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 as he thought, duplicity in every line of his countenance, so governed are our ideas by accidental circumstances! His love, his reverence for his brother, shrunk into nothing, and he believed the voice of the dead against all those superficial appearances which had hitherto lulled him into an unsuspecting confidence. After a short pause, "I have been complying with your wishes, my dear brother," said the Count, "and had just opened the business to your wife as you appeared."

"Ah! Ferdinand," cried Claudina, "can you think of leaving me, of exposing your life to the uncertain chance of war?"

"The hand of Providence is there, is here, and every where," answered Ferdinand. "Fear not for me, my dear Claudina, divest yourself of prejudice, consider my situation dispassionately, and you will be reconciled to an inevitable necessity."—"I leave you," said the Count, 'to discuss the subject between yourselves; my prayers and wishes have been unsuccessful; you, Madam, may have more influence." He bowed, and left the room.


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80 of rhetorical self-defence. At last he came to Rome, and answered his opponent. His speech has not reached us; but we know that it contained the old charges of having put Roman citizens to death without trial in the case of the abettors of Catiline, and of having instigated Milo to the assassination of Clodius. Antony added a new charge—that of complicity with the murderers of Cæsar. Above all, he laughed at Cicero's old attempts as a poet; a mode of attack which, if not so alarming, was at least as irritating as the rest. Cicero was not present—he dreaded personal violence; for Antony, like Pompey at the trial of Milo, had planted an armed guard of his own men outside and inside the Senate-house. Before Cicero had nerved himself to reply, Antony had left Rome to put himself at the head of his legions, and the two never met again.

The reply, when it came, was the terrible second Philippic; never spoken, however, but only handed about in manuscript to admiring friends. There is little doubt, as Mr Long observes, that Antony had also some friend kind enough to send him a copy; and if we may trust the Roman poet Juvenal, who is at least as likely to have been well informed upon the subject as any modern historian, this composition eventually cost the orator his life. It is not difficult to understand the bitter vindictiveness of Antony. Cicero had been not merely a political opponent; he had attacked his private character (which presented abundant grounds for such attack) with all the venom of his eloquence. He had said, indeed, in the first of

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Rh these powerful orations, that he had never taken this line.

"If I have abused his private life and character, I have no right to complain if he is my enemy: but if I have only followed my usual custom, which I have ever maintained in public life,—I mean, if I have only spoken my opinion on public questions freely,—then, in the first place, I protest against his being angry with me at all: or, if this be too much to expect, I demand that he should be angry with me only as with a fellow-citizen."

If there had been any sort of reticence on this point hitherto on the part of Cicero, he made up for it in this second speech. Nothing can equal its bitter personality, except perhaps its rhetorical power. He begins the attack by declaring that he will not tell all he knows—"in order that, if we have to do battle again hereafter, I may come always fresh-armed to the attack; an advantage which the multiplicity of that man's crimes and vices gives me in large measure." Then he proceeds:—

"Would you like us, then, to examine into your course of life from boyhood? I conclude you would. Do you remember that before you put on the robe of manhood, you were a bankrupt? That was my father's fault, you will say. I grant it—it is a defence that speaks volumes for your feelings as a son. It was your own shamelessness, however, that made you take your seat in the stalls of honourable knights, whereas by law there is a fixed place for bankrupts, even when they have become so by fortune's fault, and not their

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Richardson v. Wright/Dissent Douglas

MR. JUSTICE DOUGLAS, dissenting.

While I join MR. JUSTICE BRENNAN who reaches the merits, I add a word about the unwisdom of the policy pursued by the Court.

[p210] A three-judge district court held § 225 of the Social Security Act, 42 U.S.C. § 425, unconstitutional, insofar as it purported to authorize the Secretary of Health, Education, and Welfare to suspend the payment of social security disability benefits without giving prior notice and "an opportunity to participate" to the disability beneficiary. 321 F. Supp. 383, 386. The court remanded the cause to the Secretary for the formulation of new procedures consistent with its opinion. Judge Matthews, troubled by an implication in the majority's opinion that participation merely by way of written submissions might satisfy the majority's notions of due process, dissented "from so much of the opinion as seems to suggest that the procedural requirements of due process may be satisfied with something less than the 'opportunity' [to participate] specified in [Goldberg v. Kelly, 397 U.S. 254]." Id., at 388. We noted probable jurisdiction in these cross-appeals to evaluate the opinion below in light of Goldberg. 404 U.S. 819.

Now, however, it is suggested that the Secretary has so far complied with the instructions of the District Court to formulate new procedures that we should remand the cases to the District Court for further proceedings in light of these new requirements. Such a course, I submit, would be a perversion of the philosophy of due process that we expressed in Goldberg.

Judge Matthews, below, captured the essence of Goldberg in her brief partial dissent: "'In Goldberg the Supreme Court held that a welfare recipient, in addition to timely and adequate notice detailing the reasons for a proposed termination of benefits, must have 'an effective opportunity to defend by confronting any adverse witnesses and by presenting his own arguments and evidence orally.'' 321 F. Supp., at 387-388." [p211] It cannot seriously be argued that the Secretary's "new rules" comport with Goldberg. They may cure the notice defect, but they make no provision whatsoever for the presentation of oral testimony or the confrontation of witnesses. We noted probable jurisdiction, I thought, to determine if the difference between "welfare" payments and "disability" payments is sufficient to say that one's Fifth Amendment right to be hard may be satisfied by an opportunity to make written submissions in the latter case, although not in the former. We heard oral argument on this basis. Because of the inadequacy of the new rules, in light of Goldberg, the question will remain regardless of the outcome of a remand.

I think it unseemly, needlessly to shuttle any litigant, especially an indigent, back and forth from court to court, hoping that his exhaustion of newly created remedies will somehow or other make his problem disappear and relieve us of an obligation. No concession promising justice to the claimants has been made. The issue of due process [p212] was properly raised and is here for decision; and all the requirements of case or controversy within the meaning of Art. III of the Constitution have been satisfied.

title: Richardson v. Wright/Dissent Douglas


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CHAP. IV

a few moments they were silent; at length Ferdinand explained to her his motives without entering into any strictures on his brother's conduct; and by the arguments he adduced in support of his plan, brought her to be convinced, or at least to appear convinced, that he was perfectly right. He mentioned his intention to take a small cottage for her and his children, at the same time that he told her of the Count's wishes that she would remain at the Castle.—"On this head, my dear Claudina, your inclinations shall decide, for I wish to leave you


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 perfectly contented with your situation in my absence, determine therefore as you feel most inclined."

"I own, then," answered she, 'that I prefer staying here; to remove into a strange house, among strange people, unaccustomed to manage for myself, would be altogether unpleasant. Here, as our good brother solicits our stay, I can at least be as comfortable as it is possible I can be in your absence, and make myself useful enough to do away any sense of obligation."

"As you please, so let it be," returned Ferdinand, rather hurt at her choice, but determined not to control her, "and I hope a few days will finish all our preparations, and give me strength to repair to Vienna." A further conversation took place relative to domestic matters; but he cautiously concealed the two extraordinary occurrences that had befallen him, because he had never yet undeceived her, with respect to the pardon which, she believed, the late Count had accorded to him before his death.


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 In the course of the evening Ferdinand saw Ernest, and related to him, not only what had past between his brother and himself, but the words which he had a second time heard in his apartment. "It was the same voice that I heard before in the room where my father's body lay. You, Ernest, will believe me, to no one else would I mention the circumstance, for from no one else should I gain credit; but it is wondrous strange!"

"True, Sir," answered the steward; "but nothing is impossible, and now forewarned, you may guard against any evil practices."—"Would to Heaven my wife had otherwise decided," cried Ferdinand.

"Do not be uneasy, Sir," replied Ernest, "whilst I have life and limbs I will be faithful to your family, nothing shall escape my observation." "But if you should be discharged?"

"I have some cause to think that cannot well take place, and should I quit the house, I have an infallible method of knowing what passes here; whilst I live, therefore, you need not fear."


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 This cheerful assurance calmed the tumult of Ferdinand's mind, and enabled him with alacrity to prepare for his journey. The following day Ernest waited on him by the Count's order with a handsome sum of money for his necessary expenses; the colour mounted to Ferdinand's cheeks, he hesitated, paced about the room, and seemed in violent agitations.—"Pray, dear Sir," cried Ernest, 'take the money, think of it less as your brother's present, than as a small part of your father's property, to which you have unquestionably a right."

"Not so," replied Ferdinand, "I can have no right to what he has bequeathed from me, and to receive pecuniary favours from a man I think capable of duplicity, lowers me in my own esteem."

"Be not so scrupulous, Sir, I beseech you," returned Ernest; 'take it, fortune may enable you to return it, and I'll pledge my life you will not hereafter regret accepting the money, or think much of the obligation as you call it."


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 "You persuade me," said Ferdinand, "and against my inclinations I comply; (then seeing the largeness of the sum, ) good Heavens! can this man have a bad heart? Is there not munificence in this present? O, Rhodophil, if concurrent circumstances have led me into an error, if I injure you by doubt and suspicion, how severe will be my repentance!"—Ernest was silent, indeed he could not view the necessary arrangement for the departure of a man he loved and revered, without feeling the deepest sorrow; yet he thought the plan he had adopted was most suitable to his birth, his age and situation, and therefore only regretted the necessity for its execution, whilst Ferdinand painfully looking forward to the hour of separation from a wife and children that he doted on, sought, in the bustle of preparation, to blunt the severity of his feelings.

The day of parting at length arrived, and as such scenes can afford no gratification to


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 minds of sensibility, we shall not dwell upon them: Sorrow was reciprocal on all sides, at least to appearance, and we cannot penetrate into the remotest corner of the heart, therefore give those appearances due credit. To follow Ferdinand would be unnecessary, we shall then take this opportunity to look back into the family history of his father, the late Count Renaud.


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CHAP. V.

from a noble and an opulent family, Count Renaud succeeded to the estates of his ancestors at the age of five-and-twenty: Two years previous to which he had, to please his family, married a Lady of noble birth and great riches, her only recommendations. Proud, fastidious, and violent, she sought, by the haughtiness of her demeanour, to exact that respect and servility as substitutes for veneration and esteem, to which her manners and conduct laid no claims. The Count, who had another attachment, conscious that he was deficient


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 in tenderness to her, and afraid of irritating a spirit so ungovernable by any opposition to her plans, quietly permitted her to conduct his household as she pleased, nor ever interfered with her pursuits or expenses. Nearly at the same period, when he came into the possession of his father's fortune, his wife presented him with an heir in the person of Rhodophil. The birth of a son made him for some time more attentive to his Lady, but his affection for a dearer object soon drew him into his customary distant civilities. Happily the Countess had no violent susceptibilities, her heart had never been softened by love, and though she was often provoked at the neglect of her Lord, yet her feelings arose more from disappointed pride, than from any warmth of affection, consequently, though displeased, she was not grieved, and offended pride found a relief in the imperiousness of her manners to all those who were subjected to her caprice.


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 When her son was about a twelvemonth old, a young Lady, who was a near relation to the Countess, and had just been liberated from a convent where she had resided from childhood for education, came to pay them a visit: She was received with kindness by the Countess, with politeness by the Count; but in less than a fortnight the sentiments of both parties underwent a total alteration.

Caroline, the name of this young Lady, had one of the finest forms imagination could paint; her face was handsome, her air and manners captivating, from a certain kind of bashful naivete which joined to a natural elegance, was extremely fascinating. At first sight you admired her, on an acquaintance an unprejudiced mind must love her. By imperceptible degrees, even to himself, the Count grew enchanted with the charms of Caroline, he delighted in her society; she was sensible, gentle, and unassuming; she was to him a new character; his Lady proud of her birth and riches, with a natural vio-


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 lence of temper, and devoid of personal attractions, was more than indifferent; she was disgusting to him: His mistress, vain of her charms, conscious of the power she had long held over his affections, and which had received additional strength from the birth of a daughter, had for some time past relaxed in her endeavours to please, and by her little solicitude to amuse him in those hours which he devoted to her, had insensibly weakened her powers of attraction, and rendered the visits he paid her rather a retreat from the more disagreeable society at the Castle, than the effects of that violent passion he had once and for a long while felt for her, and which, perhaps, only her own folly and caprice caused an abatement of.

His passions were therefore in that dormant state which of all others is the most dangerous in a susceptible mind, because, if once roused into action, they blaze with more uncontrolled fury than when kept in constant agitation. Such was the Count's situation


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 when first Caroline became an inmate in his house; nor did her person at first sight appear particularly charming; he sought her company and conversation more as a pleasing variety than from any expectation of delight; but a short time convinced him how dangerous an indulgence was the society of a young and beautiful girl, who, new to the world, was grateful for the attentions he paid her, pleased with his conversation, and desirous of profiting by the information his understanding daily unfolded to her. Every hour her attractions gained upon his heart, and he was sensible that he had conceived a passion more delicate and violent than any he had ever before admitted to his bosom.

Unhappily the young and inexperienced Caroline caught the infection, the contagion spread itself through her innocent mind, and she grew melancholy and unhappy; for a long time insensible of the nature of her disease, until one morning that some unguarded expressions, and too tender looks of


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 the Count, too fully explained his sentiments, and taught her to develop the secret of her own. Extremely shocked at the discovery, when she withdrew to her apartment she took herself severely to task for her involuntary crime, and directly determined to quit the house, and fly the dangerous society of its master. Whilst she was forming this prudent resolution the Countess entered her apartment, her features deformed by passion, her eyes flashing fire: "Insolent, depraved, ungrateful girl!" exclaimed she, "so, you have formed a vile intrigue with my husband; under a pretence of visiting me you carry on your shameless connexion in my very house. Abandoned wretch! I have seen, I have heard enough; you shall quit it this day, base as you are, I will expose you to my servants, to your friends, and to the world."

She was stopped in the midst of her threats by seeing the unhappy girl fall senseless at her feet. She rang the bell for assistance, but on the entrance of the servants continued her


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 exclamations and upbraidings. "Recover the infamous creature who has so basely injured me; pack up her rags, and the moment her senses return, turn her out of the house to her base paramour my husband, whom she has seduced from me. I have discovered their intrigue, nor shall she sleep again under this roof. Disobey me at your peril," said she to the servants, who stood aghast at her fury; "let her be thrust out from my house within this hour." She flew out of the room at the moment when returning life visited the cheeks of the much-injured Caroline.

She opened her eyes and beheld the servants; she looked with terror round the room, her ears still holding the dreadful words which had deprived her of her senses. Seeing only the two women who looked on her with compassion, though believing her guilty: "Am I a base, infamous wretch?" said she: "Is my character lost, my innocence blasted, by vile suspicions? O, Heavens! what is to become of me, injured and un-


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 done, whither can I fly? But no, I will not go, I will see the Countess, she must, she shall hear me. I am innocent, indeed I am," added she, bursting into a torrent of tears that greatly affected the women, who endeavoured to sooth her into a composure impossible to be obtained. One of them, more courageous than the other, offered to go in search of her Lady, and entreat an audience for the poor afflicted.—"No," said she, rising hastily from the bed, "I will not entreat, I will demand to be heard, and you shall accompany me." She rather flew than walked towards the Countess's dressing room, who was at that moment abusing her in the vilest terms to her own woman. Caroline burst into the room, surprise chained the Countess to her chair, and stopped her tongue.

"Hear me, Madam," said she; "it is a justice I demand; you have accused, condemned, and insulted me with the charge of crimes my soul abhors: You seek to murder my future happiness by destroying my


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 reputation. You are deceived and abused. Neither my conduct or sentiments ever injured you, and the infamous accusation of an intrigue with your husband is as false as Heaven is true; to that Heaven I appeal for my innocence and integrity. I will leave your house, but not as a guilty wretch, nor until my uncle arrives to take me hence; confine me to this room if you please, I will only see the Count once more, and that shall be in your presence: He will do me justice; but you shall not drive me from hence until you have recalled your accusations, and that I can depart with a character unspotted, as my heart is unstained, with guilt."

That the Countess heard her so long without interruption proceeded not from patience, or a desire of hearing her in her own defence: On the contrary, surprise and increasing rage precluded speech for a few moments; but just as Caroline pronounced the last words, she sprang forwards, and struck her so violent a blow as laid her on the floor, and would


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 have trampled upon her, had not the women with-held her by violence. The noise of the fall, her rage, and the screams of the servants, alarmed the whole household, and the Count, who had just entered from the garden, hearing and seeing the confusion, ran up stairs with them to learn the occasion.—What were his emotions on entering his wife's dressing-room, to behold Caroline on the floor weltering in her blood, and the Countess foaming, stamping with rage, and struggling with her servants.

He flew to the senseless Caroline: "My God! what—how is this? Is she killed?" he was going to say; but overpowered, he sunk into a chair, whilst those that had followed him raised the poor girl from the floor, and said, the blood proceeded from her nose.—The women, who held the Countess, now gave way to her ungovernable rage, and carried off the poor victim of it to another room. The shock actually suspended all powers in the Count, and he looked on his


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Talk:October Manifesto

License
Witte died 1915 but I cannot see mention of when Obolenskii died. -- Beardo (talk) 20:20, 26 February 2024 (UTC)

 * This is Alexei/Alexis Dmitrievich Obolensky/Obolenskiy (24 November/6 December 1855-21 September 1933), per MarkLSteadman (talk) 20:57, 26 February 2024 (UTC)
 * Thanks. -- Beardo (talk) 23:00, 27 February 2024 (UTC)
 * I will note that Daniel Field is likely the Russian historian from Syracuse and author of The End of Serfdom and Rebels in the Name of the Tsar. This text is probably copied from the Seton Hall "Documents of Russian History Collection" so we should likely try to find a sourced public domain translation. It may be published without copyright notice (I didn't find it in those books). MarkLSteadman (talk) 13:39, 28 February 2024 (UTC)

title: Talk:October Manifesto


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 wife with an air of stupid wildness. She, mistaking the cause of his silence, vented her passion in such language, and spoke of Caroline in such infamous, opprobrious terms, that he was no longer at a loss to account for the scene he had witnessed. He started up like a mad-man, seizing her hands, he forced her into a chair: "Sit there, Madam," he cried, in a voice choked with rage and horror; "Stir not for your life till I have seen that angel you have so basely injured: Yes, she is an angel, innocent and spotless; dare not to quit this apartment. When I have seen the injured Caroline I shall know what treatment you deserve." He quitted the room, and on entering the apartment where the unhappy girl was carried, found her restored to her senses, and the blood stopped; but she had a violent bruise on the side of her head, and another on her shoulder; she was incapable of speaking, and whilst she was conveyed to bed, and a surgeon was sent for, the Count was nearly distracted. One of the women gave him complete information of


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 58 golian hordes, however, under Chingiz and his successors, put an end to all such practices, and from that time till the date when Mirza Haidar's history closes (and probably for long after also), the country reverted to a purely pastoral condition. When, therefore, we read of the cities of Taráz, Bálásaghun, Aimal, Bishbálik, Almáligh, etc., within the Moghul period, it can hardly be that Moghul cities are intended, but rather encampments—some of them, perhaps, central in situation and well inhabited—standing on or near the sites of the remains of these places.

In the more advanced of the countries conquered by the Mongolian armies—in Persia, Mávará-un-Nahr, Turkistan, etc.—no obliteration or even systematic destruction of towns (except in the course of the wars), and no reversion to a nomadic level, seems to have taken place; but the difference in the case of Moghulistan was that, in that country, the nomadic tribesmen of the steppes immediately to the eastward—the true Mongolia—pressed in, and appropriating the land for their own habitation, took root, while in the lower countries they settled as rulers only. Those of the Mongols who, after the first invasion, stayed in the conquered countries with their governing Khans or chiefs, probably intermarried, after a time, with the settled population, and were soon absorbed; while in what became known—and partly for this very reason—as 'Moghulistan,' or the 'land of the Mongols,' the invaders found a suitable home, and establishing themselves as one of the nations of the soil, became, for a time at least, the dominant one. As generations passed, they tended, no doubt, to lose their identity by intermarrying with other races already sparsely inhabiting the region, but in this instance their absorption would be a slow process, as compared with the few left among the overwhelming populations of the lower countries in the west. The aul was probably a tribal community, and the number of the Moghuls was perhaps greater than that of their neighbours, while the life of the steppes rendered a certain degree of isolation inevitable. All these circumstances would combine to retard a fusion of races, though it may not, as far as the evidence goes, have obviated it in the end.

Here, then, no cities sprang up, while those already in existence soon fell to ruin. But the Musulman writers, who constantly confuse the words for 'city' and 'country,' and


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 the preceding scenes, which threw him into paroxysms of rage little short of madness.—He a thousand times protested the innocence of Caroline, and execrated her malicious accusers. Not a servant in the house but believed him, for her gentle, unoffending manners had gained her as much love and respect amongst them, as the Countess was beheld with hatred and dread.

But little respect or attachment can be expected from domestics, when their principals degrade themselves by the exercise of insolence and passion over those whose humble situation in life is perhaps the only circumstance in which they are inferior to their employers; for goodness of heart, and nobleness of principle, are by no means confined to the rich and titled, who derive their boasted superiority too often more from hereditary claims than from their own personal rights.

The Countess had servants, but she had no friends, and her ill humour and insolence


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 was borne by them, because from habitude they had learned to despise it. Their master they loved, and a simple asseveration from him gained more credit than oaths, or the most plausible testimony could obtain for their Lady: No wonder, therefore, that every one was attentive to the unfortunate young Lady, and anxious for the arrival of the surgeon; he at length appeared, and to their great joy declared no material injury had been received, the bruises he hoped soon to remove, but the great loss of blood, and a tremor which he supposed was owing to the fall, rendered it necessary that the patient should be kept exceeding quiet. A little more composed by this report, the Count returned to his wife, whose rage had been succeeded by a fit of sullenness and reflections not very pleasant.

With very little ceremony he reproached her warmly for her inhuman treatment of Caroline, vindicated her innocence with energy and truth; insisted that she should publicly


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 Rh even 'nation,' would be unlikely to draw any distinction between a built and permanent town, and an encampment of felt tents—an urdu or an aul, as the Turki words are. In several cases Mirza Haidar mentions towns of Moghulistan as existing in the form of ruins only, and he is explicit on this point. But he nowhere describes one as an inhabited centre at his own time, though it is only reasonable to suppose that he would, at least, have made some mention of them had they existed, in the same way that he speaks of, and even describes, those of Alti-Shahr. The aul, or collection of felt tents, pitched without order or any view to permanency, near the banks of a stream, and in the centre of some district where pasture was near at hand, was probably the nearest approach to a town at the period our history belongs to. Here, possibly, a square or oblong shed of brown mud bricks, ornamented with yaks' tails, antelopes' heads, and rows of small, coloured flags, may have stood to represent the urdu proper, or reception-room and court-house of the chief; while round it were scattered the dome-shaped tents of willow laths, covered with sheets of felt—all grimy and greasy—and ready at any moment to be taken down by the women of the tribe, and packed, with the rest of their domestic belongings, on the backs of the camels. Of forts, walls, or streets there could have been no sign. In the daytime, the ground on which the encampment stood would have been black with the dried droppings of sheep, a foot in depth, which, whirled into the air by the west wind, would pervade, with its pungent smell, the valley for a mile round, and cover everything, even the surface of the river, with a film of black. By the evening, this unsavoury carpet would be overlaid by thousands of sheep, driven in from the neighbouring glens and packed close, in scarcely separated flocks, for the night, while outside these, long rows of camels would kneel at their tethering-ropes, and groups of shaggy ponies stand fastened to the doors of their masters' tents. Near at hand, it may be, some ruined walls or weather-worn mounds pointed to the remains of an Uighur town, or fort, destroyed hundreds of years ago, and having no more connection with the life of the people of the aul than have the ruins of an Elizabethan castle, or a Norman keep, with the inhabitants of a neighbouring county town in England at the present day.

Encampments such as these would not only leave no trace of where they stood, but even their names would be unlikely to endure in history. Such were, no doubt, At-Báshi, Kuchkar,


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 ask her pardon for the insults she had given her, or be assured that he would instantly separate himself from her for ever, and do justice to the character of a young Lady she had so wantonly injured, without the least provocation. Not deigning to make any reply, she drew from her pocket a letter, and gave it into his hand. How great was his astonishment to see, in spite of an endeavour to disguise it, the hand-writing of his mistress, who, as a friend to the Countess, accused her husband and Caroline of an intrigue, and repeated a number of bitter expressions, which had sometimes been drawn from him relative to his wife's person and disposition, as if spoken by him to Caroline, and by her repeated to her.—The whole information was calculated to inspire every diabolical idea that jealousy, personal resentment, and a sense of vile ingratitude, could animate a naturally irritable temper to indulge.


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 He put the paper into his pocket:—"I know your wicked informant," said he, "and she shall dearly repent the baseness of this attempt, to injure a character superior to the machinations of persons who hate the virtue they cannot copy. This letter, Madam, in a small degree, might excuse your suspicions; but nothing can atone for your improper and cruel treatment of a young woman, who, as a relation and a guest, had a claim to your hospitality."

"What!" interrupted the Countess, indignantly, "when I was informed she had violated the rights you talk of, and injured me irreparably?"

"At least," answered the Count, "you ought to have shown this letter to her or to me, to have judged, from your own conviction, before you took the liberty of being your own avenger, and not blindly have permitted your passions to be guided by a vile incendiary, and proceed to such outrages as the lowest of your sex should be ashamed of: However, Madam, you have still the power


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 to atone for your aspersions on the young Lady's fame before your servants by a public recantation. The personal injury, the degrading blow, it is possible she may forgive; but if you have any feeling, you can never forgive yourself."

Ending those words he left her, and went to the house of his mistress, where he had not been for several days: To his astonishment he found it shut up, and on inquiry learned, that the Lady, with her child and nurse, had gone from thence two days before; that the furniture had been privately disposed of, and that a Gentleman came in a carriage and took them from the house without any one's knowing to what place they were gone. This information hurt the Count much, not on account of the Lady, who had been some time indifferent to him, but he was fond of the infant, and to have it taken away, solely in the power of a woman whose principles were not virtuous, distressed him greatly; and he painfully felt that the errors he had


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 committed might too probably be retaliated on his own child, and that he had given existence to a being who might fall a victim to the vices of another, with passions as ungovernable as his own!

The conviction struck him with shame and remorse; he returned to the Castle overwhelmed with dejection, and more than ever anxious that the character of Caroline should be justified, that she might not be a sufferer through his attachment, which, however carefully concealed, it was evident, the jealous curiosity of his mistress had penetrated into, and possibly others might have made the same observations, though not impelled by the same motives. In consequence of these reflections, he sought a conversation with his Lady; to her he confessed the nature of his long attachment to his late mistress, the birth of a daughter, his growing indifference, and little attention to her for some time past, which he supposed had induced her from pique and revenge, to give her the informa-


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 tion contained in that letter she had delivered to him, in the hope of creating jealousies and disturbances to embitter their future days.

"You tell me nothing, Sir," answered she haughtily, "but what I have long since been informed of, except who was the writer of the letter; the conjecture is not wholly improbable, nor the motives which gave rise to it, at all unlikely. My passions carried me beyond the bounds of decency when I struck Caroline; but she intruded at an improper time, and was the sufferer. I have no objection to accede to your proposition, and declare her innocence as far as my own belief goes; but I expect that letter shall be produced as my justification. You see, Sir, to what meannesses you subject me by your attachments; I expect this to be the last folly of the kind; if you choose to make yourself ridiculous, I desire to be left out of the business."

She left the room with an air of disdain and superiority, that convinced him concessions


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 60 Jumgál, Jud Kuzi, and others, so often spoken of in the Second Part of the Tarikh-i-Rashidi, and several more that are mentioned in the Zafar-Náma and the Tarikh-i-Jahán Kushat, now impossible to identify. They were typical of the Moghuls as a race—of a nation devoid of constructive instincts, destined only to fallow the land and then make place for others.

The period subsequent to the conquest of Chingiz's successors was one when disorder and intolerance prevented European travellers, who might have left a description behind them, from traversing the country of the Moghuls; but a side-light is shed on the subject by a brief mention in Rubruk's narrative of his visit to Mangu Kaán (Chingiz's grandson) at Karakorum in the year 1253, and consequently only just at the outset of the establishment of the Mongols in the region in question. Karakorum was then the Mongol capital: it numbered among its inhabitants many Chinese, Uighurs, and other comparatively cultivated people, and was, presumably, if not the only permanent Mongolian town, at any rate by far the best of them. Yet the walls only measured about a mile in circumference, and Rubruk relates of it: "You must understand that if you set aside the Kaán's own palace, it is not as good as the borough of St. Dennis; and as for the palace, the abbey of St. Dennis is worth ten of it! There are two streets in the town, one of which is occupied by the Saracens, and in that is the market-place. The other street is occupied by the Cathayans, who are all craftsmen There are also twelve idol temples belonging to different nations, two Mahummeries, in which the law of Mahomet is preached, and one Church of the Christians at the extremity of the town. The town is enclosed by a mud wall and has four gates." The Chinese travellers of the thirteenth century give no description of the inhabited centres of Moghulistan which they passed through, though one of them, Chang Té (who seems to have had an eye for irrigation) mentions briefly that at Almáligh there were reservoirs in the market-places, "connected by running water." Farther westward also, in the valley of the Chu, he remarks that the country was intersected in all directions by canals which irrigated the fields, while numerous ancient walls and other ruins were seen which he attributed to the days of the Kitan or the Kara Khitai. But all these marks of civilisation had been swept away in Mirza Haidar's time, as he himself implies in his description of


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 on his part only served to make her more arrogant. In a few days Caroline was perfectly recovered; she sent for the Count and Countess to her apartment, the first time she had admitted either from the day of the quarrel.

"I expect my uncle," said she, 'tomorrow to take me from this house, which I hourly regret I ever visited! Your unjust suspicions and cruel accusations have wounded my character, have injured my health; but I take God to witness, that I would not be the guilty, ungrateful creature you supposed me for all the enjoyments this world can offer. From you, Madam, I have a right to expect more than an apology, an acknowledgment that you have wronged me: Your women heard me accused; it is fit also that they should hear me justified."

"I own it," replied the Countess, a little affected, and much confused, "I have used you ill, my dear Caroline, I entreat your forgiveness, and request you will hear the infor-


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 mation which threw me into passions so injurious to you, and unbecoming in myself."—She drew the letter from her pocket; Caroline rejected it: "No, Madam, I am perfectly satisfied; if you believe yourself imposed upon, if you are convinced that I am incapable of being the wretched creature you supposed me to be; I am restored to your good opinion, and justified in the sight of others; self-approbation, thank Heaven, I have never forfeited."

The Countess withdrew soon after, the scene was disagreeable to her on many accounts; she had injured Caroline, and therefore could not love her, and it likewise gave her a conscious superiority which the Countess could not admit of in any other than herself. The Count was in a situation most deplorable, his love for Caroline exceeded all bounds, yet respecting her with equal fervor, he determined to confine his passion within his own bosom, and never to see her more after she had quitted his house. On


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 the next day, this amiable and unfortunate young woman took leave of the family, carrying with her a barbed arrow which pierced her heart, and wrung it with sorrow, when the last adieus were pronounced between the Count and herself. She returned home, but for a long time her days were melancholy, and her nights restless.

The Count and his Lady were little less unhappy; there was nothing respectable or estimable in the Lady's character to conciliate esteem, nor any endeavours to render herself pleasing. No longer a favourite mistress to engross his hours, his reflections on the past were painful, and in prospect no less disagreeable: He grew reserved, solitary and unhappy; yet behaved with more attention and complacency to his Lady, and was extremely fond of his infant son. Nine months passed in a dull uniformity, when an accident happened that gave a new turn to his thoughts.


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 The Countess was again in the family way, and generally went out in the mornings to ride on horseback. One day, when attended only by two servants, she was riding through the forest not far from the Castle, by the sudden discharge of a gun her horse took fright, and flying between the trees, she was thrown off with great violence, and when the attendants came up, lay to all appearance dead. On a nearer inspection they found she still breathed; between them she was conveyed to the Castle, a surgeon was sent for, and the Count seemed greatly affected. She remained speechless, though sensible, and the surgeon apprehended some very dreadful inward bruises from the fall, which was really the case, for in spite of every medical assistance she expired before the next morning.

Having already described the Count's feelings, it is needless to say, that after the first shock was over, a thousand pleasing images floated on his brain, and every thought was full of Caroline. When decency au-


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 thorised him to make known the situation of his heart, he applied to that young Lady's uncle for permission to address her; an offer so very advantageous could not be refused, and he was permitted to visit her; but, alas! how severely was he wounded when he first saw her, pale, emaciated, and dejected; she was no longer the blooming Caroline, whose animated charms had first inspired him with a real passion; but she was an object a thousand times more interesting, for all her sufferings were on his account, and that idea rendered her inexpressibly dear to him.

Conscious of the alteration in her person, the generous girl decided against her own wishes, and refused to marry him; but the Count was not so easily induced to give up a favourite point so essential to his happiness; her uncle seconded his wishes, and wearied out by his continued perseverance, and yielding as well to the tenderness of her own heart, she at length consented; they were


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 united, and the happy Count thought his felicity was now complete.

Poor simple mortals as we are! that see not by every day's experience how often the accomplishment of our eager wishes proves the source of future misery!

The amiable Caroline was indeed the most desirable of women, the most engaging of wives; but unhappily her constitution had been too delicate to support her under a fatal passion which preyed upon her heart, and for which she had incessantly reproached herself; a slow but gentle decay imperceptibly weakened her lovely frame. She was sensible of her own situation before she gave her hand to the Count, but was persuaded by her friends that a happy union might restore her health. For a few weeks she appeared better, and being in the way of becoming a mother, a relapse into weakness, debility and languor, was attributed to that circumstance. She knew better, but she suffered them to mislead themselves, because she could not bear to see her friends unhappy. She struggled


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 with her complaints until the hour arrived when nature made its last efforts, the same moment that gave birth to a son deprived the unhappy Count of its angelic mother, and the spirit of the amiable and too tender Caroline fled to Heaven!

It is impossible to paint the distraction of her miserable husband, who for many days was in that dreadful state, to give great cause for apprehension that he would quickly follow his beloved wife to the grave; but at length it pleased Heaven to restore his health, but his vivacity and cheerfulness were fled for ever. He devoted the remainder of his days to the education of his two sons, and the image of his lost Caroline was never absent from his thoughts. Sensible that his eldest boy, Rhodophil, would inherit his paternal estates, he determined to save a handsome fortune for his young Ferdinand, who was the perfect resemblance of his unfortunate mother. The Count retrenched every useless expense, and though he was benevolent and liberal to others, he denied


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 himself every thing superfluous that he might benefit his darling son, who, as he grew up, discovered every trait of a good heart, and an excellent constitution.

Rhodophil was the counterpart of his mother, both in person and disposition.—Stern, haughty, insolent and unfeeling, no tenderness could move, no remonstrances avail, to make him unbend his temper, and grow more tractable in his juvenile days; but when advanced to manhood, he became all at once fond of and submissive to his father, and almost servilely attentive to his brother, who, open, generous and unsuspecting, really loved Rhodophil, and rejoiced at the alteration that appeared to have taken place in his disposition.


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OLMES," said I, one morning as I stood in our bay window, looking idly into the street, "surely here comes a madman. Someone has incautiously left the door open and the poor fellow has slipped out. What a pity!"

It was a glorious morning in the spring, with a fresh breeze and inviting sunlight, but as it was rather early few persons were astir. Birds twittered under the neighboring eaves, and from the far end of the thoroughfare came faintly the droning cry of an umbrella repair man; a lean cat slunk across the cobbles and disappeared into a courtway; but for the most part the street was deserted save for the eccentric individual who had called forth my exclamation.

My friend rose lazily from the wicker rocker, in which he had been lounging, and came to my

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 side, standing with long legs spread and hands in the pockets of his dressing gown. He smiled as he saw the singular personage coming along. A personage indeed he seemed to be, despite his odd actions, for he was tall and portly, with elderly whiskers of the brand known as muttonchop, and he seemed eminently respectable. He was loping curiously, like a tired hound, lifting his knees high as he ran, and a heavy double watch chain of gold bounced against and rebounded from the plump line of his figured waistcoat. With one hand he clutched despairingly at his silk two-gallon hat, while with the other he essayed weird gestures in the air in an emotion bordering upon distraction. We could almost see the spasmodic workings of his countenance.

"What under heaven can ail him!" I cried. "See how he glances at the houses as he passes."

"He is looking at the numbers," responded Sherlock Holmes, with dancing eyes, "and I fancy it is ours that will bring him the greatest happiness. His profession, of course, is obvious."

"A banker, I imagine, or at least a person of affluence," I hazarded, wondering what curious bit of minutiae had betrayed the man's business

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 to my remarkable companion in a single glance.

"Affluent, yes," said Holmes, with a mischievous grin, "but not exactly a banker, Watson. Notice the sagging pockets, despite the excellence of his clothing, and the rather exaggerated madness of his eye. He is a collector, or I am very much mistaken."

"My dear fellow!" I exclaimed. "At his age and in his station! And why should he be seeking us? When we settled that last bill—"

"Of books," said my friend, severely. "He is a professional book collector. His line is Caxtons, Elzevirs, Gutenberg Bibles, folios; not the sordid reminders of unpaid grocery accounts and tobacconists' debits. See, he is turning in here, as I expected, and in a moment he will stand upon our hearthrug and tell us the harrowing tale of an unique volume and its extraordinary disappearance."

His eyes gleamed and he rubbed his hands together in profound satisfaction. I could not but hope that Holmes's conjecture was correct, for he had had little to occupy his mind for some weeks, and I lived in constant fear that he would seek that stimulation his active brain required in the long-tabooed cocaine bottle.

As Holmes finished speaking the man's ring at the doorbell echoed through the apartment;

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 hurried feet sounded upon the stairs, while the wailing voice of Mrs. Hudson, raised in agonized protest, could only have been occasioned by frustration of her coveted privilege of bearing his card to us. Then the door burst violently inward and the object of our analysis staggered to the center of the room and, without announcing his intention by word or sign, pitched headforemost onto our center rug. There he lay, a magnificent ruin, with his head on the fringed border and his feet in the coal scuttle; and sealed within his lifeless lips the amazing story he had come to tell—for that it was amazing we could not doubt, in the light of our client's extraordinary behavior.

Holmes quickly ran for the brandy bottle, while I knelt beside the stricken mountain of flesh and loosened the wilted neckband. He was not dead, and, when we had forced the nozzle of the flask between his teeth, he sat up in groggy fashion, passing a dazed hand across his eyes. Then he scrambled to his feet with an embarrassed apology for his weakness, and fell into the chair which Holmes held invitingly toward him.

"That is right, Mr. Harrington Edwards," said my companion, soothingly. "Be quite calm, my dear Sir, and when you have recovered

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 your composure you will find us ready to listen to your story."

"You know me then?" cried our sudden visitor, with pride in his voice and surprised eyebrows lifted.

"I had never heard of you until this moment, but if you wish to conceal your identity it would be well for you to leave your bookplates at home." As Holmes spoke he handed the other a little package of folded paper slips, which he had picked from the floor. "They fell from your hat when you had the misfortune to tumble," he added, with a whimsical smile.

"Yes, yes," cried the collector, a deep blush spreading over his features. "I remember now; my hat was a little large and I folded a number of them and placed them beneath the sweatband. I had forgotten."

"Rather shabby usage for a handsome etched plate," smiled my companion, "but that is your affair. And now, Sir, if you are quite at ease, let us hear what it is that has brought you, a collector of books, from Poke Stogis Manor—the name is on the plate—to the office of Mr. Sherlock Holmes, consulting expert in crime. Surely nothing but the theft of Mahomet's own copy of the Koran can have affected you so amazingly."

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 Mr. Harrington Edwards smiled feebly at the jest, then sighed. "Alas," he murmured, "if that were all it were! But I shall begin at the beginning.

"You must know, then, that I am the greatest Shakespearean commentator in the world. My collection of ana is unrivaled and much of the world's collection (and consequently its knowledge of the true Shakespeare) has emanated from my pen. One book I did not possess; it was unique, in the correct sense of that abused word; it was the greatest Shakespeare rarity in the world. Few knew that it existed, for its existence was kept a profound secret between a chosen few. Had it become known that this book was in England—any place, indeed—its owner would have been hounded to his grave by American millionaire collectors.

"It was in the possession of my friend—I tell you this in the strictest confidence, as between adviser and client—of my friend, Sir Nathaniel Brooke-Bannerman, whose place at Walton-on-Walton is next to my own. A scant two hundred yards separate our dwellings, and so intimate has been our friendship that a few years ago the fence between our estates was removed, and each roamed or loitered at will about the other's preserves.

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 "For some years, now, I have been at work on my greatest book—my magnum opus. It was to be also my last book, embodying the results of a lifetime of study and research. Sir, I know Elizabethan London better than any man alive, better than any man who ever lived, I sometimes think—" He burst suddenly into tears.

"There, there," said Sherlock Holmes, gently. "Do not be distressed. It is my business to help people who are unhappy by reason of great losses. Be assured, I shall help you. Pray continue with your interesting narrative. What was this book—which, I take it, in some manner has disappeared? You borrowed it from your friend?"

"That is what I am coming to," said Mr. Harrington Edwards, drying his tears, "but as for help, Mr. Holmes, I fear that is beyond even you. Yet, as a court of last resort, I came to you, ignoring all intermediate agencies.

"Let me resume then: As you surmise, I needed this book. Knowing its value, which could not be fixed, for the book is priceless, and knowing Sir Nathaniel's idolatry of it, I hesitated long before asking the loan of it. But I had to have it, for without it my work could not be completed, and at length I made the request.

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 I suggested that I go to his home, and go through the volume under his own eyes, he sitting at my side throughout my entire examination, and servants stationed at every door and window, with fowling pieces in their hands.

"You can imagine my astonishment when Sir Nathaniel laughed at my suggested precautions. 'My dear Edwards,' he said, 'that would be all very well were you Arthur Bambidge or Sir Homer Nantes (mentioning the two great men of the British Museum), or were you Mr. Henry Hutterson, the American railroad magnate; but you are my friend Edwards, and you shall take the book home with you for as long as you like.' I protested vigorously, I assure you, but he would have it so, and as I was touched by this mark of his esteem, at length I permitted him to have it his own way. My God! If I had remained adamant! If I had only—"

He broke off and for a moment stared fixedly into space. His eyes were directed at the Persian slipper on the wall, in the toe of which Holmes kept his tobacco, but we could see that his thoughts were far away.

"Come, Mr. Edwards," said Holmes, firmly. "You are agitating yourself unduly. And you are unreasonably prolonging our curiosity. You have not yet told us what this book is."

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 Mr. Harrington Edwards gripped the arm of the chair in which he sat, with tense fingers. Then he spoke, and his voice was low and thrilling:

"The book was a 'Hamlet' quarto, dated 1602, presented by Shakespeare to his friend Drayton, with an inscription four lines in length, written and signed by the Master himself!"

"My dear sir!" I exclaimed. Holmes blew a long, slow whistle of astonishment.

"It is true," cried the collector. "That is the book I borrowed, and that is the book I lost! The long-sought quarto of 1602, actually inscribed in Shakespeare's own hand! His greatest drama, in an edition dated a year earlier than any that is known; a perfect copy, and with four lines in his handwriting! Unique! Extraordinary! Amazing! Astounding! Colossal! Incredible! Un—"

He seemed wound up to continue indefinitely, but Holmes, who had sat quite still at first, shocked by the importance of the loss, interrupted the flow of adjectives.

"I appreciate your emotion, Mr. Edwards," he said, "and the book is indeed all that you say it is. Indeed, it is so important that we must at once attack the problem of rediscovering it.

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 Compose yourself, my dear sir, and tell us of the loss. The book, I take it, is readily identifiable!"

"Mr. Holmes," said our client, earnestly, "it would be impossible to hide it. It is so important a volume that, upon coming into possession of it, Sir Nathaniel Brooke-Bannerman called a consultation of the great binders of the Empire, at which were present Mr. Rivière, Messrs. Sangorski & Sutcliffe, Mr. Zaehnsdorf and others. They and myself, and two others, alone know of the book's existence. When I tell you that it is bound in brown levant morocco, super extra, with leather joints, brown levant doublures and fly-leaves, the whole elaborately gold tooled, inlaid with 750 separate pieces of various colored leathers, and enriched by the insertion of eighty-two precious stones, I need not add that it is a design that never will be duplicated, and I tell you only a few of its glories. The binding was personally done by Messrs. Rivière, Sangorski, Sutcliffe, and Zaehnsdorf, working alternately, and is a work of such enchantment that any man might gladly die a thousand deaths for the privilege of owning it for five minutes."

"Dear me," quoth Sherlock Holmes, "it must indeed be a handsome volume, and from your description, together with a realization of its

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 importance by reason of its association, I gather that it is something beyond what might be termed a valuable book."

"Priceless!" cried Mr. Harrington Edwards. "The combined wealth of India, Mexico and Wall Street would be all too little for its purchase!"

"You are anxious to recover this book?" Holmes asked, looking at him keenly.

"My God!" shrieked the collector, rolling up his eyes and clawing the air with his hands. "Do you suppose—"

"Tut, tut!" Holmes interrupted. "I was only testing you. It is a book that might move even you, Mr. Harrington Edwards, to theft—but we may put aside that notion at once. Your emotion is too sincere, and besides you know too well the difficulties of hiding such a volume as you describe. Indeed, only a very daring man would purloin it and keep it long in his possession. Pray tell us how you came to suffer it to be lost."

Mr. Harrington Edwards seized the brandy flask, which stood at his elbow, and drained it at a gulp. With the renewed strength thus obtained, he continued his story:

"As I have said, Sir Nathaniel forced me to accept the loan of the book, much against my

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 own wishes. On the evening that I called for it, he told me that two of his trusted servants, heavily armed, would accompany me across the grounds to my home. 'There is no danger,' he said, 'but you will feel better,' and I heartily agreed with him. How shall I tell you what happened? Mr. Holmes, it was those very servants who assailed me and robbed me of my priceless borrowing!"

Sherlock Holmes rubbed his lean hands with satisfaction. "Splendid!" he murmured. "It is a case after my own heart. Watson, these are deep waters in which we are sailing. But you are rather lengthy about this, Mr. Edwards. Perhaps it will help matters if I ask you a few questions. By what road did you go to your home?"

"By the main road, a good highway which lies in front of our estates. I preferred it to the shadows of the wood."

"And there were some 200 yards between your doors. At what point did the assault occur?"

"Almost midway between the two entrance drives, I should say. "

"There was no light?"

"That of the moon only."

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 "Did you know these servants who accompanied you?"

"One I knew slightly; the other I had not seen before."

"Describe them to me, please."

"The man who is known to me, is called Miles. He is clean-shaven, short and powerful, although somewhat elderly. He was known, I believe, as Sir Nathaniel's most trusted servant; he had been with Sir Nathaniel for years. I cannot describe him minutely for, of course, I never paid much attention to him. The other was tall and thickset, and wore a heavy beard. He was a silent fellow; I do not believe he spoke a word during the journey."

"Miles was more communicative?"

"Oh yes—even garrulous, perhaps. He talked about the weather and the moon, and I forget what all."

"Never about books?"

"There was no mention of books between any of us."

"Just how did the attack occur?"

"It was very sudden. We had reached, as I say, about the halfway point, when the big man seized me by the throat—to prevent outcry, I suppose—and on the instant, Miles snatched

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 the volume from my grasp and was off. In a moment his companion followed him. I had been half throttled and could not immediately cry out; when I could articulate, I made the countryside ring with my cries. I ran after them, but failed even to catch another sight of them. They had disappeared completely."

"Did you all leave the house together!"

"Miles and I left together; the second man joined us at the porter's lodge. He had been attending to some of his duties."

"And Sir Nathaniel—where was he?"

"He said good-night on the threshold."

"What has he had to say about all this!"

"I have not told him."

"You have not told him!" echoed Sherlock Holmes, in astonishment.

"I have not dared," miserably confessed our client. "It will kill him. That book was the breath of his life."

"When did this occur?" I put in, with a glance at Holmes.

"Excellent, Watson," said my friend, answering my glance. "I was about to ask the same question."

"Just last night," was Mr. Harrington Edwards' reply. "I was crazy most of the night; I didn't sleep a wink. I came to you the first

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 thing this morning. Indeed, I tried to raise you on the telephone, last night, but could not establish a connection."

"Yes," said Holmes, reminiscently, "we were attending Mme. Trontini's first night. You remember, Watson, we dined later at Albani's?"

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, do you think you can help me!" cried the abject collector.

"I trust so," declared my friend, cheerfully. "Indeed, I am certain that I can. At any rate, I shall make a gallant attempt, with Watson's aid. Such a book, as you remark, is not easily hidden. What say you, Watson, to a run down to Walton-on-Walton?"

"There is a train in half an hour," said Mr. Harrington Edwards, looking at his watch. "Will you return with me?"

"No, no," laughed Holmes, "that would never do. We must not be seen together just yet, Mr. Edwards. Go back yourself on the first train, by all means, unless you have further business in London. My friend and I will go together. There is another train this morning?"

"An hour later."

"Excellent. Until we meet, then!"

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We took the train from Paddington Station an hour later, as we had promised, and began the journey to Walton-on-Walton, a pleasant, aristocratic village and the scene of the curious accident to our friend of Poke Stogis Manor. Holmes, lying back in his seat, blew earnest smoke rings at the ceiling of our compartment, which fortunately was empty, while I devoted myself to the morning paper. After a bit, I tired of this occupation and turned to Holmes. I was surprised to find him looking out of the window, wreathed in smiles and quoting Hafiz softly under his breath.

"You have a theory?" I asked, in surprise.

"It is a capital mistake to theorize in advance of the evidence," he replied. "Still, I have given some thought to the interesting problem of our friend, Mr. Harrington Edwards, and there are several indications which can point only to one conclusion."

"And whom do you believe to be the thief?"

"My dear fellow," said Sherlock Holmes, "you forget we already know the thief. Edwards has testified quite clearly that it was Miles who snatched the volume."

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"True," I admitted, abashed. "I had forgotten. All we must do then, is find Miles."

"And a motive," added my friened, chuckling. "What would you say, Watson, was the motive in this case?"

"Jealousy," I replied promptly.

"You surprise me!"

"Miles had been bribed by a rival collector, who in some manner had learned about this remarkable volume. You remember Edwards told us this second man joined them at the lodge. That would give an excellent opportunity for the substitution of a man other than the servant intended by Sir Nathaniel. Is not that good reasoning?"

"You surpass yourself, my dear Watson," murmured Holmes. "It is excellently reasoned, and as you justly observe, the opportunity for a substitution was perfect."

"Do you not agree with me?"

"Hardly, Watson. A rival collector, in order to accomplish this remarkable coup, first would have to have known of the volume, as you suggest, but also he must have known what night Mr. Harrington Edwards would go to Sir Nathaniel's to get it, which would point to collaboration on the part of our client. As a matter of

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 fact, however, Mr. Edwards' decision as to his acceptance of the loan, was, I believe, sudden and without previous determination."

"I do not recall his saying so."

"He did not say so, but it is a simple deduction. A book collector is mad enough to begin with, Watson; but tempt him with some such bait as this Shakespeare quarto and he is bereft of all sanity. Mr. Edwards would not have been able to wait. It was just the night before that Sir Nathaniel promised him the book, and it was just last night that he flew to accept the offer — flying, incidentally, to disaster, also. The miracle is that he was able to wait for an entire day."

"Wonderful!"

"Elementary," said Holmes. "I have employed one of the earliest and best known principles of my craft, only. If you are interested in the process, you will do well to read Harley Graham on "Transcendental Emotion," while I have, myself, been guilty of a small brochure in which I catalogue some twelve hundred professions, and the emotional effect upon their members of unusual tidings, good and bad."

We were the only passengers to alight at Walton-on-Walton, but rapid inquiry developed that Mr. Harrington Edwards had returned on the

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 previous train. Holmes, who had disguised himself before leaving the train, did all the talking. He wore his cap peak backwards, carried a pencil behind his ear and had turned up the bottoms of his trousers; from one pocket dangled the end of a linen tape measure. He was a municipal surveyor to the life, and I could not but think that, meeting him suddenly in the road, I should not myself have known him. At his suggestion, I dented the crown of my derby hat and turned my coat inside out. Then he gave me an end of the tape measure, while he, carrying the other end, went on ahead. In this fashion, stopping from time to time to kneel in the dust, and ostensibly to measure sections of the roadway, we proceeded toward Poke Stogis Manor. The occasional villagers whom we encountered on their way to the station bar-room paid us no more attention than if we had been rabbits.

Shortly we came into sight of our friend's dwelling, a picturesque and rambling abode, sitting far back in its own grounds and bordered by a square of sentinel oaks. A gravel pathway led from the roadway to the house entrance, and, as we passed, the sunlight struck glancing rays from an antique brass knocker on the door. The whole picture, with its background

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 of gleaming countryside, was one of rural calm and comfort; we could with difficulty believe it the scene of the sinister tragedy we were come to investigate.

"We shall not enter yet," said Sherlock Holmes, resolutely passing the gate leading into our client's acreage, "but we shall endeavor to be back in time for luncheon."

From this point the road progressed downward in a gentle incline and the trees were thicker on either side of the road. Holmes kept his eyes stolidly on the path before us, and when we had covered about one hundred yards he stopped. "Here," he said, pointing, "the assault occurred."

I looked closely at the earth, but could see no sign of struggle.

"You recall it was midway between the two houses that it happened," he continued. "No, there are few signs; there was no violent tussle. Fortunately, however, we had our proverbial fall of rain last evening and the earth has retained impressions nicely." He indicated the faint imprint of a foot, then another, and another. Kneeling down, I was able to see that, indeed, many feet had passed along the road.

Holmes flung himself at full length in the dirt and wriggled swiftly about, his nose to the earth,

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 muttering rapidly in French. Then he whipped out a glass, the better to examine a mark that had caught his eye; but in a moment he shook his head in disappointment and continued with his examination. I was irresistibly reminded of a noble hound, at fault, sniffing in circles in an effort to reestablish the lost scent. In a moment, however, he had it, for with a little cry of pleasure he rose to his feet, zigzagged curiously across the road and paused before a hedge, a lean finger pointing accusingly at a break in the thicket.

"No wonder they disappeared," he smiled as I came up. "Edwards thought they continued up the road, but here is where they broke through." Then stepping back a little distance, he ran forward lightly and cleared the hedge at a bound, alighting on his hands on the other side.

"Follow me carefully," he warned, "for we must not allow our own footprints to confuse us." I fell more heavily than my companion, but in a moment he had me by the heels and had helped me to steady myself. "See," he cried, lowering his face to the earth; and deep in the mud and grass I saw the prints of two pairs of feet.

"The small man broke through," said Holmes, exultantly, "but the larger rascal leaped

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 over the hedge. See how deeply his prints are marked; he landed heavily here in the soft ooze. It is very significant, Watson, that they came this way. Does it suggest nothing to you?"

"That they were men who knew Edwards' grounds as well as the Brooke-Bannerman estate," I answered, and thrilled with pleasure at my friend's nod of approbation.

He lowered himself to his stomach, without further conversation, and for some moments we crawled painfully across the grass. Then a shocking thought came to me.

"Holmes," I whispered in horror, "do you see where these footprints tend? They are directed toward the home of our client, Mr. Harrington Edwards!"

He nodded his head slowly, and his lips were set tight and thin. The double line of impressions ended abruptly at the back door of Poke Stogis Manor!

Sherlock Holmes rose to his feet and looked at his watch.

"We are just in time for luncheon," he announced, and hastily brushed his garments. Then, deliberately, he knocked on the door. In a few moments we were in the presence of our client.

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"We have been roaming about the neighborhood," apologized Holmes, "and took the liberty of coming to your rear entrance."

"You have a clew?" asked Mr. Harrington Edwards, eagerly.

A queer smile of triumph sat upon Sherlock Holmes' lips.

"Indeed," he said, quietly, "I believe I have solved your little problem, Mr. Harrington Edwards!"

"My dear Holmes!" I cried, and "My dear Sir!" cried our client.

"I have yet to establish a motive," confessed my friend, "but as to the main facts there can be no question."

Mr. Harrington Edwards fell into a chair, white and shaking.

"The book," he croaked. "Tell me!"

"Patience, my good sir," counseled Holmes, kindly. "We have had nothing to eat since sunup, and are famished. All in good time. Let us first dine and then all shall be made clear. Meanwhile, I should like to telephone to Sir Nathaniel Brooke-Bannerman, for I wish him to hear what I have to say. "

Our client's pleas were in vain. Holmes would have his little joke and his luncheon. In the end, Mr. Harrington Edwards staggered away

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 to the kitchen to order a repast, and Sherlock Holmes talked rapidly and unintelligibly into the telephone for a moment and came back with a smile on his face, which, to me, boded ill for someone. But I asked no questions; in good time this amazing man would tell his story in his own way. I had heard all he had heard, and had seen all he had seen; yet I was completely at sea. Still, our host's ghastly smile hung in my mind, and come what would I felt sorry for him. In a little time we were seated at table. Our client, haggard and nervous, ate slowly and with apparent discomfort; his eyes were never long absent from Holmes' inscrutable face. I was little better off, but Holmes ate with gusto, relating meanwhile a number of his earlier adventures, which I may some day give to the world, if I am able to read my illegible notes made on the occasion.

When the sorry meal had been concluded, we went into the library, where Sherlock Holmes took possession of the big easy chair, with an air of proprietorship which would have been amusing in other circumstances. He screwed together his long pipe and lighted it with a malicious lack of haste, while Mr. Harrington Edwards perspired against the mantel in an agony of apprehension.

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"Why must you keep us waiting, Mr. Holmes?" he whispered. "Tell us, at once, please, who— who—" His voice trailed off into a moan.

"The criminal," said Sherlock Holmes, smoothly, "is—"

"Sir Nathaniel Brooke-Bannerman!" said a maid, suddenly, putting her head in at the door, and on the heels of her announcement stalked the handsome baronet, whose priceless volume had caused all this stir and unhappiness.

Sir Nathaniel was white, and appeared ill. He burst at once into talk.

"I have been much upset by your call," he said, looking meanwhile at our client. "You say you have something to tell me about the quarto. Don't say that anything has happened to it!" He clutched nervously at the wall to steady himself, and I felt deep pity for him.

Mr. Harrington Edwards looked at Sherlock Holmes. "Oh, Mr. Holmes," he cried, pathetically, "why did you send for him?"

"Because," said my friend, firmly, "I wish him to hear the truth about the Shakespeare quarto. Sir Nathaniel, I believe you have not been told as yet that Mr. Edwards was robbed, last night, of your precious volume robbed by the

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 trusted servants whom you sent with him to protect it."

"What!" shrieked the titled collector. He staggered and fumbled madly at his heart; then collapsed into a chair. "Good God!" he muttered, and then again: "Good God!"

"I should have thought you would have been suspicious of evil when your servants did not return," pursued Holmes.

"I have not seen them," whispered Sir Nathaniel. "I do not mingle with my servants. I did not know they had failed to return. Tell me — tell me all!"

"Mr. Edwards," said Sherlock Holmes, turning to our client, "will you repeat your story, please?"

Mr. Harrington Edwards, thus adjured, told the unhappy tale again, ending with a heartbroken cry of "Oh, Sir Nathaniel, can you ever forgive me?"

"I do not know that it was entirely your fault," observed Holmes, cheerfully. "Sir Nathaniel's own servants are the guilty ones, and surely he sent them with you."

"But you said you had solved the case, Mr. Holmes," cried our client, in a frenzy of despair.

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 had the clue in your own hands ever since the occurrence, but you did not know how to use it. It all turns upon the curious actions of the taller servant, prior to the assault."

"The actions of—" stammered Mr. Harrington Edwards. "Why, he did nothing — said nothing! "

"That is the curious circumstance," said Sherlock Holmes, meaningly.

Sir Nathaniel got to his feet with difficulty.

"Mr. Holmes," he said, "this has upset me more than I can tell you. Spare no pains to recover the book, and to bring to justice the scoundrels who stole it. But I must go away and think — think —"

"Stay," said my friend. "I have already caught one of them."

"What! Where?" cried the two collectors, together.

"Here," said Sherlock Holmes, and stepping forward he laid a hand on the baronet's shoulder. "You, Sir Nathaniel, were the taller servant; you were one of the thieves who throttled Mr. Harrington Edwards and took from him your own book. And now, Sir, will you tell us why you did it?"

Sir Nathaniel Brooke-Bannerman toppled and would have fallen had not I rushed forward and

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 supported him. I placed him in a chair. As we looked at him, we saw confession in his eyes; guilt was written in his haggard face.

"Come, come," said Holmes, impatiently. "Or will it make it easier for you if I tell the story as it occurred? Let it be so, then. You parted with Mr. Harrington Edwards on your doorsill, Sir Nathaniel, bidding your best friend good-night with a smile on your lips and evil in your heart. And as soon as you had closed the door, you slipped into an enveloping raincoat, turned up your collar and hastened by a shorter road to the porter's lodge, where you joined Mr. Edwards and Miles as one of your own servants. You spoke no word at any time, because you feared to speak. You were afraid Mr. Edwards would recognize your voice, while your beard, hastily assumed, protected your face, and in the darkness your figure passed unnoticed.

"Having choked and robbed your best friend, then, of your own book, you and your scoundrelly assistant fled across Mr. Edwards' fields to his own back door, thinking that, if investigation followed, I would be called in, and would trace those footprints and fix the crime upon Mr. Harrington Edwards, as part of a criminal plan, prearranged with your rascally servants, who would be supposed to be in the pay of Mr. Edwards

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 and the ringleaders in a counterfeit assault upon his person. Your mistake, Sir, was in ending your trail abruptly at Mr. Edwards' back door. Had you left another trail, then, leading back to your own domicile, I should unhesitatingly have arrested Mr. Harrington Edwards for the theft.

"Surely, you must know that in criminal cases handled by me, it is never the obvious solution that is the correct one. The mere fact that the finger of suspicion is made to point at a certain individual is sufficient to absolve that individual from guilt. Had you read the little works of my friend and colleague, here, Dr. Watson, you would not have made such a mistake. Yet you claim to be a bookman!"

A low moan from the unhappy baronet was his only answer.

"To continue, however: there at Mr. Edwards' own back door you ended your trail, entering his house — his own house — and spending the night under his roof, while his cries and ravings over his loss filled the night, and brought joy to your unspeakable soul. And in the morning, when he had gone forth to consult me, you quietly left — you and Miles — and returned to your own place by the beaten highway."

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"Mercy!" cried the defeated wretch, cowering in his chair. "If it is made public, I am ruined. I was driven to it. I could not let Mr. Edwards examine the book, for exposure would follow, that way; yet I could not refuse him — my best friend — when he asked its loan."

"Your words tell me all that I did not know," said Sherlock Holmes, sternly. "The motive now is only too plain. The work, Sir, was a forgery, and knowing that your erudite friend would discover it, you chose to blacken his name to save your own. Was the book insured?"

"Insured for £350,000, he told me," interrupted Mr. Harrington Edwards, excitedly.

"So that he planned at once to dispose of this dangerous and dubious item, and to reap a golden reward," commented Holmes. "Come, Sir, tell us about it. How much of it was forgery? Merely the inscription?"

"I will tell you," said the baronet, suddenly, "and throw myself upon the mercy of my friend, Mr. Edwards. The whole book, in effect, was a forgery. It was originally made up of two imperfect copies of the 1604 quarto. Out of the pair, I made one perfect volume, and a skillful workman, now dead, changed the date for me so cleverly that only an expert of the first water could have detected it. Such an expert,

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 however, is Mr. Harrington Edwards — the one man in the world who could have unmasked me."

"Thank you, Nathaniel," said Mr. Harrington Edwards, gratefully.

"The inscription, of course, also was forged," continued the baronet. "You may as well know all."

"And the book?" asked Holmes. "Where did you destroy it?"

A grim smile settled on Sir Nathaniel's features. "It is even now burning in Mr. Edwards' own furnace," he said.

"Then it cannot yet be consumed," cried Holmes, and dashed into the basement. He was absent for some little time, and we heard the clinking of bottles, and, finally, the clang of a great metal door. He emerged, some moments later, in high spirits, carrying a charred leaf in his hand.

"It is a pity," he cried, "a pity! In spite of its questionable authenticity, it was a noble specimen. It is only half consumed, but let it burn away. I have preserved one leaf as a souvenir of the occasion." He folded it carefully and placed it in his wallet. "Mr. Harrington Edwards, I fancy the decision in this matter is for you to announce. Sir Nathaniel, of course, must

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 make no effort to collect the insurance."

"I promise that," said the baronet, quickly.

"Let us forget it, then," said Mr. Edwards, with a sigh. "Let it be a sealed chapter in the history of bibliomania." He looked at Sir Nathaniel Brooke-Bannerman for a long moment, then held out his hand. "I forgive you, Nathaniel," he said, simply.

Their hands met; tears stood in the baronet's eyes. Holmes and I turned from the affecting scene, powerfully moved. We crept to the door unnoticed. In a moment the free air was blowing on our temples, and we were coughing the dust of the library from our lungs.

"They are strange people, these book collectors," mused Sherlock Holmes, as we rattled back to town.

"My only regret is that I shall be unable to publish my notes on this interesting case," I responded.

"Wait a bit, my dear Doctor," advised Holmes, "and it will be possible. In time both of them will come to look upon it as a hugely diverting episode, and will tell it upon themselves. Then your notes will be brought forth and

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 the history of another of Mr. Sherlock Holmes' little problems shall be given to the world."

"It will always be a reflection upon Sir Nathaniel," I demurred.

"He will glory in it," prophesied Sherlock Holmes. "He will go down in bookish chronicle with Chatterton, and Ireland, and Payne Collier. Mark my words, he is not blind even now to the chance this gives him for sinister immortality. He will be the first to tell it." (And so, indeed, it proved, as this narrative suggests.)

"But why did you preserve the leaf from Hamlet?" I curiously inquired. "Why not a jewel from the binding?"

Sherlock Holmes chuckled heartily. Then he slowly unfolded the page in question, and directed a humorous finger at a spot upon the page.

"A fancy," he responded, "to preserve so accurate a characterization of either of our friends. The line is a real jewel. See, the good Polonius says: ‘That he is mad, 'tis true: 'tis true 'tis pittie; and pittie it is true.’ There is as much sense in Master Will as in Hafiz or Confucius, and a greater felicity of expression. . . Here is London, and now, my dear Watson, if we hasten we shall be just in time for Zabriski's matinee!"

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"The neglected wind"Chamber pieces by great composersSpohr's NonettPieces for wind and pianoforteFor wind and stringsFor wind aloneLarger combinationsFor flutes alone.

" neglected wind" — one frequently meets this expression, and certainly in former times the phrase was amply justified as regards chamber music. In this respect the flute was even worse off than the oboe, clarinet, horn, or bassoon; Mozart and Beethoven have each written a fine quintett for these instruments with pianoforte, but neither has included the flute in any chamber work for wind alone. On looking down the list of compositions by the great writers of chamber music, one cannot fail to be struck by the comparatively small number in which the flute takes part. Cherubini, Mendelssohn, Schubert, Schumann, Brahms are not represented by a single item. Modern composers, however, are at length turning their attention to this hitherto untilled field, and there is now a very respectable amount of excellent chamber music for wind, either


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Songs of the North

 * /The Athenians' Song/
 * /Robin Goodfellow/
 * /The Birdie/

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 principal source of the public revenue of many a great nation that was much advanced beyond the shepherd state. From the produce or rent of the public lands, the ancient republics of Greece and Italy derived, for a long time, the greater part of that revenue which defrayed the necessary expenses of the commonwealth. The rent of the crown lands constituted for a long time the greater part of the revenue of the ancient sovereigns of Europe.

War, and the preparation for war, are the two circumstances which in modern times occasion the greater part of the necessary expense of all great States. But in the ancient republics of Greece and Italy every citizen was a soldier, who both served and prepared himself for service at his own expense. Neither of those two circumstances, therefore, could occasion any very considerable expense to the State. The rent of a very moderate landed estate might be fully sufficient for defraying all the other necessary expenses of government.

In the ancient monarchies of Europe, the manners and customs of the times sufficiently prepared the great body of the people for war; and when they took the field, they were, by the condition of their feudal tenures, to be maintained, either at their own expense, or at that of their immediate lords, without bringing any new charge upon the sovereign. The other expenses of government were, the greater part of them, very moderate. The administration of justice, it has been shown, instead of being a cause of expense, was a source of revenue. The labor of the country people, for three days before and for three days after harvest, was thought a fund sufficient for making and maintaining all the bridges, highways, and other public works which the commerce of the country was supposed to require. In those


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 days the principal expense of the sovereign seems to have consisted in the maintenance of his own family and household. The officers of his household, accordingly, were then the great officers of State. The lord treasurer received his rents. The lord steward and lord chamberlain looked after the expense of his family. The care of his stables was committed to the lord constable and the lord marshal. His houses were all built in the form of castles, and seem to have been the principal fortresses which he possessed. The keepers of those houses or castles might be considered as a sort of military governors. They seem to have been the only military officers whom it was necessary to maintain in time of peace. In these circumstances the rent of a great landed estate might, upon ordinary occasions, very well defray all the necessary expenses of government.

In the present state of the greater part of the civilized monarchies of Europe, the rent of all the lands in the country, managed as they probably would be if they all belonged to one proprietor, would scarce perhaps amount to the ordinary revenue which they levy upon the people even in peaceable times. The ordinary revenue of Great Britain, for example, including not only what is necessary for defraying the current expense of the year, but for paying the interest of the public debts, and for sinking a part of the capital of those debts, amounts to upward of ten millions a year. But the land tax, at four shillings in the pound, falls short of two millions a year. This land tax, as it is called, however, is supposed to be one-fifth, not only of the rent of all the land, but of that of all the houses, and of the interest of all the capital stock of Great Britain, that part of it only excepted which is either lent to the public, or employed as farming stock in the cultivation


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Rh

of the Dusky Bay people, with this difference, that they seemed much more familiar and unconcerned. We bought some fish of them, and likewise made them some presents, conducting them into the cabin, as they did not hesitate to come on board. Seeing us sit down to dinner, they freely partook of our provisions, but drank pure water, refusing to touch either wine or brandy. They were so restless, that they removed from our table to that of the officers in the steerage, where they likewise eat with great appetite, and drank great quantities of water sweetened with sugar, of which they were remarkably fond. Every thing they saw, or could lay hands upon they coveted, but upon the least hint, that we either could not, or would not part with what they had taken up, they laid it down without reluctance. Glass bottles, which they called taw-haw, were however particularly valuable to them; and whenever they saw any of them, they always pointed to them, and then moved the hand to their breast, pronouncing the word mòkh, by which they used to express their desire of possessing any thing. Among the variety of little presents we made them they did not notice beads, ribbons, white paper, &c, but were very eager after iron, nails, and hatchets; a proof that the intrinsic value of these tools cannot fail to make an impression on the minds of these people in the long run, though they were at first indifferent to them, as not knowing their use and dura-


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 up with the weed, he reported that a number of ship's guns were lying in the same place. The intelligence was at first received with incredulity, but on further investigation it proved to be correct. Search was made, and presently a diver came up with a solid bar of silver in his arms. When Phipps was shown it, he exclaimed, "Thanks be to God! we are all made men." Diving bell and divers now went to work with a will, and in a few days treasure was brought up to the value of about £300,000, with which Phipps set sail for England. On his arrival, it was urged upon the king that he should seize the ship and its cargo, under the pretence that Phipps, when soliciting his Majesty's permission, had not given accurate information respecting the business. But the king replied, that he knew Phipps to be an honest man, and that he and his friends should divide the whole treasure amongst them, even though he had returned with double the value. Phipps's share was about £20,000, and the king, to show his approval of his energy and honesty in conducting the enterprise, conferred upon him the honour of knighthood. He was also made High Sheriff of New England; and during the time he held the office, he did valiant service for the mother country and the colonists against the French, by expeditions against Port Royal and Quebec. He also held the post of Governor of Massachusetts, from which he returned to England, and died in London in 1695.

Phipps, throughout the latter part of his career, was not ashamed to allude to the lowness of his origin, and it was matter of honest pride to him that he had risen from the condition of common ship carpenter to the honours of knighthood and


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 the government of a province. When perplexed with public business, he would often declare that it would be easier for him to go back to his broad He left behind him a character for axe again. probity, honesty, patriotism, and courage, which is certainly not the least noble inheritance of the house of Normanby.

William Petty, the founder of the house of Lansdowne, was a man of like energy and public usefulness in his day. He was the son of a clothier in humble circumstances, at Romsey, in Hampshire, where he was born in 1623. In his boyhood he obtained a tolerable education at the grammar school of his native town; after which he determined to improve himself by study at the University of Caen, in Normandy. Whilst there he contrived to support himself unassisted by his father, carrying on a sort of small pedler's trade with "a little stock of merchandise." Returning to England, he had himself bound apprentice to a sea captain, who "drubbed him with a rope's end" for the badness of his sight. He left the navy in disgust, taking to the study of medicine. When at Paris he engaged in dissection, during which time he also drew diagrams for Hobbes, who was then writing his treatise on Optics. He was reduced to such poverty that he subsisted for two or three weeks entirely on walnuts. But again he began to trade in a small way, turning an honest penny, and he was enabled shortly to return to England with money in his pocket. Being of an ingenious mechanical turn, we find him taking out a patent for a letter-copying machine. He began to write upon the arts and sciences, and practised chemistry and physic with such success that his reputation shortly