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 habitants. The whole district spoke of them, and if they had spent all their lives in going from village to village in the district, taking them in succession, our musicians would never have stood in need of their daily bread.

They even visited the town on market-days, and when they posted themselves in the square, people ceased their bargaining and came to listen. The shopkeepers went so far as to be angry with them, and jealous of them for hindering business, but as soon as they heard them, they gave them gifts like the rest. They were looked upon, however, with still less favour by some other singers who had posted a large booth in the market-place, and notified on a painted board what they were going to perform. These latter had not a living soul on their side, and soon had to clear off, and lamentably bewailed the state of trade. But they dared not grumble too loudly, for our child musicians had so completely won over the listeners to their side that they had as many champions as they had listeners. Besides, in all their audiences, they found old acquaintances—people who listened to them here en market-days, and heard them long before in their own native village, and introduced themselves to the children as friends or, perhaps, even as relations of their family.

It is needless, therefore, to add that Venik and Krista prospered in their tramping mode of life. They were dressed very becomingly. Venik wore his shepherd’s costume, only that everything was brand-new, and fitted him like his own skin, in fact, the boy himself was like a bouquet. Krista was dressed in peasant’s costume, but in gala trim. On her head was a short silken handkerchief tied in a hood, a string of ducats on her neck, a neat corselet showed off her trim figure, and a short skirt let one catch a glimpse of a pretty foot in white stockings and low shoes.

They were like a picture. Everywhere they were taken for brother and sister, and to all intents and purposes were as brother and sister.

A year floated by like a day, and three years like three days. Venik was now eighteen years of age, and Krista fifteen. The boy was like an ash-sapling. As for the girl it was a pleasure to look at her. And, of course, people did look at her. Venik himself sometimes stole a furtive glance into her eyes as he used to look into the fresh mountain spring. It happened that once again they came to the town, but it was not market-day; there was a performance at the town theatre, and the villagers of the various parishes putting on their best suits for the play, and happening Rh

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/


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 I suppose, like Lady Wortley Montague, is of opinion, that the face is not the most beautiful part of woman; at least, if I am to judge from these elaborate ancles. Now the countenance of this Donna, forsooth, has a drowsy placidity worthy of the easy chair she is lolling in, and yet her ancle would not disgrace the contorted frame of the most pious Faquir."

"Well! I'm an admirer of Newton's paintings."

"Oh! so am I. He's certainly a cleverish fellow, but rather too much among the blues; a set, of whom, I would venture to say, Miss Manvers knoweth little about? "

"Oh, not the least! Mamma does not visit that way. What are they?"

"Oh, very powerful people! though  'Mamma does not visit that way?'  They live chiefly about Cumberland Gate. Their words are Ukases as far as Curzon Street, and very Decretals in the general vicinity of May Fair;

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 to talk about the theatre, invited Venik and Krista also to accompany them thither. Krista looked at Venik, and Venik went with her.

All the way there they scarcely spoke a word. Krista was wondering what it would be like in the theatre, and Venik’s mind was perhaps similarly engaged. They were about to look upon an unknown world, and their eyes were downcast.

They had never yet been at the theatre, and when they had taken their places in it they felt as though a ton weight had fallen upon them. They saw a number of people before the curtain, and behind the curtain—who could tell what there might be? Then the curtain was drawn up and they saw a wood, and here both bethought them of that wood which stretched behind their hill-side; they bethought them of the hollow tree and of that river which ran below the hill-side; they were half inclined to weep, and again they were half inclined to rapture. But all was different in that wood behind the curtain. There people walked and conversed and acted together, and our two spectators felt even that wood behind the curtain grew dear to them. Their whole attention was fixed upon it, and everything happened quite naturally in it, and like real life. Now they were constrained to laugh, and the next moment they were fain to cry.

The play was over, and in the body of the hall twilight reigned. When they listened they seemed to hear their own names called, and that by many voices. It really was their names, and before they could recover from their surprise they felt themselves touched by hands, many hands, and again before they could recover from their surprise, they were gently lifted off their feet, and pushed behind the curtain into the wood, and a hundred throats clamoured for Venik to play and Krista to sing.

It was like a revelation. They did not know how it all happened, but they sang and played. It half seemed to them as though they were standing on their own hill-side, and yet somehow it was quite different. When they had concluded the theatre was all agape with excitement, and like one mouth, and they were obliged to play and sing afresh, and when even this was concluded Venik saw that a body of fine gentlemen had gathered round Krista and were conversing with her about the stage, and about matters which he himself did not understand, and which she, perhaps, also did not understand. And then again they talked to her about matters which pained him, and which he did not wish


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 ples so noble, his heart so sensible and good, that I should have been unworthy of his friendship if I had not severely felt his loss: Wherever I went, the image of the darling of my heart was hovering before me, and I was haunted every where by the distressing painful thought that I should see him no more. His wise counsels, his sage instructions, still vibrated in my ear, and nature had lost all her charms, since I could no more admire the greatness of her Creator, wandering by his side, and hear him enlarge on the praises of him who showers down his blessings on man, and on the worm that is creeping beneath our feet; how my heart was thrilled with unutterable bliss, when he was pointing out to me the wisdom and power of God, who is as great in the meanest reptile, as in the structure of the majestic king of day; how my bosom panted with rapture, when, in the evening of a toilsome day, I could rest on his heart, and listening to the effusions of his noble mind, could sympathize with him in his virtuous feelings.


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XXVIII.]

As soon as the Burgundians were come to Hunnish land,

Of Bern a chieftain heard it,— the aged Hildebrand.

Unto his lord he told it; to him ’twas all unmeet;

Yet bade he them with kindness the valiant knights to greet.

The ready Wolfhart bade them to bring the horses out.

Then rode along with Dietrich full many a warrior stout,

As towards the open country to welcome them he went.

There had they pitch’d already full many a noble tent.

When Hagen, lord of Tronjé, them from afar espied,

Unto his masters turning, in courteous words he cried:

“Now, please ye, gallant warriors, dismount on to your feet,

And them whom you would welcome go forth yourselves to meet.

“The company that cometh is right well known to me:

They are the doughty warriors from Amelung country,

And he of Bern doth lead them; they are of courage high.

’Twere better not to flout them when folk to serve ye try.”

Then down from horse alighted (as was indeed but right)

All they who came with Dietrich, full many a squire and knight.

They walk’d towards the strangers, where they the chiefs could see,

And courteously greeted the men of Burgundy.


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 to hear. Then he felt quite fit to cry, and so he took Krista by the hand and led her out of the theatre and out of the town.

Then Venik felt as though he had a different pair of eyes, and as though Krista had become changed from what she had been hitherto. Lovelier, a hundred, a thousand times lovelier than she had been hitherto, and than they told her she was in the theatre. Venik thought that he must tell her so; but when he sought words to express himself he could not find them, and when he had found them they stuck in his throat. And then he felt as though he had a different heart. What was that strange resonance in his bosom which he had never felt before, but the beating of that poor heart? It seemed to beat more audibly: it was full to overflowing; and when he asked himself what that was within it, he was fain to answer that it was Krista. He wished to tell her so, but his heart throbbed worse than ever. And while he hesitated, he grew pale as a wall, and was fain to fetch a sigh from the very depths of his soul.

He could not the least recollect how long Krista had now been linked with him. So far as memory carried him she had always been at his side. With him in school, in church, on the hill-side, on the road—everywhere she had been with him, and it could not be otherwise. But now he felt as though the Krista who walked with him was a different Krista from her with whom he used to walk. She was no longer like a deserted orphan whose brother he was, now she was a girl—Krista, and when he thought about her he trembled.

Until that hour they had shared the same couch, and when they had laid them down were like two birds of a single nest. To-day when they came to the farmhouse in which they were to pass the night, Krista lay down alone on the couch—for the first time alone, and Venik went out in front of the building and cried. He was alone at night for the first time in his life, and kept awake all night long.

The next day he scarcely dared to raise his eyes to Krista. He felt as though she were much above him, and as though he ought to beg her to allow him to remain by her side. He was gloomy and sorrowful, and when Krista looked upon him she, too, was gloomy and sorrowful, and her eyes were downcast. And yet they had not wronged one another in anything, they had done nothing to one another to merit blame, no single too familiar word had ever passed between them.

That day the violin was left hanging on its nail, and Venik was


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 but you shall have a further description another time. How those rooks bore! I hate staying with ancient families; you're always cawed to death. If ever you write a novel, Miss Manvers, mind you have a rookery in it. Since Tremaine, and Washington Irving, nothing will go down without."

"Oh! by the bye, Mr. Grey, who is the author of Tremaine?"

"I'll tell you who is not.'

"Who?"

"Mr. Ogle."

"But, really, who is the author?"

"Oh! I'll tell you in a moment. It's either Mr. Ryder, or Mr. Spencer Percival, or Mr. Dyson, or Miss Dyson, or Mr. Bowles, or the Duke of Buckingham, or Mr. Ward, or a young Officer in the Guards, or an old Clergyman in the North of England, or a middle-aged Barrister on the Midland Circuit."

"You 're really so giddy, Mr. Grey,—I

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 wish you could get me an autograph of Mr. Washington Irving; I want it for a particular friend."

"Give me a pen and ink; I 'll write you one immediately."

"Oh! Mr. Grey."

"There! now you've made me blot Faustus."

At this moment the room-door suddenly opened, and as suddenly shut.

"Who was that, Mr. Grey?"

"Mephistophiles, or Mrs. Felix Lorraine; one or the other,—perhaps both."

"Mr. Grey!"

"What do you think of Mrs. Felix Lorraine, Miss Manvers?"

"Oh! I think her a very amusing woman, a very clever woman, a very—but—"

"But, what?"

"But I can't exactly make her out."

"Nor I, nor I—she's a dark riddle; and, although I am a very dipus, I confess I have

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 wellnigh heartbroken. He longed continually to meet with Krista, and when he had met her he longed to be away again, as though he had committed a crime. Then he fancied that Krista was ailing, and longed to inquire about her health; but when he saw her he saw, too, that she was as pink and fresh as a rose, and as beautiful as a day in spring; only her lips quivered for a moment as though they wished to whisper something, but they closed and did not whisper it. She was sadder and more gloomy than Venik himself, and conversed even less than he did.

Yet several days floated by, and they were more estranged. Venik did not play, Krista did not sing, they did not converse, they did not laugh together, they had no sweet confidences; and yet it seemed to Venik that he was happier then than he had ever been before. Until one morning Venik said, “Krista, I think that I am going to be ill.”

Krista looked at him apprehensively and said, “Why shouldst thou be ill?”

“I feel so oppressed, Krista. Let us go to the hill-side to the old oak-wood. If I am to get well again I shall get well there: if not, I had rather die there.”

“Why should you die?” said Krista. “You are so young”, she added, and felt as though she had said too much, and as though in saying those words she had already sinned. She turned away from him, and after a long pause said, “If you feel so oppressed let us go. It is now three years since we were there.”

And they went. They went to the spot where they had first met one another, where together they had played and sung, where they had been like two angels, with the hollow tree for their sanctuary, and whence they had first gone forth together into the world.

The return journey was a dreary pilgrimage to both. Venik loitered wearily the nearer he approached the hill-side; and once when he looked at Krista he said, “Krista, we are going each as it were alone.” They went, each as it were alone, immersed in his own private thoughts. At this Krista took him by the hand, and their hands were moist and like fire. In speech and manner they were equally embarrassed. Their mouths were parched, their steps tottered, and after this they again unclasped hands, and again went each as it were alone.

When they were exhausted by their walk they sat down under some willows, by a streamlet which fled away to the river, that they might rest themselves. Their feet rested, indeed, but in their soul they seemed to fret more and more.


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294

When noble Dietrich saw them their way towards him make,

Perchance ye fain would hearken to what the warrior spake

Unto the sons of Uté. Their journey grieved him sore:

The truth, he thought, Sir Rüdeger had known and told before.

“Be welcome, sirs, right welcome, Gunther and Giselher,

And Gernot, too, and Hagen; and, not the less, Volker

And swift and ready Dankwart! Have ye not understood

That o’er her Niblung hero Kriemhilda yet doth brood?”

“Then let her brood for ever!” Hagen in answer said,

“For many a long year is it since he was stricken dead.

To love the King of Hunsland is now her duty plain:

Siegfried hath long been buried; he comes not back again.”

“Now let us, an’ it please you, leave Siegfried’s wounds alone;

Whilst Dame Kriemhilda liveth evil may still be done.”

So did the noble Dietrich, the knight of Bern, declare.

“Thou Mainstay of the Niblungs, to guard thyself beware!”

“And wherefore should I guard me?” the high-born king replied;

“Tidings we had from Etzel (what should I ask beside?)

That, came we hither riding, ’twould give him much content

My sister Kriemhild, likewise, hath many a message sent.”

“If I may give you counsel,” so Hagen to them spake,

“Beg that the noble Dietrich and his good warriors make

Some better declaration of what they have in mind,

And tell us to what humour Dame Kriemhild is inclined.”


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 not yet unravelled it. Come, there's Washington Irving's autograph for you; read it, isn't it quite in character? Shall I write any more? One of Sir Walter's, or Mr. Southey's, or Mr. Milman's, or Mr. D'Israeli's? or shall I sprawl a Byron?"

"Mr. Grey! I really cannot patronize such unprincipled conduct. You may make me one of Sir Walter's, however."

"Poor Washington, poor Washington!" said Vivian, writing; "I knew him well in London. He always slept at dinner. One day as he was dining at Mr. Hallam's, they took him, when asleep, to Lady Jersey's rout; and, to see the Sieur Geoffrey, when he opened his eyes in the illumined saloons, was really quite admirable! quite an Arabian tale!"

"Oh, how delightful! I should have so liked to have seen him! He seems quite forgotten now in England. How came we to talk of him?"

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 In a neighbouring wood a cuckoo cuckooed. Krista looked at Venik, then yielded to tears, laid her head on Venik’s bosom and sobbed aloud. Venik stroked her hair, stroked her face, and was like one distraught. After this Krista ceased to weep, rose, went to the streamlet, gathered at it “fishes eyes”, and entwined them with her hair, and when Venik saw her it seemed to him that he could go mad with love of her—so dear she was to him.

Then they rose, went forward, and conversed. Venik felt that the previous burden had fallen from him, that his words were once more unfettered, and that he could breathe freely.

Only he still could not say the particular thing he wanted to say; and several times as he thought about it his words again became more constrained. But on the whole they felt freer. Already they could not say that they were going each by himself. Already they almost tripped along together.

So the next time they sat themselves down, under pretence of resting a little, Krista did not again fling herself weeping on to Venik’s bosom, but none the less did Venik take her head in his hands, none the less did he lay her on his bosom, stroke her hair and face, and wipe her eyes, although they were no longer bedimmed with tears.

It drew towards evening as they approached the hill-side. The sun had set, and left but a faint blush in the western heavens; the day was over and had left but a shadow of itself; evening stole upon the world, and with it came faint odours and the song of birds.

When they reached the hill-side and saw the hollow tree at the outskirts of the wood, Venik was like a child once more, and when he had seated himself at the threshold with Krista beside him he said: “Krista, now I feel ill no longer.”

And here it seemed to Venik that never in all his life had he felt his breast so full as it was just then, and that never in all his life he had felt what he then felt. If he had had to explain it all, he would not have succeeded, but when he looked at Krista he thought his looks alone explained it. He was half inclined to weep, but much more to rejoice. The river and the village far below them already veiled themselves in filmy mists; that cuckoo which had cuckooed to them as they sat beside the streamlet under the willows, seemed to have accompanied them even hither; here it cuckooed from the wood.

And it seemed to them, as if they had departed thence but yesterday. Village, river, field, wood, hollow tree—everything


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 The third day after his departure, I could no longer stay in a place where every object reminded me of so many hours of bliss, and of the man, whose friendship had made me so truly happy; I bade my servant pack my trunks, ordered my corporals to keep themselves ready, and left F after a few days; however I cannot deny that I left with regret a town where I had found, and, alas! lost so soon, so valuable a treasure.

My journey afforded me but little amusement, being not able to wean my gloomy mind from the painful recollection of the time past, the image of my friend rushing ever and anon on my soul, and I could not resist the ardent desire of being re-united to him: In vain did I consider the bad consequences a longer connexion with him perhaps would have produced; in vain did I struggle to convince myself, that the gloominess of his mind would have, sooner or later, infected the peace of my heart, and poisoned my tranquillity, though he had been ever so brave


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 "Forgotten—oh! he spoilt his elegant talents in writing German and Italian twaddle with all the rawness of a Yankee. He ought never to have left America, at least in literature:—there was an uncontested and glorious field for him. He should have been managing Director of the Hudson Bay Company, and lived all his life among the beavers."

"I think there's nothing more pleasant, Mr. Grey, than talking over the season in the country, in August."

"Nothing more agreeable. It was dull, though, last season, very dull; I think the game cannot be kept going another year. If it wasn't for the General Election, we really must have a war for variety's sake. Peace gets quite a bore. Every body you dine with commands a good cuisine, and gives you twelve different wines, all perfect. And as for Dr. Henderson, he is the amateur importer for the whole nation. We cannot bear this any longer;

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XXVIII.]

Then the three mighty chieftains to speak apart withdrew,

Gunther to wit, and Gernot, and the lord Dietrich, too:

“Now, knight of Bern, pray tell us, thou noble warrior good,

What of the queen thou knowest, and what may be her mood.

The knight of Bern made answer: “What can I tell you more?

I hear her ev’ry morning weeping and wailing sore,—

This wedded wife of Etzel— in manner piteous,

To the great God of Heaven, for stalwart Siegfried’s loss.”

“It may not be averted,”— that boldest man declared,

Volker, the fiddle-player,— “the doom whereof we’ve heard;

To court we’re bound to journey, there for ourselves to see

What fate for us good warriors among the Huns shall be.”

So hence the bold Burgundians to court rode on their way

After their country’s fashion, in glorious array.

And many a bold man marvell’d among the Hunfolk there

At Hagen, lord of Tronjé, what kind of man he were.

For since was told the story, (that was enough alone,)

How he the Netherlander Siegfried to death had done,—

The stoutest of all warriors, the husband of Kriemhild—

With questions about Hagen the court was wellnigh fill’d.

Of goodly growth and presence the hero was, no doubt;

Broad-shouldered and deep-chested; his hair was fleck’d about

With streaks of grisly colour; long in the shank was he,

And stony was his visage; he walk’d right royally.


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 was the same: even the nail on which Venik had hung his violin still stuck in the hollow tree. Only when he looked at Krista all seemed different. And he looked at her very much, and then everything was very different. Krista’s eye was inflamed and moist with tears, and when he touched her hand it was again as hot as fire.

When the moon rose, Krista said to Venik that he never was to think of her again, and Venik to this replied, “Prithee, why shouldst thou unlink thyself from me.”

But, as her only reply, Krista again laid her head on his bosom, and wept and sobbed as if she would unlink herself from him for ever. She kissed his face, his eyes, his forehead, his mouth—it was the first time that she had kissed him.

Then Venik said, “Krista, be mine.”

On this Krista nestled yet closer to his side—but then of a sudden she rose and ran away to the wood.

Venik sat a long time alone, and it seemed to him as though he had seen happiness flutter round him, and as if he had actually caught hold of it. He held it in his hands, he looked for and did not know what had become of it. After this he shouted, “Krista! Krista!” and when Krista responded not he went into the wood, gathered leaves and moss with both hands, carried them in his arms to the tree, and in its hollow trunk strewed a couch. Then he sat on the threshold, and was like a sentinel on guard.

There were no signs of Krista, but still it seemed to Venik as though she was there, and as if he saw her at every glance, and at every glance she seemed more fair. Then she was there, she stood behind him like a shadow, she never stirred, her head drooped upon her bosom, and her hands clasped together.

“Krista, I have but now prepared thy couch in the tree”, said Venik, and his voice trembled so that it was not in him to say anything more. Krista without a word went and laid herself down in the tree on the leaves and moss.

Venik retired a few paces toward the wood, and laid himself down beside it.

But he did not sleep. It seemed to him as though he must make certain whether Krista slept or not. He rose, stole silently to the tree, looked in a brief moment, and in that moment Krista raised her head.

Venik as though with a knife in his heart retired to his previous resting-place, and laid himself down once more.

Then he fell asleep, and all his dreams ran on Krista. And he fancied that she laid her head on his hand; he fancied that he


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 all the lights and shadows of life are lost. The only good thing I heard this year, was an ancient gentlewoman going up to Gunter, and asking him for 'the receipt for that white stuff,' pointing to his Roman punch. I, who am a great man for receipts, gave it her immediately:— 'One hod of mortar to one bottle of 'Noyau!' "

"Oh, that was too bad! and did she thank you?"

"Thank me! ay, truly; and pushed a card into my hand, so thick and sharp that it cut through my glove. I wore my arm in a sling for a month afterwards."'

"And what was the card?"

"Oh, you need not look so arch! The old lady was not even a faithless duenna. It was an invitation to an assembly, or something of the kind, at a locale, somewhere, as Theodore Hook, or John Wilson Croker, would say, 'between Mesopotamia and Russell-square.'"

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 awoke, and that as he held it so his eyelids opened upon the happiest moment of his life. He fancied that he was completely happy, that nothing more was wanting to him, and in the consciousness of that happiness he again fell asleep.

And again he seemed to see upon her face a fire and a hot enthusiasm, and in presence of that fire and that hot enthusiasm all girlish modesty was effaced, so that she had it neither in her looks nor her words. He dreamt so vividly that he fancied it could not be a dream. And even when he awoke in the morning he did not know how far waking realities differed from a dream, for that past night was to him both reality and a dream. And he dreaded lest it was reality, and he dreaded yet more lest it was a dream.

Krista had not yet awoke, she had not yet risen. He went to rouse her, and went to the tree along with the rays of the rising sun, which aimed its level beams into the hollow trunk. And when he had reached the spot along with them, at first he looked in furtively and then more boldly—the couch was vacant. Krista was not on it.

Venik felt as though only now he was immersed in dreams, as if only now he was laid in bed. He looked again and again into the tree, he looked again and again around him, leant his head on his hand to collect his thoughts—but he was not dreaming. He was awake. He tossed about the moss and leaves as though Krista might be under them, but she was not there.

And all at once it seemed to Venik as though the whole heaven had crumbled at his feet, as though the stars had fallen from the sky, and the last day had already come upon him. He grew as livid as a corpse, he longed to hurry away and bury himself in the grave, that he might the sooner rise from the dead; and his eyes were suffused with blood, so that they looked like bleeding suns.

And then he thrust his fingers through his hair, ran along the hill-side and past the wood, and shouted “Krista! Krista!” But there was no reply, then he ran into the wood, searched it cross by cross, and shouted, “Krista! Krista!” But there was no reply anywhere.

Then it seemed to Venik as though he had roved that wood for several days, as though he had grown old, as though he had lost the power of speech, as though he was exhausted, and his feet refused to stir. On this he staggered towards the hollow tree, and rested in weariness, and was still.

He waited.


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296

Then quarters were appointed for the Burgundian men.

The whole of Gunther’s followers were sunder’d from him then.

This by the queen was compass’d,  with hatred for him fill’d;

Hence all the yeomen, later, were in their hostel kill’d.

Since Dankwart, Hagen’s brother, the marshal had been made,

The king with zeal commended the men to him; and bade

That he would seek their comfort and let them have their fill.

This chief of the Burgundians bore all of them goodwill.

And now came Queen Kriemhilda with all her company

That she might greet the Niblungs with feignéd courtesy.

But Giselher, her brother, she kiss’d and took his hand.

This Hagen saw, and tighter he laced his helmet’s band.

“In view of such a greeting,” thus Hagen blurted out,

“A prompt and ready warrior may well have some misdoubt!

To kings and to their vassals greetings unlike befall:

We’ve made no lucky journey to this high festival.”

“To those who fain would see thee,” said she, “now welcome be:

Thou shalt not have a greeting for friendship’s sake from me.

Say what it is thou bringest from Worms beyond the Rhine,

That thou so great a welcome shouldst have from me and mine.”

“If I had heard the tidings,” so Hagen spake again,

“That you for gifts were looking at hands of every thane,

Had I myself been wealthy I would have twice bethought

Or ever to this country my gifts for you I brought.”


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 "Do you know Mr. Croker, Mr. Grey?"

"Not in the least. I look upon Mr. Croker and myself as the two sublimest men in the United Kingdom. When we do meet, the interview will be interesting."

"Pray, Mr. Grey, is it true that all the houses in Russell-square are tenantless?"

"Quite true; the Marquess of Tavistock has given up the county in consequence. A perfect shame—is it not? Let's write it up."

"An admirable plan! but we 'll take the houses first; of course we can get them at a pepper-corn rent."

"What a pity, Miss Manvers, the fashion has gone out of selling oneself to the devil."

"Good gracious, Mr. Grey!"

"On my honour, I am quite serious. It does appear to me to be a very great pity. What a capital plan for younger brothers! It's a

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 Y

THE RESULT OF AN IMPULSE.

BY CATHARINE PROCTOR.

CHAPTER I.

“Oh, heaven is very kind!” I said, as it were, involuntarily. I was startled. My speaking was, as it were, a riddle to myself, as I lay quietly and wearily behind those heavy, purple curtains, on those large downy pillows.

My whole life had been a bitter rebellion against Providenee; my whole tone and thought antagonistic to every reverential feeling, to everything like Christian spirit.

So heavy the burden I bore, so weak and helpless my powers to struggle through and buffet the tempests, that, instead of prayer, complaints had erer been upon my lips; and 1 had gradually come to allow myself to be borne aim¬ lessly, and at the will of every surrounding ob¬ ject in any direction; and now that my tongue had involuntarily given heaven praise, I was in bewilderment.

The day had been one of wondrous beauty; wondrous, for the resurrection of earth from her torpid estate is ever beautiful. It is like the gradual but startling development of a child’s intellect, ever seeming endearingly original, yet in every child the same, except when it is now and then frozen back by unkindness or imbecility. The days had grown so warm that every well, living thing left roof and covert, and went out to gather the manna of sunshine, falling broadcast over the earth. Oh, pity for the sick and helpless, that all the spring warmth and light they could feel, must come through windows and doors! Pity for the soulless, that they could plod every hour for the earth’s sordid gold, when the heavens were so bountiful with that, which, not only fills the hands, but the hearts of men!

I had ever loved storms better than sunshine. Something there was of sympathy between the darkness and tumult of the elements and the grim, restless spirit in me. I had finished my tasks; completed every repulsive item in the little round of daily drudgery, and then, without one joyful feeling, with only an undefinable and never-ending desire to get away from myself, I went to the woods. My eyes were blinded with the same dark shadow which bang upon my heart.

My whole being was fettered, and I did not

very deep, and made sluggish by being dammed below. It looked to me as I bad imagined the bayous of the South might—dork, sullen, and ^ yet quiet; then suddenly breaking away from ^ the mirrored shadows, and the dripping fringes ^ of brake and hazel, from the heavy, molten sun £ at midday, and from the white, motionless moon £ at night, it flung itself, like a suicide, maddened and desperate, in white impetuosity over the stones and timbers of the dam, then struggling \ for awhile with pitiful roaring, subsided to an \ even flow. I loved it. It was the miniature of my stream of life—only quiet never could reach me, until I floated out upon the dim, far-away \ ocean of eternity, glimpses of which I imagined I had had through the turbulence and mists of the torrents of my ungoverned passions.

\ and instead of the sullenness which the gloomy skies of winter, and the heavy shades of summer \ cast upon its face, it was as clear as the spring j: heavens, and glowing ns the sun.
 * It was now swollen high with spring rains,

A multitude of children were at play upon its

banks, some gathering the blue violets, some \ were gleeful and happy.
 * with fishing-rods, stoically waiting a bite All

} “Margaret!”

It was the frightened scream of childrens’ voices, a simultaneous shriek at once of petition and fear. I saw a convulsive plashing of water, and, without thought of doing a good deed, I sprang to the bank and into the stream. The \ first dash at once strangled and invigorated me. The child bad gone under, and I just saw a flutter of her blue dress. The first time she rose, $ I reached, clutched her dress, and took her in $ my arms, but in so doing I had lost my footing, \ current if we should be carried out. It was an $ effort such as I never put forth before—and it was successful. I pushed her in reach of tho $ dozen little hands stretched out for her; and then, $ without motive for exertion, chilled through, I \ sank down and was drifted out. I was just con- % soious of the renewed screaming of the children; i and that was all.
 * and I was but a very slight thing to stem the

I woke warmly nettled in bed; the light

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 He waited for Krista to come—for her return. But even if she had returned, it seemed to him that now the world would be the world no longer, that the heaven would be the heaven no longer, since once the sun had stooped from the sky and had lost its pathway in the heavens. And Krista returned not.

Venik waited that day and that night: he waited the next day and the next night. At night he slept on that couch of leaves and moss from which Krista had vanished. He only felt that he was alone, and the hollow of the tree resounded with his sighs. And once again he went out like a sportsman to the wood, and as though he was bent on sport, and shouted, “Krista! Krista!” But he was an unlucky sportsman, and then he felt as though a wound had been made in his side by some one, and as though blood trickled over that side of his body.

Krista had made that wound, she had deserted him, and now for the first time he was an orphan.

T seems to me that then for the first time was Venik without a public, without listeners, when seated again on the hill-side, he took once more his violin in his hands and played “The Orphaned Child”.

He was that orphaned child. Long ago, when Krista had accompanied him with her voice for the first time in the gloria, she had burst into tears because she was an orphan; and Venik convinced her that she was not an orphan. Then his father died: Krista was driven from the house, and when she had to begin her wandering in the world he had taken her by the hand, and wandered with her, and pointed out the way; again she was not an orphan. And when it was all finished, she voluntarily departed from him, at the moment when he had hoped with her to enter paradise. That paradise closed upon him—where was it now?

Venik’s thoughts had no beginning and no end, they were like an unbroken wilderness, where the eye tires itself. There was nothing for it to rest upon, nothing to look upon with pleasure. He had desired so little for himself; and when he lost even that little, it seemed to him that he had lost the whole world. He also had cherished her; and when he looked and saw how she had torn


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 kind of thing I've been trying to do all my life, and never could succeed. I began at school with toasted cheese and a pitch-fork; and since then I've invoked, with all the eloquence of Goethe, the evil one in the solitude of the Hartz; but without success. I think I should make an excellent bargain with him: of course, I don"t mean that ugly vulgar savage with a fiery tail. Oh, no! Satan himself for me, a perfect gentleman! Or Belial,—Belial would be the most delightful. He's the fine genius of the Inferno, I imagine, the Beranger of Pandemonium."

"Mr. Grey, I really cannot listen to such nonsense one moment longer. What would you have if Belial were here?"

"Let us see. Now, you shall act the spirit, and I, Vivian Grey. I wish we had a shorthand writer here to take down the Incantation Scene. We'd send it to Arnold.—Commençons—Spirit! I'll have a fair castle."

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 110

THE RESULT of AN IMPULSE.

subdued by the heavy purple curtains made me  what seemed to me, the congeniality between us. close my eyes again. $ We would discuss and argue questions for hours;

I should have died but for a small clump of !; and yet there was no jarring; all was in harmony, bushes, which the water, in its unusual height ^ even when we disagreed. After our long, ani- had overflown, and where my dress caught. > mated conversations, during which Margaret The assistance, which the screams of the children \ always observed a perfect silence, busily plying brought, rescued me. $ her needle in embroidery, he would turn to her,

I lay there, quiescent from weariness, yet $ and playfully addressing her as “ma belle” or thinking calmly. I had never before been so ^ “ma petite covaine ,” would ask for a song, or subdued, my bitterness of spirit was all gone, ^ challenge her to a game of chess. Her face and, “Oh, heaven is very kind!” were the first ^ would light up, and she would utter some words I uttered. v piquant remark, or laugh in her merry, musical

Wos heaven kind, or was my destiny sorrow ? \ way, seemingly so grateful that the literary storm _ i had subsided.

$ 1 thought he liked her as a companion for

CHAPTER II. ^pleasant relaxation, but not as an intellectual

“Margaret.” \ equal.

The same name, but not the same voice, now \ It was another spring day, drawn to an early

spoken low and tenderly, not uttered, as before, \ close. The half moon came timidly up, and the in fright; now not the call for aid to me, but a 5 sky twinkled faintly with stars, before the glow bolt of anguish, which shook me as only the $ of the sunset had faded away. The leaves were first fury of a storm can; blinded, stunned me. 5 scarcely open upon the trees, and the warmth I will give you the details. j; of the days had not sufficiently penetrated the

My life had been one of poverty, ignorance, $ bosom of mother earth to prevent a chilliness and struggling, until, from the effects of an i; coming on with the night.

impulse, I was lauded as heroic, and then, jj Margaret, with her love of out-door life, and Margaret’s father, who was the one most grate- ^ distaste for any confining employment, reveled, ful for my childish heroism, being a wealthy ^ like a lark, in the fresh, invigorating air; and man, gave me the best advantages for an educa- s now, as evening came on, in a flow of unwonted tion. My mother being dead, he insisted on my $ spirits, she wheeled a large chair out on the sharing Margaret’s mother’s care. My father ^ portico for Fritz, and an ottoman for herself, readily consented to the proposition, as my in- «; and insisted on having a “summer time.” variable moroseness had, in a measure, alienated < “But you will take cold, ma belle” he in- his love. But I was not grateful; what free ^ sisted.

spirit is for charity? I had strong desires, how-s An incredulous toss of her pretty head, and ever, to learn, and therefore I tacitly accepted $ some mischievous whisper, which annoyed, while his bounty. ^ it pleased him, was her only heed of his remon-

I progressed with unusual rapidity in my ^ strance. studies, and was termed a genius. My craving ^ She had been provokingly merry and wilful for books was insatiable. Margaret, on the $ all day, while Fritz had been unusually sombre, contrary, grew*up with a dislike for study $1 had endeavored in vain to engage him in con- Simple, affectionate, and cheerful she was, but \ versation, but my fascination failed me, or else not brilliant, as her parents desired. I learned ^ he was in trouble.

her tasks as well as my own. She was notjj I seemed to be entirely forgotten in the “ sum- envious, but willingly ceded me superiority, $ mer time” arrangement, for no chair was wheeled while she won the love of all by her wilful | for me; so I sat down by the parlor window, simpleness and innocence. She admired and ^ which had been open, the blinds remaining shut, petted me, and never treated me otherwise than ^ all day. Faint bars of the faint moonlight as a sister, \ checked the carpet; I sat, besides this, in deep

She had a cousin, Fritz Wolcott, who spent \ gloom, his summer holidays, while in college, with us. ^ Margaret’s ottoman was drawn close to the He was of that intellectual and poetic tempera- chair of Fritz. I could see them plainly, bnt ment which we admire in men, but which seldom \ heaven knows I had no intention of eves-drop- meets with sympathy if found in a woman. Pas- i ping. Their conversation had been at all times sionately fond of reading and study, he evidently $ so unconstrained in my presence, that I did not enjoyed my society; and I, with my hero-wor- * consider myself a listener. I was thinking in- shiping spirit, was perfectly fascinated with, tensely, and was as if withdrawn from myself.


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 herself, root and all, from his very heart, he saw that where those roots had been was a bleeding heart.

He had moments when it still appeared to him that what had befallen him could not really have happened. Surely he was befooled, surely Krista would return to him all at once. And then he seemed to hear her step, and the rustling of her dress: for a moment he saw her dancing eyes, her heavenly look, and heard her glorious voice. He turned his eyes in the direction whence that step and that rustling seemed to come, and when he perceived that it was but a mere delusion he cursed his fate.

If some one had asked him how long he had already sat thus, he would have said, “A whole eternity”, and he would have spoken the truth. And if he had been further asked how long he had walked with Krista in the world, he would have answered, “Two or three days”, and would equally have spoken the truth.

Then Venik arose and went again into the world. Sometimes he played and sometimes he did not play, as the fancy took him. Sometimes it seemed to him as though he wandered in the world in search of Krista; and again it seemed to him that if he found her he should cast her from him that he might have her no more with him.

First he came to the parishes in which he had dwelt long since with Krista; and when his old comrades saw him desolate, they asked him, where he had left Krista. Then he sometimes answered with a word, sometimes with a smile, sometimes with a tear, just as was consonant with the answer. But through it all it was apparent that each of these modes of reply tormented him; he felt it, too, himself, and, therefore, made up his mind not to go to villages where he was known, but only to go among strangers.

In villages where he was not known, indeed, no one inquired for Krista, because no one had known her. But even that was not a clear gain to him, for he observed that he himself also on that very account made fewer inquiries about her. Already he had not inquired about her for many a long day.

Sometimes the whole business of strolling through the villages and of playing to people also wearied him; he was sick of it all; and then if he could find any gay young fellows anywhere he would attach himself to them as long as they wished to listen. By his playing he lured them to the dance, and he played so that any one who had wished to tarry always beside him would perhaps have been led to destruction. And then although at the beginning he was but sombre and melancholy, the further his


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XXVIII.]

“’Tis rather you, who tidings to me should give: to wit,

The Nibelungen treasure, what have ye done with it?

It was mine own possession, and that right well you knew:

’Twas this ye should have brought me to Etzel’s land with you.”

“I’ faith, my Lady Kriemhild, ’tis now full many a day

Since when at my disposal the Niblung treasure lay;

At bidding of my masters ’was sunk in the Rhine-tide:

There till the Day of Judgment, in sooth, it may abide.”

Then spake the queen in answer: “’Tis even as I thought!

Right little of it have you for me to this land brought,

Although ’twas mine, and whilom within my power it lay;

Since when I’ve spent thereover full many a dreary day.”

“The devil a bit I bring you!” Sir Hagen fell to swear:

“I have my shield to carry, and that’s enough to bear,

Together with my mail-coat; my helm’s a trifling thing,

My sword I have in hand though, so naught for you I bring.”

Thereon the queen spake loudly unto those warriors all:

“Let no man any weapon carry into the hall;

Give them to me, ye heroes, I’ll keep them safe for you!”

“Nay, by my troth,” cried Hagen, “that will we never do!

“I covet not the honour, gentle princess and fair,

That thou unto the hostel my shield thyself shouldst bear.

Nor other of my weapons: thou hast a queen become;

So taught me not my father; I will be chambergroom.”


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 The lady bowed.

"I'll have a palace in town."

The lady bowed.

"I'll have lots of the best Havannah cigars."

The lady bowed.

"I'll have a fair wife.—Why, Miss Manvers, you forget to bow!"

"Oh, dear! Mr. Grey, I really beg your pardon!"

"Come, this is a novel way of making an offer, and, I hope, a successful one."

"Julia, my dear," cried a voice in the veranda, "Julia, my dear, I want you to walk with me."

"Say you are engaged with the Marchioness," whispered Vivian, with a low but distinct voice; his eyes fixed on the table, and his lips not appearing to move.

"Mamma, I'm"

"I want you immediately and

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 merry companions prolonged their orgies, the gayer he became. His gaiety waxed in proportion as his youthful followers slackened and grew weary.

If people from the villages in which he had been so dear, when he and Krista were still their young musicians, had seen him at such orgies, verily they would have shrugged their shoulders at him, and the mothers would have cried, “What a pity it is, poor boy, so young and bonny as he is, and once so good and honest.” Now people began to nickname him “Wild Venik”.

Then again it would happen that he had nothing to say to any one. He shunned the villages, or at most seated himself or laid him down somewhere behind the barn under the willows, as long ago he had done with Krista. And here, just as he who praying with a rosary takes and pushes one bead after another, so Venik dwelt in memory on Krista, and word by word repeated everything he had ever said with her, everything he had ever felt for her, each single recollection was like a single bead of the rosary, and the whole remembrance was like a single prayer. Sometimes these prayers soothed him, but yet it was so only apparently. Then again it seemed to him either that he felt surfeited, or that he had not begun to be satisfied at all.

Sometimes wishing neither to go to villages where he was known, nor to those where he was unknown, he prowled around so purposely and futilely, that when he tried to recall that wandering to mind, all he knew was that he sat on the hill-side at the outskirts of the wood beside the hollow tree. It was passing strange to him. Like a heavy dream rested upon him all that had taken place beyond that spot of ground, and that had ended there. He peered into the tree, and there yet lay Krista’s couch of leaves and moss as though he had strewed it there that very day. And here he flung himself on this couch and embraced the whole of it in a wild frenzy of passion. Then he laid himself down on it and lay awake or dreamt. He reflected how constant were those fallen leaves and that shrunken moss in comparison with man. Deprived of the sunlight and the sun’s warm beams, it had not proved unfaithful to its post. In the hollow, worm-eaten tree, he had laid that moss and foliage, and he found it there whensoever he returned.

Here it seemed to him that after all it was impossible that he was so deserted as he held himself to be. He got up, ranged the wood once more, and shouted “Krista! Krista!” but there was no reply; there was not even her footprint, there was not even he


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, Julia," cried Lady Louisa, with an earnest voice.

"I'm coming, I'm coming. You see I must go, Mr. Grey."

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 shadow. And when he turned back without success, he did not wish to go again to the tree, or to the couch within it.

Then he cast his eyes over his own native district, and felt as though here he was in his own home once again. He longed to go back once more to the Rihas’s to offer to tend his flock, and even to leave behind him that violin which he knew not whether he ought to curse or bless. Once, indeed, under cover of evening he approached the village and wended his way to his own parental roof, and debated long with himself as to whether he should enter the house or not. He passed the court-yard and stood behind the hall-door, next to which was the kitchen. In the kitchen on the hearth burnt a fire, beside the hearth stood Riha’s wife preparing the evening meal. The fire flashed into her face, that face had the colour of the fire, and it was a strict face. But still it seemed to him like an honest face, and one that he could trust. Always it had never promised him anything, always it had only threatened him; and just because it realized its own threats, it was honest. Krista had never threatened him; there was no strictness in her words or face, and yet how had she sinned against him in comparison with yon poor old beldam.

Perhaps he would have entered, perhaps he would have offered to drudge at anything, and nothing would have been too burdensome for him. But at that moment Riha’s wife carried away the supper from the hearth, she returned no more, and Venik departed. He paused awhile at the window, and looked into the lighted room. And here it flashed across him that the cottage with its bit of land was his property, that it was a rare stroke of fortune for his uncle and aunt, the Rihas, when he went a-roving in the world, and that he might even now enter the chamber where they sat and demand of them an account of their stewardship over his farm and rights. He might settle here, leave his vagabond life far behind him, and become a well-ordered man. A well-ordered man!

Hereupon Venik turned from the windows and from the cottage, and went once more toward the hill-side.

To be a well-ordered man. What was that? Venik laughed sarcastically. When he had fled into the world with Krista he was a well-ordered man. When she departed from him—an end to orderliness! even though he should be the master of a farm. Perhaps Krista was well-ordered, and now he could be so, too. Fie upon it all! Where was the good of perfunctorily saying, “I will be a well-ordered man”—and then to have in one’s bosom


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 everything in disorder. A cottage and a settled life do not create orderliness. And yet something still drew him back toward the cottage.

Then Venik struck off again from the hill-side, bent his steps into the world once more and hurled himself upon it like a drop of the mountain torrent which blindly hurls itself into the river that it may reach the sea at last.

He was again the wild Venik who made merry all night long with a merry gay brotherhood; who tippled with them heart and soul, who made them merry with music and jesting, and who would not feel the dint of care till morning. Venik was again the centre of a group of lads in their prime; only that at this time mothers would no longer have invited him to their homes: rather, they would have slammed the door in his face lest he should entice their son to drunkenness and debauch.

But he only acted thus in unfamiliar villages where he was not known in the days when he walked with Krista. When he came to the villages he knew he was different, as though he fain would humble himself, and as though he did penance for his nights of revelry elsewhere. He was gloomy and melancholy. Here he seemed to be still treading in Krista’s footprints: and sometimes he fancied that he was tracing her and on the search for her. His familiar listeners perceived in his silent moods something sinister and had him in compassion.

And even here summer sped away. Sometimes the days were indeed as interminable as the sea, but summer whirled away with them as with all else: it engulphed them and there was never a trace of them. Three years floated by from that time when Krista took to flight from her couch in the hollow tree.

Then Venik went again to the same town in which he and Krista had been in a theatre for the first time, and where the people had lifted him and Krista on to the stage for him to play to them.

And when he saw the theatre, he reconnoitred it and pryed about it, and felt he hated it so bitterly that he would not have hesitated to throw a burning brand upon it: if any one else had done so, he would have looked on with delight, while the tongues of flame devoured and reduced to nothing a place whence began his hardest turn of destiny. He would have helped the flames yet further to devour and annihilate it, till there remained no trace of it, just as no trace of Krista had survived.


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298

“O woe on all my sorrow!” Kriemhilda loudly said,

“How is it that my brother and Hagen are afraid

To leave their shields in keeping? They have been warn’d, I see;

And knew I who had done it, I’d give him death for fee.”

Thereon Lord Dietrich answer’d, and said to her in scorn:

“’Twas I that took upon me these noble kings to warn;

And Hagen warn’d I likewise, the brave Burgundian.

Come on, thou devil’s daughter, do me the worst you can!”

Ashamed and sore confounded at this was Etzel’s wife:

For bitterly with Dietrich she feared to be at strife.

She found no word to answer, but went away in haste,

Whilst but a few sharp glances upon her foes she cast.

Then hand by hand two warriors took each of other hold:

The one was noble Dietrich, the other Hagen bold.

Then spake in courtly manner that knight of spirit high:

“Your coming to the Hunfolk doth grieve me, verily,

“Seeing the queen hath spoken such words to you but now.”

Then Hagen spake, of Tronjé: “’T will matter not, I trow.”

In such wise with each other, parley’d the two brave men.

Meanwhile King Etzel saw them, and fell to questioning then.

“I would that some one told me,” the mighty sovereign said,

“Who is that warrior yonder, to whom Sir Dietrich bade

So heartily a welcome? Of courage high is he;

Whoever were his father, a hero must he be!”


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 This hatred of the building, be it understood, did not hinder him from entering the theatre. He was now already of riper years than on the memorable day when he was first here, and he looked on things with different eyes. What he saw on the stage amused him: it amused him to see others the sport of adverse fate, it provoked him when they succumbed to their fate, and although it provoked him, yet it tempted him thither, and he seemed to read there a fragment of his own life and to be thereby consoled.

And now he frequented the theatre every day, and when he saw that there was but a spare supply of musicians in the orchestra, he offered himself with his violin, and was accepted. Then he looked from this orchestra on to that theatre as it were at first hand, he drank from it, as it were, the first draught, and when the curtain fell, he concluded all with his playing. And sometimes he was glad of this, and sometimes he laughed at it. It pleased him well to have his mind diverted and employed. But it did not please him when he saw how those theatrical princesses to-day proffered love to this man, and to-morrow to that; to see them kiss and embrace one man to-day, and to-morrow another. This ran so counter to his ideas that sometimes he would not have grudged his words, if he could have told them what place they had in his esteem.

Sometimes also on the stage was the wood which he had seen here for the first time with Krista, and which reminded him of the hill-side and wood, with the hollow tree at the outskirts of the wood.

Sometimes also he was asked to play a tune in that wood; and he played till he made people weep or whistle; for from his strings spoke both weeping and laughter.

Then they held Venik in respect and honour: they led him to a music master, with whom he studied and played all day long. They also taught him many things which he played to their admiration finely and touchingly. But still he only rose far above the rest, when he played those songs of his own just as he had taught them to himself on the hill-side. Then, indeed, it was just as though the whole hill-side breathed out of him, as though all the wood resounded in his strings, as if even the birds were full of voice, as if even the river played which gurgled far below. Of these songs people could not have enough, and called for them again and again. But, indeed, when he played his “Orphaned Child”, the public was enthralled by the magic of his art. Now it was as though every full-grown man were again an orphan, and as though


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 THE

RESULT

OF

AN

IMPULSE.

THE RESULT OF AN IMPUL8E.

hewing only the murmur of their voices, without distinguishing the words.

“Margaret,” spoken tenderly and questional-

I was brought suddenly from my dream-land of thought.

Bewildered, and momentarily stunned, I was as if smitten by a blow. The one utteranoe of that name had awakened more thought than a volume. I had heard it myriad times spoken by that same voice, but never before did it convey so much unspeakable happiness to one, unutterable wretchedness to another. I had lived in a sweet misunderstanding of everything around me, even of my own heart; that explained all, and showed me my idol shattered, my beautiful air palaces in ruins.

I heard vague words besides, but not until Fritz said, “ My treasure, how reckless I am of your sweet welfare,” did I comprehend my position as a listener to a tale spoken for one ear alone. I arose hastily, and, passing into the back parlor, entered the hall, and sought my own room. Darkness was to me preferable to light, so I sat down by my open window, and watched the dense shadows waving, almost without sound, on the grass of the lawn. The shock had unsettled me so that I could not even think of my despair. The pain was in my heart, piercing, heavy and incurable.

CHAPTER III.

It must have been quite late when Margaret sought her room adjoining mine By this time the moon had risen, so that the shadows of the trees no longer darkened my window. She listened at my door a moment, and then opened it quietly.

‘Why, Kitty, how like a ghost you look in that moonlight!” she said, laughing softly, and coming toward me.

“Ah!—you, Margaret?”

“Yes. I say you look like some goblin, so erect and definite. Yon—why, Kitty, you are cold as a toad! I am afraid it is your ghost; had you no light?”

It was well, probably, that she came in, for I had fallen into an apathetic state, almost a swoon; except that stinging anguish at my heart. She closed the window, wheeled my velvet-lined rocking-chair toward the table, and sat me in it, while she knelt at my feet, and rubbed my hands s vigorously.

“You model of prudence, to soar so far into the clouds spiritually, that your little mortal s body is abused. Why one degree more of night

air coldness and you would have been solid! It has made you white as a ghost; what is the matter, Catharine?”

She was becoming alarmed at my passive silence; I tried to rouse myself.

“Bring me a little wine, deary; or stop—my volatile salts!”

I shook off my lethargy, and that her happy heart might not know disquiet, that night at least, I told her falsehoods.

“I had a very hard headache, and, overcome with a weary sort of nervousness, I thought cool air would benefit me: and I have had too much of it. Go to bed now, I am better.”

“I cannot sleep; let me stay here; I will extinguish the light.”

“Do you wish to tell, or ask me anything?” I said, imprudently, disclosing my thoughts. I was glad she did not observe it.

“Some other time, I have something wonderful to tell you, but you are too frozen for sympathy now; I will wait.”

Her happiness of heart would not allow her even to speak pitifully to me.

“Tell me now, I cannot sleep; and if tears are to be shed, I can manufacture some for your accommodation.”

She drew close to me, and looked up with her sweet, childish eyes full into my face, and told me what I knew she would.

“I saved her from death once; if I can, I will save her from sorrow now,” and so I smoothed her soft hair, but with so heavy a pressure, that it aroused wonder in her face. But it was all done earnestly.

“Good night, my darling.”

“Wait,” she said, “you are older than I; you know more, much more. Is it wrong for cousins to marry ? Is it wrong for me to love Fritz ?”

Why this thought could arise in her mind, I could not divine, and I said, “No, no; you can¬ not help it; it is natural.”

Then she left me, taking her light, and pass¬ ing gently as she came, like a beautiful vision. “Oh! heaven is very kind,” said my rebellious heart, “to her.”

At morning, the same depression of inner pain prostrated me. It was with difficulty that I appeared at breakfast Nevertheless I did so, and they all remarked the paleness of my face, and expressed sympathy for me in my illness,  giving me an abundance of warnings never again to allow the spring night air to catch me asleep. I was sincerely glad they were deceived. What was so constantly in my mind, and almost upon my tongue, I fancied must be visible to every eye.


text: Vivian Grey/Volume 1/Chapter 2.10

title: Vivian Grey/Volume 1/Chapter 2.10


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If I had not walked aimlessly up town

That evening, and as aimlessly walked back,

My glance had not encountered then, if ever,

The caps and bonnets of a singing group

That loudly fought for souls, and was at first

No more than a familiar spot of sound

And color in a long familiar scene;

And even at that, if an oblique persuasion

Had not withheld me and inveigled me

To pause, I should have passed as others did,

Never to guess that while I might have touched him,


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 they were gathered together to one common grave to weep their fill.

At length rumours reached the town about other theatres, about theatres in the capital town of Prague. The newspapers wrote about them, and in the town they talked about them, in the theatre, everywhere they talked about them. And with these rumours came one certain piece of news, about a sort of prima donna who carried away the palm, both by her voice and execution, so that hitherto she had not her equal. When she stepped on to the boards, the wonder was that the garlands and bouquets did not smother her; and when she had finished her performance and prepared to drive home, people unyoked the horses from her carriage and with torches and hurrahings conducted her to her house. Rumour further said that she was young and beautiful, that she had been a strolling musician, until some one interested himself in her and had her carefully instructed, and that now she was a perfect miracle.

When Venik heard these and other things, a pang shot through him and he could not rest a moment. He left the orchestra, took his violin and as though everything was on fire behind him and around him, he hastened onward toward Prague. And in Prague he soon learnt all about the matter. Here, whatever place he entered, people spoke about her. In the beerhouses, hostinets, and cafés they were preparing for the theatre, all the afternoon, and evening was spent in conjecturing how many garlands she would get and who would throw them to her.

Venik listened and held his breath, and he had no need to begin the conversation anywhere. In every hole and corner he heard about her.

Was it possible that it was Krista?

WO hours before the beginning of the play he had already reconnoitred the theatre in the hopes of gleaning some certainty without the need of asking questions. The moment the ticket-office was opened, in spite of the jostling crowd, he was already to the front, and when he felt the ticket in his hands, it seemed to him to give him admission to the kingdom of heaven. But, indeed, who knows whether it were the kingdom of heaven to which it gave admission: possibly that ticket led quite otherwither.


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XXVIII.]

Then one of Kriemhild’s liegemen to answer him began:

He is by birth of Tronjé, his sire was Aldrian.

How blithe so e’er he bears him, he hath a spirit grim.

You shall yourself discover I tell no lies of him.”

“How shall I have occasion to know he is so stern?”

(The many sly devices as yet he had to learn,

Wherewith, to catch her kinsmen, the queen sought to contrive

That none of them from Hunsland again might come alive.)

“Well knew I that same Aldrian, a liegeman of mine own,

And here with me he won him  much honour and renown,

’Twas I a knight who dubb’d him, and gave him of my gold;

My faithful Helka bore him much kindness, too, of old.

“And all, by that same token, of Hagen know I well.

Into my hands for hostage two goodly children fell,

He and the Spanish Walther; who being to manhood bred,

I sent back Hagen; Walther with Hildegunda fled.”

He thought of the old stories and all that happ’d of yore,

His olden friend of Tronjé he gladly saw once more,

Who in his youth good service to him ne’er fail’d to lend.

Soon he in age repaid him by death of many a friend.


text: Page:Calnetics Corp. v. Volkswagen of America, Inc. (532 F.2d 674).pdf/4


text: The Lay of the Nibelungs/Chapter 28

title: The Lay of the Nibelungs/Chapter 28


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 At any rate he would not have parted with it for all the world, and when he looked at it as it lay in his hand, he seemed to be looking upon a portion of his own existence.

He had been seated in the theatre a long time before the beginning of the opera. He saw how they lit the lights one by one, he saw how the public sauntered in, he saw how the orchestra filled with musicians, and he saw below the curtain a swarm of pretty feet already upon the stage. Who could say whom they might belong to?

Everything seemed to spin round him, and he hardly seemed to be in the world. And again all around him roared with the din of a thousand voices, as when the wind crashes through the woodland and a tree is mere stubble in its path. The words spoken merged into one constant hum, and he seemed to be a tiny portion of that humming.

Then they began to play in the orchestra, and then the curtain was furled up. The stage represented a wood. Then she stept forth whom all awaited with breathless expectation; and when she stept forth, garlands and bouquets fell thick at her feet; it was a rain of flowers, and the people made the tempest. Through this rain and through this tempest it was impossible to distinguish anything clearly, and yet Venik fancied that he had distinguished something. Then the tempest subsided and the singing began. She sung.

It was Krista in every movement and in every tone. Full well he knew her every movement; full well he knew her every tone. And when she began to sing Venik felt a choking in his throat, and as though no heart beat any longer within him; as though he was no longer alive; as though it could not be the least true which yet was true; as though everything around him was enchantment, and he alone was in that enchantment. Would to Heaven it were only enchantment!

At the first touch, when he saw, heard, and recognized Krista, he felt only unembittered delight. Delight—to see her so beautiful, and to hear her so touchingly powerful, that she seemed like a superior being. As though she had got wings and flown to the stars. It was Krista, but a heaven-descended Krista. It was a different Krista from the one he had known, but it had grown out of the old Krista.

He smiled and the tears stood in his eyes. So near he was to her, so far away he was from her. From the hollow tree hither the road was one which had taken three years to traverse, and he Rh


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 Mrs. Million; after having granted the Marquess a private interview in her private apartments, signified her imperial intention of dining in public, which, as she had arrived late, she trusted she might do in her travelling dress. The Marquess kotooed like a first-rate mandarin, and vowed "that her will was his conduct."

The whole suite of apartments was thrown open; and was crowded with guests. Mrs. Million entered; she was leaning on the Marquess's arm, and in a travelling dress, namely, a crimson silk pelisse, hat and feathers, with diamond ear-rings, and a rope of gold round her neck. A train of about twelve persons, consisting of her noble fellow travellers, toad-eaters, physicians, secretaries, &c. &c. &c. followed. The entree of his Majesty could not have created a greater sensation, than did that of Mrs. Million. All fell back. Gartered peers, and starred ambassadors, and baronets with titles older than the creation, and squires,

title: Page:Vivian Grey, Volume 1.djvu/193


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 had reached the goal at last. Through a whole world, through an eternity he had to go, through nights of waking and debauchery, through a whole river of tears, and through many sighs that path had led—and now he had reached the goal at last. And now he seemed on a bed of roses, and to hear the song of the nightingale. And it was all Krista.

His heart now beat so audibly that he fancied every one heard it, that even Krista heard it. But no one heard it, all eyes were turned to her, and Krista never heard it: at least she never thought of running to his side.

When her song was at an end they clapped and shouted; Venik did not clap nor applaud, but he was greatly delighted. If he had clapped, perhaps he would have called attention to himself; if he had shouted, perhaps he would have shouted Krista. He felt delight—unembittered delight.

Then the delight began to be embittered. A singer stepped forward, and here Krista was already not alone upon the stage. This singer pledged his love to her, and she pledged her love to him. Then they embraced and kissed each other. Already Venik was pretty well awakened from his dreaming and wellnigh stricken to the ground. Here already he was not on a bed of roses, here he began to feel only its thorns. Here his heart began to beat differently, but his face grew pale and wan. Then they sang together, the singer and Krista, and they sang about their love, continually about their love; when people after this again clapped and shouted, Venik neither clapped nor shouted, then if he had wished to shout he would have called out “a theatrical princess”. And after that he would have burst into a mocking laugh.

It was Krista. And now began to drum in his head the words, “It is not Krista, that being yonder was, it is she no more.” The path to her had taken three years to traverse, it went through sorrow, tears, and sighs, and now that he had reached the goal at last, he said to himself, “I have found her and it is not she.”

It was Krista and it was not.

When the opera was concluded, he heard voices round him saying, “They drag her home again.” He ran out of the theatre and looked for the carriage in which they were going to drag her home. He saw a carriage, it was chock-full of the garlands which were flung to her in the theatre, and young men were detaching the horses, and yoking themselves to the carriage in place of them. It appeared to him past all conception loathsome—but it was


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 to the antiquity of whose blood, chaos was a novelty; all retreated, with eyes that scarcely dared to leave the ground—even Sir Plantagenet Pure, whose family had refused a peerage regularly every century, now, for the first time in his life, seemed cowed, and in an awkward retreat to make way for the approaching presence, got entangled with the Mameluke boots of my Lord Alhambra.

At last, a sofa was gained, and the great lady was seated, and the sensation having somewhat subsided, conversation was resumed; and the mighty Mrs. Million was not slightly abused, particularly by those who had bowed lowest at her entrée; and now the Marquess of Carabas, as was wittily observed by Mr. Septimus Sessions, a pert young barrister, "went the circuit," that is to say, made the grand tour of the suite of apartments, making remarks to every one of his guests, and keeping up his influence in the county.

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text:
Author:Lucy Stone

Works

 * Form Letter Asking Friends to Send Petitions for Woman Suffrage to Their Representatives in Congress, with E. Cady Stanton and Susan B. Anthony

title: Author:Lucy Stone


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 Fernando Nash was beating a bass drum

And shouting Hallelujah with a fervor

At which, as I remember, no man smiled.

Not having seen him for so many years,

And seeing him now almost as one not there

Save in remembrance or imagination,

I made of his identity, once achieved,

The ruin of a potential world-shaker—

For whom the world, which had for twenty years

Concealed him and reduced him, had not shaken.

Here were the features, and to some degree

The massive aggregate of the whole man,

Where former dominance and authority

Had now disintegrated, lapsed, and shrunken

To an inferior mystery that had yet

The presence in defeat. At a first view,


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 a lucky chance for him. He also harnessed himself to the carriage. When the road to her had taken three years to traverse, surely he might have one close look at her when they were in the same town together; and he awaited by the shafts.

Krista stepped into the carriage and seated herself in the midst of the garlands and bouquets. All the young men took off their hats and yelled. Venik also tossed up his hat and yelled. Krista smiled blandly in all directions and bowed in all directions; she smiled on all alike, and she bowed to all alike. A portion of these smiles also fell to Venik’s lot, and a portion of those bows, just as much as to the rest; he might go shares with them, and he went shares with them.

While they drew her along with yells and shouts Venik went almost close beside her, he could have touched her. When they approached a street-lamp, and it cast a stream of light into the carriage, Venik cast a glance there likewise, but only for an instant, that he might not meet her eyes. But indeed he need have been under no apprehension on that score—she had no time to meet his eyes—she had to smile blandly in all directions, and to bow in all directions. Then he took a long look at her, for he observed that they all took a long look at her. He took a long look and their eyes never met; then it appeared to him, that their eyes did meet, but it was dark, and a man easily becomes the sport of fancy when the lights are out.

Also a man in a multitude sees less and is less of a man, just as among many voices our own voice is lost, so also each particular individual is lost in a multitude of individuals. When a multitude is unwise—and it always is unwise—we are infected by the multitude and by its wisdom. A single person would not have drawn Krista in her barouche: he would have said, “Horses are for that purpose.” But the multitude yoked itself without reflection, said to itself, “I am a horse”—and horse it was. In that multitude Venik tore along and yelled with the rest of them. He ceased to be Venik. He was at that moment only one of those who dragged and yelled and tossed up their hats.

Then they halted before a house, and Krista stepped out of the carriage. The crowd and the carriage stood before her dwelling, and those young gentlemen assisted her out of the carriage and conducted her up the staircase, others took the garlands out of the carriage and carried them after her. Venik also took one and earried it after the rest. He wished to see what sort of life she Rh


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 "Ah, my Lord Alhambra! this is too kind: and how is your excellent father, and my good friend?—Sir Plantagenet, your's most sincerely; we shall have no difficulty about that right of common.—Mr. Leverton, I hope you find the new plough work well—your son, sir, will do the county honour.—Sir Godfrey, I saw Barton upon that point, as I promised.—Lady Julia, I'm rejoiced to see ye at Château Desir, more blooming than ever!—Good Mr. Stapylton Toad, so that little change was effected!—My Lord Devildrain, this is a pleasure indeed!"

"Why, Ernest Clay," said Mr. Buckhurst Stanhope, "I thought Alhambra wore a turban—I'm quite disappointed."

"Not in the country, Stanhope; here, he only sits cross-legged on an ottoman, and carves his venison with an ataghan."

"Well, I'm glad he doesn't wear a turban—that would be bad taste, I think;" said Fool Stanhope. "Have you read his poem?"

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 He looked a penitent Hercules, none too long

Out of a hospital. But seeing him nearer,

One read where manifest havoc must for years

Have been at work. What havoc, and what work,

I partly guessed; for I had known before

That he had always been, apart from being

All else he was, or rather along with it,

The marked of devils—who must have patiently

And slowly crucified, for subtle sport,

This foiled initiate who had seen and felt

Meanwhile the living fire that mortal doors

For most of us hold hidden. This I believe,

Though some, with more serenity than assurance,

May smile at my belief and wish me well.

Puzzled, I waited for a word with him;

And that was how I came to know all this


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 112

JENNY

AND

JOHNNY.——THE

SUNSET JOURNEY

There were no more talks on books and philosophy that day. I kept my room closely, and Frits and Margaret were too happy to observe anything in me except the results of imprudence.

I, of course, gradually recovered from the effects of such severe mental excitement.

I pursued my old round of study, but now generally alone. When Frits was kept in by rainy days, at his feet, or by his side on the sofa, was such a happy little witch, that philosophy would not only have been misplaced, but irksome to all.

At Margaret’s request, I, “her sober little aunt,” acted as bridesmaid. The Sabbath before the marriage, as we were passing from the church, I overheard one lady say to another,

“She to be the bridesmaid? why, I thought she was to have been the bride! and the wicked thought came up, “but for a deed I did one bright morning, years ago, it might have been.”

I owe to that one act the first dawning of a power within me, to throw off the net of sin, which was tangling and involving me inextricably. I am well repaid, though that power, in developing my capacity for enjoyment, also enlarged my capabilities for suffering. For our spiritual perfection we must wear chains of sorrow, must turn aside from the paths of enchantment which selfishness opens, and walk over the thorns, and under the shadows of self-saorifioe, for that only leads us out into the glory of God.

JENNY BY

AND J.

A.

JOHNNY.

TURNER.

 Sat in the garden, Jenny, Flowers about her feet, Flowers above her, many Flowers and maiden sweet.

Slumber sweetly closed Jenny’s drooping lid, And a theft proposed, Timid Johnny bid.

Longing. sighed for the honey Oﬂ'ered to the bee.

Flowers above her bloomed, Flowers around her grew, Never a bower perfumed Curtains loveller drew.

Softly crept he to her, Stole a single kiss, Bashful, timid wooer, 'Mid a world of bliss.

Emeral drapery bound her, Iild from human eye, Humming-bird around her, Bee and butterﬂy.

Back to his covert hosted Johnny in a triee; And the kiss sho tasted Wukened Jenny nice.

“0h! humming-bird," said Jenny, “Hover round my lip, Sweets are wasting, many, Johnny dare not sip.

"Humming-bird," she spake out, “Butterﬂy and hes,

Butterﬂy, come sip some, Sip some, honey-bee, Taste tltls glowing lip, some Nectar you'll agree."

Why don’t your feast you make out? Dainty feast to me." Despite this wasting honey Ioliliny went to school: Who’d have thought that Johnny IIad been such a fool?

Hid near the bower, young Johnny Peeping from a tree,  THE

SUNSET

JOURNEY.

N. Y. CARTER.  The casement opens to the sunset skies; A ﬂood of glory bursts on languid eyes! They kindle In the crimson light! The pole lips part with glad surprise, She whispers u with Heaven in sight!

"Mother, around me now thine arms entwine, One more soft pressure of thy lips to mine, As token of thy love for me, Another blessed smile of thins, And let my ravished soul go free!"

And then the mother clasp: her In her arms, With love‘s red wine her ebbing life she charms, She smiles with tenderness once more, And in her heart of hearts enibulms The flush of joy the dying wore!

And thus, a blossom of the early May, In angel loveliness she passed away, As fades the morning stars from light, Ere she had known on Autumn day, Or bid the Summer ﬂowers "good night!"


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 led, but he went more from mere instinct and merely because he was a portion of that multitude which carried garlands.

He saw but little of her abode, but enough to see that it was rich and costly. In the front hall the young men laid down the garlands and then went away: Venik did so, too—laid his garland down and departed.

When he reached the street, a procession approached with torches and halted before the mansion. Singers sang and Krista came out into the open air on to the balcony, and thanked them all quite composedly and quite impartially: she paid him his due also and he accepted it. He heard her speak and when she opened her lips he seemed as though only now he saw and heard her, for in the theatre she merely sang.

Then all the pageant began to disperse in different directions, and Venik was in the street before Krista’s house alone. And when he was alone he ceased to be a member of that multitude, became again a man, and was Venik.

He posted himself opposite the house, and his glance ranged over the illuminated windows. But, of course, he well knew which windows were hers, for he had a few moments previously laid a garland in the first floor.

And now he stood there, and looked and watched, to see whether he could hear any voice, and he heard many. There was a subdued hum of voices, perhaps there was a dinner-party or some sort of entertainment, and numerous pleasure seekers with her. He heard conversation and laughter, he saw lights, he heard the singing of divers voices, then he heard Krista also sing, and here he began to parley with himself. He would have gladly posted himself at the very window, if need be, in order to gain a clear view of everything; but it was impossible. So he drew on his imagination for what he could not see.

A gas-lamp was glaring near the window, and when the lamp-lighter came with a ladder to put out the lamp, he longed to ask to be allowed to mount the ladder himself. He could then have peered into the interior of the house and have seen whom she conversed with, and with whom she sang and laughed. But he felt himself frozen to the spot where he stood and could not stir.

Then he asked himself what he wanted there exactly, and whether he was in his right place there. It is hard to say, it is hard to answer. Rather let us philosophize on the very substance of spirit: we shall more easily answer the question what man is, than I can say whether Venik was here in his right place or not. He


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 That I should not have known, so he averred,

But for a memory that survived in him

That I had never yelped at him with others,

Who feared him, and was not among the biters,

Who, in the years when he was dangerous

Had snapped at him until he disappeared

Into the refuge of remoter streets

And partly was forgiven. I was grateful—

Assuring him, as adroitly as I might,

That had he written me down among the biters,

I should have mourned his error. “Let them go;

They were so near forgotten,” he said once,

Up there in his gaunt hall-room not long after,

“That memory now becomes a punishment

For nourishing their conceit with my contempt

As once I did. What music have they made

So different in futility since then


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 "A little. He sent me a copy, and as I'm in the habit of lighting my cigar or so occasionally with a leaf, why I can't help occasionally seeing a line—it seems quite first-rate.'"

"Indeed!" said Fool Stanliope, "I must get it."

"My dear Puff! I'm quite glad to find you here," said Mr. Cayenne, a celebrated reviewer, to Mr. Parthenopex Puff, a small litterateur and smaller wit. "Have you seen Middle Ages lately?"

"Not very lately," drawled Mr. Parthenopex. "I breakfasted with him before I left town, and met a Professor Bopp there, a very interesting man, and Principal of the celebrated University of Heligoland, the model of the London."

"Ah! indeed! talking of the London, is Foaming Fudge to come in for Westmoreland?"

"Doubtless! Oh! he's a prodigious fellow! What do you think Booby says? he says,

title: Page:Vivian Grey, Volume 1.djvu/196


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 was, and he was not. Instinct prompted him to fly hence, and yet held him here so that he could not stir.

When he heard Krista’s song above, everything pressed him to reply. She sang a song from the hill-side, she sang what she had once sung with him in the villages. Had he had his violin with him, he would have answered—he would have announced his presence. For a minute or two he thought he must run and fetch his violin, and that he must announce his presence. But he never went. Then he ruminated. If he had gone for his violin, and had played under the windows, it would have been peculiar: Krista would have heard him, and what then? Would she have started? or would she have continued to sing and jest? Would the song and jest have deserted her? Granted that it did desert her, then everything would have cleared away from her and Venik have been left in the street alone, and she would have been alone in yonder house. If he were to play below her window, she would be left desolate, her guests would disperse, and what he saw and heard would be all over. So in his ruminations he came to this conclusion, that it lay in him to say how long they had for the jest and for the song. If he should say, “Hold! enough!” it would be enough. He granted them that feast; he prolonged it for them; and which of them had the least idea that so it was?

Verily Venik smiled to himself to think what a puissant lord he was, until he began to feel an arrogant conviction that everything which happened on that first floor was under his control.

But he did nothing, and yet he waited until everything was at an end. Gentry and ladies dispersed from Krista’s house, and throughout the first floor silence began to reign. In the street where he stood not a living soul was to be heard.

The lights in Krista’s window were extinguished and then a single window opened. It was a warm summer night and the window could remain open all night long.

The moon shone just in the direction of Krista’s window, and Venik stood in the shadow of the opposite houses.

From Krista’s window a head peeped out, and perhaps it was her head. Venik at that time stood facing her and was alone. Even she was alone at last. Then the head vanished and did not appear again.

If he had wished to address her, he could have done so before, but now it was too late. And what was there to say? Where to begin and where to end? His speech might need to be a very


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 THE

OLD

STONE

MANSION.

BY CHARLES J. PETERSON, AUTHOR OF “THE VALLEY FARM,” “MABEL,” “KATE AYLESFORD,” &C.

[Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1859, by Charles J. Peterson, in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, in and for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.]

CONTINUED FROM PAG 43.

CHAPTER V.

against the green back-ground of the sea. His

By this time a hundred people had collected $ look of high courage, his vast physical strength, on the beach, the^otel emptying itself as if by s the halo of his past deeds, restored me back to magic. Suddenly there was a shout, accom- ij hope.

panied by a name passed from month to mouth. \ I saw all this in a single moment. Then my I looked around. Five or six fishermen, who \ eyes sought again the spot where Rosalie had had chanced to be in the bar-room, had come $ disappeared. Was that her rescuer? Yes, thank running to the scene. At their head was one * Qod! And others saw him also, for shouts arose famous for having rescued, the preceding win- $ an every hand, “there they are,” “how bravely ter, more than a hundred persons from a single ^ he swims,” “they are saved, they are saved.” wreck. The ship had gone ashore, at nightfall, £ What followed, seems to me, even yet, like a

during a violent snow-storm; and before morning dawned, half of her human freight had perished. When the cold, misty day broke, the people on shore first became aware of her exact position, though they had heard, all night, guns firing, and, they thought, shrieks and cries for help, in the pauses of the gale. At first no one would venture out, for the surf was mountain high. At last the fisherman I have spoken of came up, and offered to go, if a beat’s crew would volun¬ teer. His reputation for daring and skill was such that half a dozen men stepped forward im¬ mediately. Three times they attempted, in vain, to launch through the breakers. The fourth effort was successful, but the boat stood, for a moment, almost perpendicular, before the stout arms within it got the mastery. I remember how my heart swelled, and the tears rushed to my eyes, when I was told of this heroic act. “And had he no family,” I said, “the thought of whom deterred him?” “It was that, on the contrary, which influenced him most,” was the reply. “ lie said that when a man saw women and children drowning before bis eyes, it made him think how he would feel if his own little ones were wrecked.”

He had dashed into the surf, before I saw him, and now stood, looking back for an instant, tell¬ ing his companions to join hands with him and form a line. The red shirt he wore was open at the throat, revealing a chest like that of the Farnese Hercules; his face was the color of bronze; his dark hair was blown about by the wind: I shall never, to my dying hour, forget that picture, as it stood out, in bold relief, Yol. XXXV.—8

£ wild dream. I saw the line of fishermen extend- ^ ing out into the breakers, their leader standing over him; I saw the swimmer swept in with the velocity of lightning; I saw that he carried a j child; and I was in the surf, waist deep, before ^ I knew it, laughing and crying hysterically; and > then I held Rosalie in my arms, the first to re- i ceive her, and was assisted, almost carried to l shore, by one of the fishermen.
 * at their bead, like a rock, while the waves rushed

I They told me afterward that the nurse was quite insensible when they dragged her in; and ^ that Mr. Talbot said that it was the desperation $ with which she clung to him, that had pulled $ him under and kept him there. “Had I not

I ' shaken her off,” he added, “the whole three of us would have perished.” Fortunately for her, a huge roller had flung her within reach of the fishermen, just after the other two were saved.

\ We were in too excited a state to make our £ appearance again that day. Even Georgi&na

I forgot her flirtations, excused herself from a drive, and sat, with her mother and myself, in Rosalie’s room. Mr. Elliott had gone to the $ city, but when he returned, at night, he hurried $ up to us, pale and breathless, and remained, for \ the whole evening, holding his child’s hand and $ tenderly regarding her.

\ The next morning I was the first of our party ^down; and was beset by inquiries. Before I $ could extricate myself, I saw a now well known \ form come in. Mr. Talbot, for it was his, re- n cognized mo quite across the room; our eyes v met; and he was approaching to speak, when $ my uncle, entering, stopped him. I thought I

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 that Foaming Fudge can do more than any man in Great Britain: that he had one day to plead in the King's Bench, spout at a tavern, speak in the house, and fight a duel—and that he found time for every thing but the last."

"Excellent!" laughed Mr. Cayenne.

Mr. Parthenopex Puff was reputed in a certain set, a sayer of good things, but he was a modest wit, and generally fathered his bon mots on his valet Booby, his monkey, or his parrot.

"I saw you in the last number," said Cayenne. "From the quotations from your own works, I imagine the review of your own book was by yourself?"

"What do you think Booby said?"

"Mr. Puff, allow me to introduce you to Lord Alhambra," said Ernest Clay, by which means Mr. Puff's servant's last good thing was lost.

"Mr. Clay, are you an archer?" asked Cynthia Courtown.

title: Page:Vivian Grey, Volume 1.djvu/197