought to have them? Oh, I d

bbing you: he loved you far too tenderly for that. You always seemed happy and bright, and you

upted him with bitt

odness, all love to me, and I have dared to find

e. She conquered the rest, and made a

said the professor, when she was quiet again: "you

er eyes, and she was about

firmed an old bachelor to fall into home ways and make a good husband. I shall always love you as a dear young daughter, I shall ask you to let me

! He was giving her back her freedom with a light heart and a good will. Plainly, the relief would

d so much rather be your daughter than your wife; but I thought it would be so ungracious, after all your kindness to me. Now we shall be happy; you will see how happy I shall make you. An

parkling face for his good-night kiss, he once more parted the curls and kissed her on her forehead, whereat sh

hair, saying, with a paternal smile, "I shall kiss my daughter in the way

in the world, and her merry "Good-night, dear fat

d very near, him, when he was pounding off bits of rock for specimens with such energy that fragments flew in all directions? The sound of the hammer ceased as soon as his companions had disappeared

proclaim to the world his sacrifice? No; that was not his idea of a sacrifice. He burnt that very night each token-and there were many-which he had so jea

pting from an intellectual stand point. Now he began to take an interest in that part of their lives which lay outside his jurisdiction, t

et Van

I WISH

for you? Such s

iefs that human

one to wound an

ough all heave

, and tears tha

oses that hav

orn, the sceptr

berty, the ca

ay? Alas! I'

r you as eve

women wish,-

eager arms. So

the hawk. Na

you not lon

tta P

MINISCENCES OF

ice and asked me to write to him often. Then he added, "I am very sorry you are going away, my dear boy; but perhaps you are doing a good thing for yourself in getting out of this God-forsaken country. If I were

tation of being always "spoiling for a fight," and the most touchy, crusty, and aggressive author of his time, surpassing in this respect even Walter Savage Landor. But, though his trenchant pen was sometimes made to do almost savage work, it was generally in the chivalric exposure of some abuse or in the

wronged or insulted his wrath boiled up with the suddenness of a squall at sea. He resented a slight, real or imaginary, with unusual outspokenness and vigor, and said, "I never forgive an injury or an insult."

or be turned off by one. He needed a little more of the easy-going good humor and freedom from anxiety that fat men are popularly supposed to possess to

ire to Oxford and write against time in order to have his manuscript ready for the printer when wanted. Much, too, as he disliked burning the midnight oil or any kind of night-work, and the strain that artificial light imposed upon his eyes, he would write

n height, broad-chested and well proportioned, and without any noticeable physical peculiarity. His head was well set on h

who conversed with him could almost read his thoughts before he uttered them. He had a good broad forehead, well-arched eyebrows, and straight, dark-brown hair, parted at the side, which, like his entirely unshaven beard, he wore short until late in

ound his pleasure in his work, as all true workers in the pursuit for which they are best fitted always do. The proper care he took of himself accounted

him as a sort of literary Ishmael, who had his hand raised against all his contemporaries, a quarrelsome and cantankerous although very able man, and therefore to be ignored or sat down upon whenever possible. He once said, "I don't know a man on the press who would do me a favor. The press i

to find out how many copies of a book they print. Then there is a detestable fashion about publishers. I had to fight a very hard battle to get the public to take a nov

commission, and under this arrangement he man

tter-of-fact about everything ever to attempt a joke, practical or otherwise. Life to him was always a serious drama, calling for tirele

s own plays, it incensed him, and sometimes almost to fury. He loved music,-not, as he said, the bray of trumpets and the squeak of fid

ed until late in the afternoon. He was too practical and methodical to work by fits and starts. Generally he laid down his pen soon after four p.m.; but often he continued writing till it was time to dress for dinner, which he took either at home or at the Garrick Club, as the spirit moved him, except when he dined out, which was not very often,-for, although he was most genial and social in a quiet way among his intimates, he had no fondness for g

"almost equals Sir Walter Scott's. With your encyclop?dic, classified, and

not put too much labor into his work as well as too little, and spend too much time in polishing. Rough vigor often hits the nail better than the most studied and polished sentences. It doesn't do to write above the heads or the tastes of the people. I m

ieu' than of all my novels, from 'Pelham' to 'What will he do with it?'" (which was the last he had then written). "A poet's fame is lasting, a novelist's is comparatively ephemeral." Moved by a similar sentiment, Reade once said, "The most famous name in E

nyson, with all his polish, little better than a versifier, and said his plays of "Dora" and "The Cup" would have been "nice enough as spectacles without words." For those great masters of prose fiction and dramatic art, Victor Hugo and Dumas père, he had unbounded admiration, and of the former i

d through my arrangements with Rudd & Carleton. He also sent me two of his own plays,-"Nobs and Snobs" and "It is Never Too Late to Mend," drawn from his novel of that name,-in the hope that the managers of some of the American theatres would produce them; but, notwithstanding their author's fame,

from Charles Reade after my

, Mayfair, Ju

one of the editors of the 'New York Herald.' A young man of talent like you

ith your fortunes, I called on Trübner

over there, I shall be very glad. I am much obliged by your adv

ndment,' is a treatise. It is partly au

istic matter,-melodramas, trials, anything spicy and more fully reported than in the 'Weekly Tribune,' which I take in. Don't be afraid to lay out money for me in this way, which I will duly

very s

es Re

copy of your narrative of your tour with the Prince of Wales" ("Royalty in the New

m to a successful issue that, as far as I am concerned, I would naturally much rather profit by your kind offer than risk matter

e to take nothing for manuscript for, say, seven hundred pages at least of fresh and good matter. But here pinches the shoe.... Please not to show this to any publisher, but only the enclosed, with which you can take the field as my plenipotentiary. I think this affair will tax your generals

r myself, and a true return of the copies sold. That is where we poor authors are done. Will you look to that? I have placed five pounds to your credit,-this with the double object of enabling yo

of these pages. If you are out of it, I will take fifteen per cent.; if you are in it, twelve. But I look to you to secure a genuine return, for that is the difficulty with these publishers. There is consider

tch, I have sent them all by post, and, owing to the greediness of the United States government, it has cost me five pounds. I do not for a moment suppose the work will sell well during the civil war; but it is none the l

ut a fortnight, and, as it is my greatest success,

complicated difficulties you have had to contend against in this particular transaction. The work is quite the rage here, I assure you. We sold the first edition (a thousand) at o

d. Treat with a New York manager or a Boston manager for this on these terms. Sell them the sole use of it in one city only for te

nagers; for in all business-matters he was extremely pa

n get fifteen dollars on these terms, pocket the balance. But never sell the provincial right to a New York manager. It is worth a g

hoping that we may contrive, somehow or other, one d

is done by me. I have had a long and hard fight to get the public here to buy a novel published by him, and could hardly re

the Court of Common Pleas. If I win, I shall bring out my drama 'Never Too Late to Mend' and send it out to you

s closely, and so get me some money, for I am weighed down by law-expenses,-Reade v. Bentley, Reade v. Lacy, Reade v. Conquest,-all in defence of my own. And don't trust the play above twenty-four hours out of your own hand. Theatrica

thousand dollars by this means if extraordinary vigilance were not used. They can, and will, with as little remorse as a Newgate thief would, unless singular precautions are used. If I was there I would have a secret agent in the printing-house to note each order, its date and amount, in writing. The plates being yours, you have, in fact, a legal

usly so. It goes against my heart to believe it, but everybody is seldom wrong. My opinion is they will all make a false return if they can. Verbum sap. And now, my dear boy, let me thank you for all the trouble

different conclusion to the second act, and send it you enclosed. It is hasty, but it will do; and if you can get Jem Wallack to play Pierre, he will do wonders with the change from drunkenness to sobriety and then to incipient madness. The only stage directions req

windle us out of every dollar. I confess this stipulation terrifies me. If you have not done so, for God's sake draw a written agreement in these terms. I shall pass a period of great anxiety until I hear from you. But, for heaven's sake, a writte

receipt of your last, which is very encouraging. You were quite right to do as you did. Give Rudd & Carle

entage, and I shall not be able to creep you in among my own advertisements. However, you give me discretion, and I shall look to your advantage as well as I can. To-day I had to argue the great cas

, till some theatre will play it. You will find that all those reasons they have given you will disappear the moment it is played in England, and the

count from the publishers. I am much burdened with lawsuits and the outlay, without immediate return, of publishing four editions" (of "The Cloister and the Hearth"). "Will you think of this, and try them, if not done already? Many thanks f

they hope to get it by stealing it. They will play it fast enough the moment it has been brought out here and they can

them to any other person but my agent. This and another clause enable me to offer the consecutive early sheets to a paper or periodical, and the complete work in advance on that to a book-publisher. I am quite content with three hundred pounds for the periodical, but ask five per cent. on the book. It will be a three-volume novel,-a story of the day, with love, money, fighting, manoeu

high a royalty as Messrs. Rudd & Carleton did, in the then depressed condition of the book-trade and in view of their having previously published and paid for "A Good Fight," and hence the agreement ma

end you out a copy in manuscript, and hold back for publication. But I fear you will find that no amount of general reputation or particular merit of the composition offered will ever open the door of a

to date. I think you showed great judgment in the middle course you have taken by accepting their figures on account. All that remains now is to suspect them and to watch them and get what evidence is attainable. The printers are

success or two together on both sides of the Atlantic. I mean soon to have a publishing organ completely devoted to my views, and then, if you will look out

nts in 'Athen?um' cost thirty shillings, 'Literary Gazette' fifteen shillings, and so on. You will see at once this could not have been done except by junction. I propose to bind in maroon cloth, like 'The Cloist

, I hope she will advise you how to place it. Here in England we are at the dead-lock. The provincial theatres and the second-class theatres are pestering me daily for it. But I will not allow it to be produced except at a first-class theatre. I have wrested it by four actions in law and equity from the hands of pirates, and now they shall smart for pirating me. At the present time, therefore, any American manager who may have th

over head and ears in the story for Dickens" ("Very Hard Cash"). "Write to me often. The grand mistake of friends at a distance is not corresponding frequently enough. Thus the threads of business are broken, as well as the

dea of the value of my works in the United States. I put 6 Bolton Row" (the usual address on his letters) "because that is the safest address for you to write to; but in reality I have been for the last month, and still am

print the war as Leslie and Harper do, and who cares for the still small voice of literature and fiction amongst the braying of trumpets and the roll of drums? Do the right thing at the right time, my boy: that is how hits are made. If you will postpone till a conven

er Magazine") "instead of starting a new weekly. I will form no new engagements nor promise early sheets without first consult

on, will make you a good deal of money if you venture boldly on it and publish it. It is out-and-out the best new thing, and rather American. If you hear of any scrap-books containing copious extracts from American papers, I am open to purchase at a fair price, especi

e was always at home. He liked, too, at intervals the cloister-like life he led at Magdalen College. With nothing to disturb him in his studies and his work, with glimpses of bright green turf and umbrageous recesses and gray old buildings with oriel windows that were there before England saw the Wars of the Roses, his environm

estic life. The children of his brain-his own works-seemed to be the only ones he cared for; and, loving and feeling proud of his literary family, he was mentally satisfied. Yet no man was a keener observer of home-life, and his portraiture of women and analysis of female character, although unvarying as to types, were singularly true and penetrating. His Fellowship was the principal cause of his ne

ils and lunatic-asylums and trades-unions, and much besides, in the interest of humanity and as a disinterested philanthropist. He fought, too, the battles of his fellow-authors on the copyright questions with the same tremendous energy that he displayed in his struggles for practical reform in other directions; an

but only read about. Take, for instance, his Australian scenes in "It is Never Too Late to Mend," where the effect of the song of the English skylark in the gold-diggings is told with touching brevity and pathos. Yet all his information concerning Australia had been gained by reading newspaper correspondence and books on that country. He made no secret of this, and said in substance, as frankly as he spoke of his scrap-books, "I read these to save me from the usual trick of describing a bit of England and calling it the antipodes." He could infuse life into the dry f

n Corn

SSED TUSCAN

e the gases which lie over the Maremma in vapors thick enough to destroy life in a single night rise up to the top of these cliffs and reduce the dwellers there to fever-worn shadows. Even the scattered olive-trees that have taken root in the thin layer of soil are of the same hue, and the few clumps of cypresses add to the pallor of the scene with their dark funereal shafts. The only bit of color is where a cluster of low red-washed houses have found room

he grace of God. He was struck blind, and in his prayers vowed if he recovered his sight to embrace a life of penitence. It was the divine will that his vows should be fulfilled, and his sight was immediately restored. Two friends of the noblest Italian families, the Patrizzi and Piccolomini, joined him in leaving the world to become hermits in the desert. The chalky cliffs overhanging the Maremma on Bernardo's estates were selected as a fitting retreat: here they dug grotto

arged into a stately church, and the abbey walls were extended until, enclosing the garden, they covered the entire promontory. Then they ceased from their labors, and began to establish other monasteries an

missals, and precious manuscripts, were confiscated at the time of the first suppression under Napoleon, in 1810; and whatever else could be carried off went in 1866, when the religious orders were suppressed by the Italian government, to embellish the museums. Still, the empty cloister, wi

ere they changed their horse and left the Roman highway for the road cut in the rocks five centuries ago by the monks of Monte Oliveto. These pious men understood little of engineering, of th

e portcullis drawn, and, being women, if they had attempted to force an entrance would have been excommunicated, for until the suppression no woman's foot was allowed across this threshold. The tower was built as a protectio

at they would find at the end of the grass-grown allée bordered with cypresses

dre's letter telling of our coming, for it would be worse than an attack of the bandit

old man, with white hair flowing over the turned-back cowl of his spotless white robe. If they had kn

ppy to receive his friends as my honored guests for a month, if you can support the solitude so long," he a

twenty, and her four years of European travel had been a seeking after forgetfulness, until she had grown to be satisfied with the com

. They had by this time reached a low, arched side-door, which grated on its hinges after the padre had turned the huge key in the rusty lock and opened it. They entered a wide stone vestibule, and found themselves opposite another arched door set in arabesque stone carvings: the flags echoed under their feet as they turned to the right and traversed a low, vaulted passage that ended in an open cloister. An arched gallery ran round the four sides, held up by slender

is delightful to see him bound about h

; a beautiful open vaulted gallery filled the third side, and was carried up through the second story. Here was another well, out of which ivy-branches had grown and twined until the curb was one mass of dark-green, shining vines lying on a bed of mos

Latin: eight, one after the other, were

" said Julia. "But are only ei

elect a new general and discuss our welfare; but the necessity for such visitors has passed away with our existence. I can remember when all these cells were filled; and there are three hun

er Vicar. Generalis," which was at the end of the cor

u are not too tired, we will look at your o

he same dimensions as the firsthand unlocked another door; when, suddenly recollecting himself, he said, "You will not be afr

put their kind host to so much trouble. And so they proceeded to inspect a small cell with a bed and praying-stool and tripod with a basin for all the furniture. The anteroom had a table and chair, and an engravi

es, etc., below, for rooms enough to accommodate the emperor Charles V. and his suite of two thousand men for a night, festooned in bunches around the walls,-so that in the

, when their host took leave of them to give orders to Beppo about the rooms and to send

sera, signore," and left a lucerna-the graceful brass Tuscan lamp, with three branches for oil and wick-on the table. A large room

saying the supposition, he relighted his taper and led the way to the refectory. The shadows all about were black and mysterious enough, but they were too tired to be troubled about them, and were already half-way down a staircase, when the signora looked back, and, if she had not seized the balustrade, would have fallen; for standing at the head of the staircase was a white figure, holding a taper above a cowled head, out of which a pair of dark eyes was looking at her steadfastly. The padre's voice, calling out, "Signora, you are left in the dark," reassured her and gave her courage to turn and run down to join the others, who were disappearing through a low door. This led into what seemed an immense hall, judging from the echoes. They passed by heavy stone columns supporting a ceiling in round Romanesque arches on their way toward the one spot of light which came from a lucerna that stood on one end of a very long table spread for supper. They were looking around bewildered for their places, when th

is parents died. I am his guardian, and have made him a priest and Benedictine as the best thing I could do for him, although his rank and talents would enable him to play a distinguished r?le in the world. But, thanks be to God, he is a devout follower of Christ, and a most useful one. He is now twenty-five years of age; and

ou doing here?" Without waiting for an answer, he passed on, and another took his place, repeating the question. This was the beginning of a procession of all the monks who had ever been in the monastery. From time to time one particularly old and gaunt left the line and came and sat down by the bedside, until there were eight, four on each side of it. After a while Fra Lorenzo came walking with the others. He looked at her with his melancholy eyes and made a motion to stop, but the friar behind gave him a push and forced him forward. His low voice came to her as he was passing through the door: "I would sprinkle you with the holy water if I could, signora: but you see I must obey my superiors." Then the procession ended, and she was left alone with the eight, one of whom said to her, "Now you must go down to the crypt under the church, to be judged for your presumption." And as they rose to seize her, she found they were skeletons. In her effort to escape from them she awoke, trembling in every fibre. Her waking sensations were scarcely less terrible than her dream, for she shook so that she imagined some one was pul

e just been through." And, putting it down, she ran to her travelling-bag and drew from its depths a very small painting on copper, and compared them. Hearing just then her friends at the door, she ran to open it with both pictures in her hands. "What do you think? I have made a discovery. Look! My picture on copper, which Pippo in Siena found in the little dark antiquary-shop after his brother's death and sold to me for sixty cents, is the same as this old engraving of the famous Annunciation picture in the Church of the Santissima Annunziata in Florence, which is only unveiled in times of national calamity. You know, the people believe it was painted by angels. Here, you see, the text says it was revered in 1252, the artist being u

ng a picturesque group in their light flowered bodices and their red petticoats visible from beneath their tucked-up gowns,

our order," the padre explained, "he finished the stalls which are now in the cathedral of Siena. They were taken from us in 1813. After we were allowed to come back, we asked to have our stalls replaced by those in a monastery in Siena which was being torn down, and so these stalls were sent us: they are by Fra Giovanni's own hand. He has never been equalled in this kind of work, for which he invented the staining of the woods to produce light and shade, and

at finding themselves at last before the object of their pilgrimage,-the frescos of Signorelli and Sodoma, representing scenes in the life of St. Benedict, which they were going to copy. They walked slowly found the four sides, lingering where Signorelli's deeper sentiment gave them cause for study. He was called to Monte Oliveto first, and painted only one wall. It was only after three years that the young unknown Bazzi was summoned, and in an incredibly short time he completed the other three with his fanciful creations, as graceful an

where the fresh plaster had been applied, which had to be finished before it dried. This gifted, careless painter had the habit of scratching out his

ss and olive-branches upon them. "I am the only physician now," said the padre, "and must have my medicines nearer home." In walking over the rocks the visitors noticed, to their surprise, that, instead of being barren, they were covered with the thick growth of a short plant, which, like the chameleon, had made itself invisible by turning gray like the rock. In answer to their inquiries they learned that it was the absinthe plant, belonging to the same family as the Swiss plant from which the liquor is

account of the bad air, and I have been corresponding with the Father Trappists in the Roman Campagna about the cultivation of these trees as a purifier, and

he symbol of wisdom or no, they flew away in ever wider circles as soon as the guns and dogs appeared, and could not be decoyed back. The last rays of light lit up the gun-barrels as the party went in at the heavy door: the clashing sound of the bolt and c

d seen in the treasuries of Rome. Pure gold they were, wrought in emblems of divinity. "These are presents to the monastery from our family," said Fra Lorenzo. "These simpler ones, embroidered with the silk flowers, are

revice of the stones just beyond her reach. "Signora," a low voice said, "you ought not to lean so far: you might fall in, and the water is

you let me turn you into Apollo for a moment?" And, without thinking, she let it fall lightly on

a revelation was unfolding itself. There was something in this life which he had never thought about, never dreamed of; and the light which shone out of his dark ey

unately for two good persons, was one of these. She was just reaching for the crown, when the padre came into the cloister and stopped with amazement as his eye fell on the

which he shook off with difficulty.

ma to throw more expression into it than usual. You see, St. Benedict is resisting the temptation his enemies prepared for him in introducing these beautiful women secretly into the monastery. Being so completely a man of God, he overcame the evil one without an effort; but it is not given to us all to overcome as

ad not forgotten it! You must think of me

the day and for several days following, during which Fra Lorenzo had not reappeared. The fountain-scene had not been mentioned to her f

was only absent one night. He is very muc

ed, his hand bleeding from a cut which had nearly dissevered the thumb. This necessitated a delay, and the padre went down with him to the dispensary. "While you are waiting," he said, "perhaps y

was a magnificently-carved folding-door, with fruits and flowers and twining foliage with rare birds sitting among the tendrils. She was examining these details, when she discovered that the door was ajar. A slight push, and she was in a large, beautiful hall, where thre

er eyes glued to the shelves, when she came suddenly upon Fra Lorenzo sitting before a table covered with manuscripts in the niche of a

nora, and you come to me,"

command, "I should like to know what resemblance there is between me and these dusty ol

in? But no; forgive me: I was thinking of you before that. From the first evening in the refectory your la

he reached after her and touched

o God in body and soul, and when you think of me you commit a

, and while I prayed I felt better; but when morning came and I thought of the long, lonely years I must spend here si

mmered,-"pray for us both, for we must never meet again." She reached the door, went down the stair, and, turning mechanically to the right

me up at last with the signorine she had so far recovered hers

e you speechless," her friends ca

rink of eternity; down there among the morasses of the M

n dying here have no longer need to stay their feet! O

adre, "if any of us have found it so

id was undoubtedly Fra Giovanni's own work, and he pointed out the details of the beautiful workmanship. At length h

h century. Many of our order had spent their lives translating and copying manuscripts, and our greatest loss is here. Fra Lorenzo is just now translating some Latin chronicles of our first history into Italian. You can see by his beautiful handwriting that he is a worthy disciple of his learned predecessors. But how is this

e signora ate nothing, "This will not do, my daughter. You look ill

asked Margaret and

Lor

ng dark, she went to walk in the corridor, hoping to meet him. She had come to the open gallery looking into the cloister. Here she would wait for him; and, leaning against the open-work railing, she looked down. A white figure was walkin

ere talking in whispers in the next room, but the former's voice came to her distin

these few lines from the padre: "God in his

hnston

UBSTI

RAC

okes, a Retired

s Nokes, h

e, Mr. Rasper, Friends

it

at the Hotel of

harles

dla

of the Four Seasons, Paris. Outside the window, the cou

very smartly dressed, but in great haste, and with his s

know how to ask for artichoke soup, or how far it is to Dijon? I want

r Wa

uite-immediately, and there is no time to change my-my chemise d'homme. [Come, he'll understand that.] I want this button-button, button, button sewn on. Here, here-here. [Points to his throat.] Don't you see,

button's a button all the world over. If it had not been for that excellent Susan, the English chambermaid, I should have perished in this place, of what the coroner's inquests call "want of the necessaries of life." All depends, as every one knows, on a man's shirt-button: if that goes wrong, everything goes, and one's attire is a wreck. But I suppose after to-day my wife will see to that,-though she is a Montmorenci. Con

lve," said I, "I'll marry also, before the year's out." And now I'm going to do it,-if I can only get this shirt-button sewn on. He shall not have a penny of what I have to leave behind me. The little Nokes-Montmorencis shall have it all. She's

with housem

o you please

y at the Embassy, expressing her impatience in various continental tongues. Vite,-look sharp, Susan. [Aside.] Admirable woma

else I can't help it. Please to

I've married the Montmoren

o have chosen your wife from your native land. It seems a pity to be marrying in such haste, just because your poor nephew-pray d

your tongue, Susan! [She

ry in haste to repent at leisure. A fortnight is such a very short time to have known

after me so attentively in this place. Here's a five-pound note for you. [Aside] I could a

ess attend you, sir! and when you're married yourself,

]. Be quiet. [

, the head-chambermaid here, was once her lady's-maid. She's known her for more than a fortnight. Constance is a fine name, but it ain't quite the same as Constancy. Poor Mr. Nokes! What a mistake it was in him to drive all thoughts of matrimony off to the last, and then to come to Paris-of all places-to do it! What a curious thing is sympathy! He met her in the tidal train, and they were taken ill together on board the steamboat; that's how it came about. Poor old soul! He deserves a better fate. [Takes her broom and leans on it reflectively.] Heigh-ho! His honest English face was pleasant t

with passion, with an open letter in

t is the m

edly, though I don't feel it, because I'm in such a passion: well, they have been put on for nothing. I've been made a fool of by the Montmorenci. But if there's justice in heaven,-that is, in Paris,-if th

rried you

ose-does my nephew Charles suppose-no, for he knows me better-that I am not going to keep my word? that because the Montmorenci has played me

oman was to see you in this state she must be uncommonly courageous

nded to me. It is from the brother of the Montmorenci, and is supposed to be written in the English tongue. H

were rather in a hurry

ffered agonies in company. And, besides, I had only three weeks at farthest to waste in making

How s

leased to call the peculiar weapon of my countrymen, the pistol. Now, I should have said the peculiar weapon of my country was the umbrella. That is certainly the instrument I should choose if I were compelled to engage in mortal strife. But the idea of being sh

that sort in Paris, sir,

, and have helped me out of several difficulties;

ave you got an alma

trade, but I have not given up the habit so essential to busin

ks through it attentively].

expect to find that would do-in a

er eyes], I was looking to see i

she's uncommonly pretty, though. Prettier than the other. I noticed that when she was sewing on my shirt-button; on

angry with me, Mr. Nokes. I was only in fun

as got remarkably pretty eyes. It's a dreadful come-down from the Montmorenci, to be sure: still, one must marry somebody-within seven days. But then, again, I've written such flaming accounts of the other one to all my friends. I've asked Sponge and

I don't know, s

e sure she will have nothing to do as Mrs. Nokes except to wash 'em. Then she can speak French like a native, or at least what will seem to Robinson and the others like a native. Upon my life, I think I might do wors

em, sir; Su

ll a bad name. But then what's the good of that if she's going to change i

rrowfully

so sorry. Poor girl! Your father's

-handkerchief to her e

our excellent mamma,-she

sir; I am

hers and sisters,-pipe-smoking, gin-drinking brothers, and sisters who will have married idle mechanics,

sir. When my dear missis died I

young woman! [Bell rings without.] What are they pulling

're wanting me, sir: you see

es her again]: quite the contrary. So your name'

althill, near Eton. Nobody knew anything about me, and as I made my ap

e you to be chambe

through life. Always kind to me at the workhouse, where he was chaplain, he got me a situation, as soon as I was old en

]. I don't w

hambermaid, and offered me the place, which, since my b

d it must be distinctly understood between us that you need never intercede with me in favor of that scoundrel Charles. I won't have it. You wouldn't succeed, of course, but if I ever happen to get fond of you-I mean foolishly fond of you, of cou

e so good as to marry a humble girl like me

already. [Aside] I must say, though I didn't like to dwell upon the idea before-[Tre

okes]. O vieux polisson! [T

What is this lun

I haven't finished my

. Tell her you are going to be married to me within the

ore melodramatic. I'll say that Mr. Nokes is my father, who has suddenly recognized and discovered his long-lost child

outstretched]. Milor, I do congratulate you. Fortunat

ntly sees no absurd disproportion in our years.-Breakfast, breakfast!-déje?

mons here-and order a special license. [Susan goes.] Stop a bit, Susan; you forget something. [Kisses

Garden and Sea in the distance. Grand pia

thing sounds well from those charming lips. She's a kind-hearted, good girl, and worth eight hundred dozen (as I should say if I hadn't left the wine-trade) of the other one. There was something wrong about that Montmorenci vintage, for all her sparkle; corked or something. Now, my Susan's all good,-good the second day, good the third day, good every day. She's like port-all the better for keeping; and she's not like po

n in-door morning

I think it would be better if I told them at once that I had been jilted, and instead of the Montmore

ntinually correcting that little mistake of yours. How can I possibly ke

on your merits, which I am sure are quite sufficient? Of course it w

your friends that you have no cause to be ashamed of me. It will be much easier t

heir lips! That reminds me, by the bye [seriously], of another set of appearances, Susan, which we have to guard against,-the pretence and show of poverty. You must learn to steel your heart against that, my dear. There's that nephew of mine been writing one of his persistent and appeal

ng]. Yes, si

Why do you call

nate nephew, but please don't let us talk about it. It makes me feel less reverence, less respect, and even less gratitude, sir,-it does, indeed,-since your very generosity toward me has made me the inst

ou whipped, if I know women. And as for my nephew-[Noises of wheels heard, and bell rings.] But there's the front-door bell. Here are our visitors from town. Ha

hat she calls the hand of forgiveness to Charles and his wife, just because they've got a baby. I'll never do it i

e, Rasper,

all]. Welcome, my friends,

he Tamarisks! [Pointing to the piano and portfolio.] I mean how

, but we now see everywhere, in addition to its form

the new coach-house, I said, "By Jove, that's Mrs. N--'

. You were very

ransformation-scene has been effected. Pianos, harpsichords, sketch-b

llow?-that is, if the contents have the interest for us that we

for her in Piccadilly.-But here she comes to answer for herself. [Enter Susan.] Sus-I mean Constance,

lemens, I am mos glad to see you. My

l. If she had been English I should

m. The noble are always kind. [Aside to

oward her in ala

If I had met your wife anywhere-in an omnibus, for instance-and onl

, now, my dear Sponge? Well, that

that you speak English. We were afraid we should find it difficult

n courts and camps-or, at all events, in courts-we should have some di

ng herself] Dat is, I do trai mai best. It please my mari-my wh

y dear. I could always make myself understood abroad, y

ughing].

nge looks of

ung brother-Count Maximilian de Montmorenci-at school in England, and what she knows of our language

are, coot your luckies, whos your hattar?

and Robinson roa

ve told her about my family. [With indignation]

yas! [Opens the portfolio; the three guests

nch and go away. They put me in a profuse

sketch-book in hi

r on tiptoe]. Exquisite! most lo

ike it before. [Aside] If I haven't seen that

fore, Mr.-Gasper? Think of that, my h

omfortably]. Ha! ha

But I have, though; an

ue! I am so happy, so proud! My husband, they

nge clap their ha

chromolithograph! [To Nokes] I say, Nokes, you wrote to us in such

lways do it. It's been a family peculiarity for centuries,-like the Banshee. And, besides, she does it to keep her ha

n I suppose it's no use asking h

a bit; of course not; and, besid

Mr. Gasper? Did you not ask for a lee

icide! [To Rasper] My dear fellow, my wife would be delighted, but

o very well. He only said we must note "thomp, thomp" until he

s the favor to choose? [Aside] There is nothing I love so much in this

[points to her ear]. But what would you like, gentlemens? Handel,

ave Mendelssohn,-one of those exq

I like dose songs best mys

she can get out of this. Now we shall have

Ah, quel dommage! How stupide, too, when he told me not to "thomp, thomp"! I am so sorr

a'am,-unless its strings are in the same

er? I am so glad, because I do not play it yet myself: I am onl

the harp, madam! what r

ccompany one of Mrs. Nokes's charming songs. [Brings the har

! He'll ruin everything. Susan is at her wits' end

r Se

roaching Susan, he adds, in lower but distinct tones] A la

ised]. A lad

hoever she is: it will be an excuse for getting away from these people.-My wife i

, kisses his hand to her.] Adorable Susan, you have conquered, you remain in possession of the field; bu

cheaply attired. Susan rises, bows,

ainst your visitor. I am Charles's-that is, your husband's niece by marriage; not a near relation to

ut I do, ma'am. I wish to be as hard as a stone. [Aside]

ing courage by their report, and being poor myself, and, alas! having

s me-but there! have I not promised my husband to be brutal and unfeeling? [Aloud] Madame, I am sorry, but

but my love,-but not wicked. He has a noble heart. His sorrow is not upon his own account, but for his wife and child. He has bent his proud spirit t

art alive! I'm melting

poor Berkshire c

cting herself.] A poor curé's daughter-yas, ya

n used to straits, even before my poor father died. But my husband has been always

ut still speaking broken English.]

Yes, madam

and tremblingly].

adam. He was curate o

whom he was so kind and noble [sobbing]. I'm no more a Montmorenci than you are,-nor half as much. I'm a workhouse o

e gratitude in your kind face. I remember you now, tho

make fine birds. Lor, how I should like to have a talk with you about old time

in the laurel-bed, with Chicka

Enter Mr. Nokes, slightly elevated with

two of the others; they have no notion that your name is Susan-[sees Mrs. C.N.] I mean Constan

at lady is the daughter of my benefactor, Mr. Woodwa

ly glad to see you, ma'am, under this roof. [Aside to Susan] She don't look very prospero

oor, sir, and much in n

them here, ma'am. You're a fixture at "the

nd, sir, but I have a hus

ere for you and your husband and the little child,

window and calls,

ite as much champagne as is good f

y, which he holds at f

ng scoundrel! How dare you s

rfering]. You s

hing of the sort. I s

child. You promised us an asylum for life under yo

, this is all your fault; and yet you promised

dear husband. You hav

was all that last

tstretched hand to his uncle]. Come, sir, pray forgive me. I c

well what champagne is made of?-Well, sir, if you have regained your place here, remember it h

gether]. We shall never

since when I die-and supposing I have forgiven you-the child that has t

see that, sir. Why shouldn't

, but why shouldn't we? At all events, Susan [comes forward with Susan], I am sure I shall neve

es

RK LIB

hough not perhaps numerically so important. Of the fine arts the city is the acknowledged New World centre, and it is fast forming a literary circle as noteworthy as that of any other capital. The latter owes its existence in part, no doubt, to the great publishing-houses, but has b

ty-six gentlemen, with one lady, Mrs. Anne Waddel, are named members of the corporation. The style of the latter was changed to the "New York Society Library," and the usual corporate privileges were granted, including the right to purchase and hold real estate of the yearly value of one thousand pounds sterling. The Society is practically working under this charter to-day, the legislature of New York having confirmed it in 1789. The earliest printed catalogue known to be in existence was issued about 1758: it gives the titles of nine hundred and twenty-two volumes, with a list of members, one hundred and eighteen in all. A second catalogue followed in 1761. During the Revolution many of the volumes were scattered or destroyed. The first catalogue printed after the war enumerates five thousand volumes; these had increased in 1813 to thirteen thousand, in 1838 to twenty-five thousand, and the present number is estimated at seventy-five thousand. Down to 1795 the library was housed in the City Hall, and during the sessions of Congress was used by that body as a Congressional Library. Its first building was erected in 1795, in Nassau Street, opposite the Middle Dutch Church, and here the library remained until 1836, when, its premises becoming in demand for business purposes, it was sold, and the Society purchased a lot on the corner of Broadway and Leonard Street. A building was completed on this lot in 1840, and the library removed thither from the rooms of the Mechanics' Society in Chambers Street, where it had been placed on the sale of its property in 1836. In 1853 a third removal was made, to the Bible House, its property on Broadway being again swallowed up by the advancing tide of business. In the same year its present property on University Place was purchased, on which, two years later, in 1855, the commodious building which it now occupies was erected, the Society taking possession in May, 1856. Many features of the Society Library are unique, to be met with, perhaps, in no other organization of the kind in the world. Many of its members hold shares that have descended to them from father to son from the time of the first founders. The annual dues are placed at such a figure (ten dollars) as practically to debar people with slender purses. The scholar, however, may have the range of its treasures on paying a fee of twenty-five cents, and the stranger may enjoy the use of the library for one month o

books, manuscripts, statistics, newspapers, pictures, antiquities, medals, coins, and specimens in natural history. The Society made the usual number of removals before being finally established as a householder. From 1804 to 1809 it met in the old City Hall, from 1809 to 1816 in the Government House, from 1816 to 1832 in the New York Institution, from 1832 to 1837 in Remsen's Building, Broadway, from 1837 to 1841 in the Stuyvesant Institute, from 1841 to 1857 in the New York University, and at length, after surmounting many pecuniary obstacles, celebrated its fifty-third anniversary by taking possession of its present structure. Meantime, the efforts of the library committees had resulted in a collection of Americana of exceeding interest and value, the nucleus of the present library. In its one specialty this library is believed to be unrivalled. The Society has issued some twenty-four volumes of its own publications, in addition to numerous essays and addresses. Besides these, its library contains some seventy-three thousand volumes of printed works, chiefly Americana, many of them relating to the In

ty of New York." The instrument then proceeded to give specific directions as to how the money was to be applied: first, in the erection of a suitable building; second, in supplying the same with books, maps, charts, models, drawings, paintings, engravings, casts, statues, furniture, and other things appropriate to a library upon the most ample scale and liberal character; and, third, in maintaining and upholding the buildings and other property, and in paying the necessary expenses of the care of the same, and the salaries of the persons connected with the library, said library to be accessible at all reasonable hours and

oks arrived before this was completed they were placed temporarily in a hired house in Bond Street. The new building, which was opened January 9, 1854, was in the Byzantine style, after the design by Alexander Saeltzer, the lower story being of brownstone and the two upper stories of red brick. The main hall or library-room, beginning on the second floor, was carried up through two stories and lighted by a large skylight in the roof. Around the sides of this

d building, the present Astor Library, was opened in October, 1881, with two hundred thousand volumes and a shelf-capacity of three hundred thousand. Its present contents are estimated at two hundred and twenty thousand volumes, exclusive of pamphlets. The shelves are ranged in alcoves extending around the sides of the three main halls and subdivided into sections of six shelves each, each section being designated by a numeral. Each shelf is designated by a letter of the alphabet, beginning at the bottom with A. The alcoves have no distinguishing mark, the books being arranged therein by subjects which the distributing librarian is expected to carry in his mind. The first catalogue, in four volumes, was compiled by Dr. Cogswell and printed in 1861. This was followed in 1866 by an index of subjects from the same hand. Recently a catalogue in continuation of Dr. Cogswell's, bringing the work down to the end of 1880, has been prepared, and is being printed at the Riverside Press, Boston. The current card catalogue is arranged on the dictionary plan, giving author and subject under one alphabet. Opposite each title is written the number of the alcove and the letter designating the shelf. By the regulations the reader is requ

hand quite to the ceiling. At long, green-covered tables, ranged in two parallel lines through the halls, are seated the readers, in themselves an interesting study. Scientists, artists, literary men, special students, inventors, and dilettante loungers make up the company. They come with the opening of the doors at nine in the morning, and remain, some of them, until they close at five in the evening. There are daily desertions from their ranks, but always new-comers enough to fill the gaps. Their wants are as various as their conditions. This well-dressed, self-respectful mechanic wishes to consult the patent-office reports of various countries, in which the library is rich. His long-haired Saxon neighbor is poring over a Chinese manuscript, German scholars being the only ones so far who have attacked the fine collection of Chinese and Japanese works in the library. Next him is a dilettante reader languidly poring over "Lothair:" were the trustees to fill their shelves with trashy fiction, readers of his class would soon crowd out the more earnest workers. Here is a student with the thirty or more volumes of the "New England Historic Genealogical Register" piled before him, flanked on one side by the huge volumes of B

diate vicinity are many of the treasures of the library,-Zahn's great work on Pompeii, three volumes of very large folios, containing splendidly-colored frescos from the walls of the dead city; Sylvester's elaborate work of "Fac-Similes of the Illuminated Manuscripts of the Middle Ages," in four large folios; and also Count Bastard's great work on the same, seeming more sumptuous in gold, silver, and colors. Another notable work is Count Littar's "Genealogies of Celebrated Italian Families," in ten folio volumes, emblazoned in gold, and illustrated with richly-colored portraits finished like ivory miniatures. There are whole galleries of European art,-Versailles, Florence, Spain, the Vatican, Nash's Portfolio of Colored Pictures of Windsor Castle and Palace, the Royal Pitti Gallery, Munich, Dresden, and others. A work on the "Arch?ology of the Bosphorus," presented by the Emperor of R

script of the ninth century entitled "Evangelistarium,"-one of the finest existing productions of the revival of learning under Charlemagne; the "Sarum Missal," a richly-emblazoned manuscript of the tenth century; some choice Greek and Latin codices once belonging to the l

trustees three hundred thousand dollars in stocks of the county of New York and bonds and mortgage securities, and also the ten lots of land fronting on Fifth Avenue on which the library-building now stands. One hundred thousand dollars were set apart for the formation of a permanent fund, and two hundred thousand dollars for a building-fund. Contracts for a library-building were made early In 1872, and work on it was begun in May of the same year,-the structure being finished in 1875. It has a frontage of one hundred and ninety-two feet on Fifth Avenue, overlooking the Park, and a depth of one hundred and fourteen feet on both Seventieth and Seventy-first Streets. The general plan is that of a central structure connecting two turreted wings which enclose a spacious entrance-court. From the court the visitor enters a grand hall or vestibule, from which every part of the building is reached. At either end is a spacious library-room. Stone stairways lead from each end of the vestibule to the mezzanine, or half-story, and the second-story landings. From the latter one enters the principal gallery, ninety-six by twenty-four, devoted to sculpture, and opening on the east into the picture-gallery. At either end of the hall of sculpture are library- and reading-rooms similar to those on the first floor. The stairway on the north continues the ascent to an attic or third-floor gallery. The building throughout is fitted up in a style befitting a shrine of the arts. The first-floor library-rooms are one hundred and eight feet long by thirty feet wide and twenty-four feet high, with level ceilings, beautifully panelled an

on and scholarly use of some of the most rare and precious of such monuments and memorials of the typographic art and the historic past as have escaped the wreck and been preserved to this day. That exhibition and use must be governed by regulations which will insure to the fullest extent the security and preservation of the treasures intrusted to our care, in the enforcement of which the trustees anticipate the sympathy and co-operation of all scholars and men of letters, through whose use and labors alone the public at large must chiefly derive real and permanent benefit from this and all similar institutions." The "regulations" adopted by the trustees for the preservation of their treasures do not seem unreasonable. Admission is by ticket, which may be procured of the librarian by addressing him by mail. We have space for but the briefest possible glimpses at these treasures. The chief rarities in typography are found in the north and south libraries on the first floor. In "first editions" it would be difficult to say whether the library prides itself most on its Bibles, its Miltoniana, or its Shakesperiana. In Bibles the whole art of printing with movable types is fully portrayed, the series beginning with the "Mazarin," or Gutenberg, Bible, the first book ever printed with movable types. There are Bibles in all languages. There is the first complete edition of the New Testament in Greek ever published, its title-page dated Basle, 1516. In a glass case in the north library are the four huge "Polyglot" Bibles, marvels of typography, known as the Complutensian, Antwerp, Paris, and English Polyglots. In the same case repose the Codex Sinaiticus, Codex Alexandrinus, and Codex Vaticanus,-three great folios, in the original Greek and Hebrew, sacred to scholars as the works on which all authority for the Scriptures rests. Tyndale's New Testament, the first ever printed on English ground, dated London, 1536, is here, and that rare copy of the King James ver

rhaps being Powers's "Il Penseroso," the bust of Washington and the "Babes in the Wood" by Crawford, and the statue of Lincoln by Ball. In the picture-gallery on the east are a hundred and fifty subjects. On the south wall hangs a canvas which is at once recognized

ly life, but later removed to London. After distributing much dole to the poor of that city, he founded a library for clerks in Liverpool, and subsequently one in Boston, the latter being the first of its kind in this country. The various mercantile libraries at Albany, Philadelphia, New Orleans, and other places are said to have been founded on the plan of this. In 1820 Mr. Wood began interesting the merchants' clerks of New York in the project of a library for themselves. The first meeting to consider it was held at the Tontine Coffee-House, in Wall Street, on November 9 of that year; and at an adjourned meeting on the 27th of the same month a constitution was formed and officers elected. The young men contributed a little money for the purchase of books, the merchants more, many books were begged or purchased by Mr. Wood, and o

stor Place. Here, in May, 1855, the library opened, and here it has since remained, although for several years past the question of a farther removal up-town has been agitated. The constitution of this excellent institution provides that it shall be composed of three classes of members,-active, subscribing, and honorary. Any person engaged on a salary as clerk may become an active member, if approved by the board of directors, on subscribing to the constitution and paying an initiation-fee of one dollar, and two dollars for the first six months, his regular dues thereafter being two dollars semi-annually, in advance. Active members only may vote or hold office. Subscribing members may become such by a payment of five dollars annually or three dollars semi-annually. Persons of distinction may be elected honorary members by a vote of three-fourths of the members of the board of direction. The board of direction is composed of a president, vice-president, treasurer, secretary, and eight directors, the former elected

d the attendants have a respite for an hour. At seven the real rush begins, with the advent of the clerks and other patrons employed in store or office during the day, each intent on supplying himself with reading-matter for the next day. From this hour until the closing at nine the librarians are as busy as bees: there is a continual running from counter to alcove and from gallery to gallery. In some of the reports of the librarian interesting data are given of the tastes of readers and the popularity of books. Fiction, as we have seen, leads; but there is a growing taste for scientific and historical works. Buckle, Mill, and Macaulay are favorites, and Tyndall, Huxley, and Lubbock have many rea

82 was 164,100 volumes, and its beneficial influence on the class reached may be imagined. It is nevertheless a class library; and the fact still remains that New York, with her vast wealth and her splendid public and private charities, has yet to endow the great public library which will place within reach of her citizens the literary wealth of the ages. There is scarcely a disease, it is said, but has its richly-endowed hospital in the city, the number of eleemosynary institutions is legion, but the establishment of a public library, which is usually the first care of a free, rich, intelligent community, has been unaccountably neglected. The subject is now receiving the earnest thought of the best people of the city. Considerable difference of opinion exists as to the best method of founding and supporting such an institution. Some argue that this should be done by the city alone, holding that the self-respecting workingman and workingwoman will never patronize a free library instituted solely by private charity. Others urge that such an institution to be successful should be free from city control and entirely the result of private munificence. The latter gentlemen have added to the cogency of their arguments by a practical demonstration. Early in 1880 they organized on a small scale a free circulating library which should exist solely by the benefactions of the public, with the object of furnishing free reading at their homes to the people. The general plan adopted was a central library, with branches in the various wards, by this means bringing the centres of distribution within easy reach of the city's homes. The success of the institution has been such that its development should be carefully followed. It began operations by leasing two rooms of the old mansion, No. 36 Bond Street, and in March, 1880, "moved in," opening with a few hundred volumes donated chiefly from the libraries of its projectors. The first month-March-1044 volumes were circulat

s Burr

A IN THE

r felt by the soul at being enslaved to nature. Another writer regards them as an outburst of wrath on the part of the baby at finding itself powerless against environing circumstances. Some early theologians, on the other hand, pronounced squalling to be a proof of innate wickedness; and this view strikes one as being much nearer the mark. But none of these accounts are completely satisfactory. Innate wickedness may supply the conception; it is the dramatic instinct that suggests the means. Here is the real explanation of those yells which embitter the life of a young father and drive the veteran into temporary exile. It happens in this wise. The first aim of a baby-not yours, madam; yours is well known to be an exception, but of other and common babies-is to make itself a

ironment with his school-boy son might involve. But there is another side to the question; and at Christmas-time, for instance, most papas would probably be glad enough to exchange the joys and responsibilities of paternity for the simple taste which can tackle plum-puddin

ess. In the child the deviltries of the baby are partially curbed, but this loss is compensated for by superior bodily powers. Now, the virtuous child-if such a conception can be framed-when representing papa would delight to dwell on the better side of the paternal character, the finer feelings, the flashes of genius, the sallies of wit, the little touc

Whereupon he will twist himself into an unseemly tangle of legs and arms which is simply a barbarous trav

e laughter of the nurses and the admiring shrieks of his sisters there rises a weird sound, as of a sucking pig in extremis. Your son, my unfortunate friend, is attempting, with his childish treble pipes, to formulate a masculine snore. This is a gross calumny. You never-stop!-well, on one occasion

on that very day to be a passage of arms between mistress and cook. Rapidly forgotten by the principals, it has been carefully stored up in the memory of the witness, who will subsequently bestow an immense amount of misguided ene

e cast for the unpleasant or uninteresting characters of the nursery drama. They form convenient targets for the development of their

is not the virtuous, the benevolent, the amiable, that your child delights to imitate, but rather the tyrant and the destroyer, the ogre who subsists in rude plenty on the peasantry of the neighbor

ild is of course obliged to sacrifice his inclinations and personate Christian. The rest eagerly take service under Beelzebub and become the persecuting garrison. The "properties" required are of the simplest kind. The nursery sofa or settee-a position of great natural strength-is further fortified with chairs and other furniture to represent the stronghold of the enemy. Christian should be equipped with a wide-awake hat, a stick, and a great-coat (papa's will do, or, better still, a visitor's), with a stool wrapped up in a towel and slung over his shoulders to do duty as the bundle of sins. He is then made to totter along to a "practical" gate (two chairs are the right thing) at the far end of the room, while the hosts of d

bination of horrors is supplied by the cannibal feast which Crusoe interrupts. The youngest member of the troupe is, on the whole, the best victim; but, failing this, any pet animal sufficiently lazy or good-tempered to endure the process makes a t

es under some difficulties. It has, of course, to contend with the undisguised opposition of authority. This is hardly a matter for marvel, and perhaps not even a matter for regret. A prudential regard for the knees of puerile knickerbockers and the corresponding regio

instead of being carefully observed, were either disregarded as meaningless or repressed as being naughty. No greater mistake could be possible; and this at last is beginning to be understood. The first struggles of a young consciousness to express itself externally are nearly always eccentric, and often seem perverse. But this is nothing more than we ought to expect. The oddities of a child's conduct are in reality nothing else than direct expressions of character, uncurbed by the conventions which regulate the demeanor of adults, or direct revelations of some taste or aptitude, which education may foster, but which neglect will hardly crush. The world contains a woful number of human pegs thrust forcibly into holes which do not fit them, an

n Pea

NTHLY

n who L

ckle, and the high, cackling tones in which many of the feminine half of the world express their sense of amusement, attest very painfully the animal nature within us. It was Emerson, I believe, who expressed a dislike of all loud laughter; and it is difficult to imagine the scene or occasion which could draw from that serene and even-minded philosopher a broader expression of amusement than that conveyed in the "inscrutable smile" which Whipple desc

sure of his hand. Yet among such remembrances we hold others, of those from whom the sound of open laughter is seldom heard, the absence of which, however, denotes no diminished sense of the humorous and amusing.

ds to this description, a laugh as pure and melodious, as guiltless of premeditated art or intention, as the notes of the rising lark; yet its owner is a man of wide worldly experience. It is natural that I, who know my friend so well, should find in this peculiarly happy laugh of his the sign and test of that type of high, sincere manhood which he represents; but it is a dangerous business, this attempting to define the character and disposition of people by the turn of an eyelid, the curve of a lip, or a particular vocal shade and inflection. Not only has Art learned to imitate Nature very closely, b

is one of the thin disguises in which a certain kind of knavery seeks to hide itself, but it is easy to conjecture that the low ruffian type of villain, like that seen in Bill Sykes and Jonas C

r's, limekiln in which the body of the Polish Jew was burned. Genuine laughter must spring from a pure and undefiled source. It may not always be of tuneful quality, but it must at least contain the note of sincerity. I have in mind the outbursts of deep-chested sound with which another friend evinces his appreciation of a humorous

n a sigh of mingled relief and exhaustion an octave or so lower down. This particular girl, however, takes the other way, and, running her chromatic neatly up from about middle C, pauses for a breath, and then astonishes her audience by striking off two perfectly attuned notes several degrees higher up, hitting her mark with t

ay their character than in what they find to laugh at," adding, "The man of understanding finds almost everything ridiculous, the man of thought scarce

also be held to signify that there are more things in the world deserving our approval than our condemnation. But the hideous spectacle presented in the contorted visage of Hugo's great character contains a wholesome warning even for us of a later age; for there is a social tyranny, almost as potent as the kingly despotism which ruled the world centuries ago, that would fain shape the features of its victims after one

P.

Forge

friend Longfellow. Walking away from the cemetery with his companion, he said, "That gentleman whose funeral we have just attended was a sweet and beautiful soul, but I cannot rec

o the names of common objects, so that in talking he would use quaint, roundabout expressions to supply the place of

me. It is at our tongue's end; we know just what sort of a name it is; it begins with a B; yet did we try for a year it would not come. One curious fact about the phenomenon is that it seems to be contagious. If one person sud

while other things we have forgotten and are trying to recall generally yield themselves to our efforts. Moreover, in other cases of forgetfulness we never experience that peculiar and most exasperating feat

hing tends to call up another in the mind. When you recall a certain sleigh-ride last winter, you remember that you put hot bricks in the sleigh; and this reminds you that you were intending to heat a warming-pan for the bed to-night; and the thought of warming the bed makes you think of poor President Garfield's sickness, during which they tried to cool his room with ice. Each of these thoughts (ideas) has evidently called up another

you cannot remember the route of that sleigh-ride. You recall carefully all the circumstances associated with the ride, in hopes that some one of them will suggest the route that was taken. You think of your companions, of the moon being full, of having borrowed extra robes, of the hot bricks-Ah, there is a clue! The bricks were reheated somewhere. Where was it? They were placed on a stove,-on a red-hot stove with a loafers' foot-rail about it. That settles it. Such stoves

from the neighborhood of that sleigh-ride many years before, and in thinking over past times find yourself unable to recall the name of the Corners where the store stood. The place can be remembered perfectly, and a thousand circumstances connected with it, but they furnish no clue to the name: the circumstances might all remain the same and the name be any other as well. The only association the name has is with an indistinct memo

is remembered,-by force of familiarity. Constant repetition engraves them in the mind. When in old age the vigor of the mind

, mentioning names of persons and places whenever they can be remembered. If this is done in a casual way, without thinking of the purpose in view,-as if one were sending a gossipy letter of personal history to a friend,-the mind falls into an aut

s Cl

ce of Harrie

ng of chubby ponies,-these last a gift from the coppery Indian to the country he was fast forsaking. Clouds of clear grit drifted into open casements on every passing breeze, or, if a gale arose, were driven through every crevice. Our little city was cradled amid the shifting sand-hills on Michigan's wave-beaten shore. Indeed, it had received the name of the grand old lake in loving baptism, and was pluckily determined to wear it worthily. Its buildings were wholly of wood, and hastily constructed, some not entirely unpre

milk was held sacred to the use of babes. Miss Martineau listened to the professor's complaints with a twinkle of mirth in her eyes, while that indignant gentleman vigorously applied himself to the solid edibles at hand. Shortly after breakfast the strangers sallied forth in search of floral treasures, over the low sand-hills stretching toward the lake (a spur of which penetrated the main street), where in the face of the sandy drift nestled a shanty quite like the "dug-out" of the timberless lands in Kansas and New Mexico. The tomb-like structure, half buried in sand, only its front being visible, seemed to afford Miss Martineau no end of surprised amusement as she climbed to its submerged roof on her way to the summit of the hill. A window-garden of tittering young women merrily watched the progress of the quick-stepping Englishwoman, and, really, there was some provocation to mirth, from their stand-point. Anything approaching a blanket, plain, plaided, or striped, had never disported itself before their astonished gaze as a part of feminine apparel, except on the back of a grimy sq

the least promising of her perishable plunder. She must have had a passion for flowers, judging from the tenderness with which

dled into the room. Closing the door, our hostess curled herself comfortably on a gayly-cushioned lounge, and proceeded to adjust a serpent-like, squirming appendage to her ear. With an encouraging nod, she bade us commence, closing her eyes meanwhile with an air of expectant rapture. But the vibrating trumpet stirred our foolish souls to explosive laughter, partially smothered in a simultaneous strangled cough. Wondering at the double paroxysm and subsequent hush of shame, she unclosed her ey

nds and pursing her mouth curiously, she began, in a high, quavering voice, a song whose burden was the fixed object

a pity such a p

o a nunnery to p

a nun,-- no, I

pleasure that I

ery repetition of the refrain, Susy and I squeezed our locked fingers spasmodically in order to suppress the unseeml

rew around her in England and America, to remember, in connection with her strong, plain face and brilliant in

C.

URE OF

dence[A]." Edited by Elizabeth Cary Ag

n 1779, of Jomini, the greatest of all writers on military operations, whose precocious genius, while he was a mere stripling and before he had witnessed any battles or manoeuvres, penetrated the secret of Bonaparte's combinations and victorious campaigns, which veteran commanders were watching with mere wonderment and dismay. At Motiers, a few miles farther north, was born, in 1807, Louis Agassiz, who at an equally early age displayed a like intuitive comprehension of many of the workings of Nature, and who subsequently became the chief exponent of the glacial theory and the highest authority on the structure and classification of fishes. Each of these two men gave his ripest powers and longest labors to a great country far from their common home,-Jomini to Russia, Agassiz t

d tastes that were perhaps accidentally formed. But every earnest worker reveals in his methods and achievements not alone his intellectual capacities, but all the deep and essential qualities of his nature. With Agassiz this was conspicuously the case. The enthusiasm, the singleness of purpose, and the indefatigable energy that constituted the fond, so to speak, of his character were as open to view as the features of his countenance. Hence the single and strong impression he produced on all with whom he came in contact,

profession, yielded, not to any urgent appeals or dogged display of resolution, but to the proof given by his labors that he was choosing more wisely for himself. Cuvier, without any request or expectation, resigned to the neophyte who, after following in his footsteps, was outstripping him in certain lines, drawings and notes prepared for his own use. Humboldt, at a critical moment, saved him from the necessity for abandoning his projects by an unsolicited loan, supplemented by many further acts of assistance of a different kind. In England every possible facility and aid was afforded to him as well by private indiv

t his "magnetism," to use the current word, lay in the ardor and singleness of his devotion to science, not as an abstraction, but as a potent agency in civilization, in the union of elevation with enthusiasm, in an openness that seemed to reveal everything, yet nothing that should have been hidden. Hence this biography, little as it deals with purely personal matters, awakens an interest of precisely the same kind as that which the li

rated

e Mount." Boston:

. Illustrated from Nature by Elbridge Kingsle

ge." A Romaunt. By Lord B

. Illustrated by George Wharton Edwards and F.

r Young Folks." Prepared by Howard

ng 'Alice's Adventures in Wonderland,'" B

Harrison. Illustrated by Walter Cran

kton. Illustrated by A.B. Frost.

n actual dreams, but are founded instead upon the ecstatic visions of Fra Angelico and others as they bent over their work in their silent cells; but they are beautiful nevertheless, far transcend what is merely decorative, and are full of imagination and feeling. In fact, into this frame-work, which might have contained nothing beyond conventional imitation, Mr. Smith has put vivid touches which show that he has the faculty to conceive and the skill to handle which belong to the true artist. It would be easy to instance several of these borders as remarkably good in their way: that which surrounds the "Lord's Prayer" suggests dazzling effects in jewelled glass. The book is made up in a delightful way, with full-page pictures interspersed with vignettes illustrating the text and set round with those richly-designed borders to which we have alluded. Mr. Fenn's pictures of actual places in the Holy Land, besides striking the key-note of veracity which puts us in a mood to see the whole story under fresh lights, are full of beau

, the work of a single artist. That Mr. Kingsley is in sympathy with the poet, and that he is an impassioned lover of nature and the various moods of nature, no one can doubt, and the impression of truthfulness which his work produces on the mind makes his pictures interesting and full of sentiment even when they are not e

of art when the artist can bring out meanings and beauties in the text hitherto undreamed of; but we acquit the artists of the present book of any failure in that respect, for their intention seems never to have gone beyond amiable commonplace. The little cuts are all pleasant, trim, and, if not s

ggesting Lamb's "All, all are gone, the old familiar faces." It must henceforth be ranked as a classic, for it is the happy destiny of the two artists who have worked together to give it this exquisite setting forth to make its actual worth clear to every reader. They have put nothing into the lines which was not there already, but they have shown fine insight in their choice of subjects and in conveying delicate and far-reaching meanings. They have subordinated-as designers do not invariably do-their inst

sy marb

ps that h

heir

es, head- and tail-pieces, and the like, are executed in a way so pretty and clever as to leave nothing to be desired. The ric

olid entertainment in the richly-seasoned feast prepared for it. There is plenty of humor and whim in this volume, in which many old apologues appear in new shapes; wit, too, is to be found, and a sprinkling of wisdo

y the Goblin" is one of the many volumes which have been founded, so to say, on its idea and been carried along by its impulse. Thus little can be said for the actual originality of the

ts covers. The stories are told with the verve and skill of a genuine story-teller, old themes are reset, and new material dexterously worked i

ect passes the domain of the artist, Mr. Stockton's humor being of that delicate and elusive order which strikes the inward and not the outward sense. "Pom

TNO

rollope, "What drivel the man writes! He

RIBER'

reads 'Corr