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1832] and on killing the Buffalo, or Bison, what they do not use on the spot, they dry to eat through the winter. To prevent a famine, however, it is their custom to keep a large number of dogs; and they eat them as we do mutton and lamb. This tribe have imitated the white people in having fixed and stationary houses. They stick poles in the ground in a circular form, and cover them with buffalo-skins, and put earth over the whole, leaving at the top an aperture for the smoke, but small enough to be covered with a buffalo-skin in case of rain or snow.—We found here little game; but honey-bees in abundance.

We travelled on about a hundred miles farther, when we came to a large prairie, which name the French have given to extensive tracts of land, mostly level, destitute of trees, and covered with tall, coarse grass. They are generally dreary plains, void of water, and rendered more arid by the Indian custom of setting fire to the high grass once or twice a year to start the game that has taken shelter there, which occasions a hard crust unfavorable to any vegetable more substantial than grass. At this unpromising psot, three more or our company took French leave of us, there being, it seems, dissatisfaction on both sides; for each complained of the other. The names of the seceders were Livermore, Bell, Griswell. In sixteen days more we reached the River La Platte, the water of which is foul and muddy. We were nine days passing this dreary prairie.


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170Rh Shinto rites for marriages and Buddhist rites for funerals, because Buddhism is considered more suitable for mournful occasions. Although Buddhism is a universal religion, its Japanese form is intensely national, like the Church of England. Many of its priests marry, and in some temples the priesthood is hereditary. Its dignitaries remind one vividly of English Archdeacons.

The Japanese, even when they adopt industrial methods, do not lose their sense of beauty. One hears complaints that their goods are shoddy, but they have a remarkable power of adapting artistic taste to industrialism. If Japan were rich it might produce cities as beautiful as Venice, by methods as modern as those of New York. Industrialism has hitherto brought with it elsewhere a rising tide of ugliness, and any nation which can show us how to make this tide recede deserves our gratitude.

The Japanese are earnest, passionate, strong-willed, amazingly hard working, and capable of boundless sacrifice to an ideal. Most of them have the correlative defects: lack of humour, cruelty, intolerance, and incapacity for free thought. But these defects are by no means universal; one meets among them a certain number of men and women of quite extraordinary excellence. And there is in their civilization as a whole a degree of vigour and determination which commands the highest respect.

The growth of industrialism in Japan has brought with it the growth of Socialism and the Labour movement. In China, the intellectuals are often theoretical

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171Rh Socialists, but in the absence of Labour organizations there is as yet little room for more than theory. In Japan, Trade Unionism has made considerable advances, and every variety of socialist and anarchist opinion is vigorously represented. In time, if Japan becomes increasingly industrial, Socialism may become a political force; as yet, I do not think it is. Japanese Socialists resemble those of other countries, in that they do not share the national superstitions. They are much persecuted by the Government, but not so much as Socialists in America—so at least I am informed by an American who is in a position to judge.

The real power is still in the hands of certain aristocratic families. By the constitution, the Ministers of War and Marine are directly responsible to the Mikado, not to the Diet or the Prime Minister. They therefore can and do persist in policies which are disliked by the Foreign Office. For example, if the Foreign Office were to promise the evacuation of Vladivostok, the War Office might nevertheless decide to keep the soldiers there, and there would be no constitutional remedy. Some part, at least, of what appears as Japanese bad faith is explicable in this way. There is of course a party which wishes to establish real Parliamentary government, but it is not likely to come into power unless the existing régime suffers some severe diplomatic humiliation. If the Washington Conference had compelled the evacuation of not only Shantung but also Vladivostok by diplomatic pressure, the effect on the internal government of Japan would probably have been excellent.

The Japanese are firmly persuaded that they have no friends, and that the Americana are their implacable


text: Radio-activity/Chapter 7

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title: Radio-activity/Chapter 8


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 “What strikes me as most appalling,” observed Falk, “is the dark prophetic meaning of the words, ‘The hour of my death has tolled!’ Angelica involuntarily foretold the moment of her dissolution.”

“How do you account for that naturally?” inquired Elisa.

“Excuse me, fair lady; I must perforce resign the office of interpreter general. I neither can, nor would I attempt to explain the very extraordinary occurrence we have just been listening to. If it happened, it was imperatively according to the order and laws of nature. I never met with so astonishing an instance as the sequel. I cannot account for it, and consequently it appears unnatural. In the same way is this egotistical theory the basis of all criticism. Höpfner, the jurist, gave, many years since, the invention of the balloon in illustration of an impossibility. In the later edition of his works this opinion has, of course, been suppressed. Meteoric showers, and other wonders of nature, which our ancestors looked upon as mere chimera, and ridiculed as such, are to us neither fabulous nor impossible, but acknowledged natural appearances. Popular belief, or, in other words, superstition, offers a mine of inquiry to the naturalist. Truth, it must be owned, does not always burst into light with all her full perfection; but what man of understanding would argue that the earth embosoms the sterile rock alone, because her gems and precious metals must be extracted by artificial means?”

“See!” exclaimed Elisa; “the magic hour is almost arrived. Now I am sure you all wish well to my Louis and myself, and that our lot may prove a happy one.”

“Pr’ythee patience, patience,” said HerrmanHerrmann [sic]; “depend upon it Falk will produce a solemn address to the New Year, adapted for the occasion. He has been composing and poetising the whole afternoon.”

“Well,” said the hostess, “it is really scandalous that we allow the year to close without a song. Come, Falk, produce it; I’ll wager you have brought one with you.”

“Indeed I have not; besides, the conversation was interrupted.”

“Produce it, Falk,” repeated the hostess: “I know you have it.”

“But it belongs to the New Year.”

“Ha!” exclaimed Elisa, “it is the congratulation Herrmann alluded to;” then taking her glass—“Here’s to the magic power of prediction.”

All hastened to touch glasses with the fair betrothed.

“Hark! I hear a bell,” said Herrmann.

“Hush! still!” answered the host, opening a window.

The quarter had already struck from the belfry. With a shrill clear sound the house clock repeated twelve. The company sat still, listening in silence to the expiring echoes of the year, as from the cathedral tower pealed forth in full deep tones the parting knell.

Elisa gently bent towards her betrothed. From her eyes beamed a paradise of youthful hope and happiness. Every one beheld with interest that mute expression of the fondest and purest affection.

The hostess gently approached her, and kissed her fair young brow, shaded by its rich chesnut curls. As yet no one ventured to break the stillness of that moment, until the nearer parish church, with still heavier toll, sent forth the last stroke of midnight.

Falk arose, noiselessly unfolding a sheet of paper, and, sinking his voice to a portentous whisper, began—

Elisa raised her eyes, and instantly fell with a cry of horror. The hostess and the baron received her, fainting and pale as death, in their arms.

“What was that?” asked all in a breath: some thought it was Elisa, having remarked her previous emotion, others said the cry was distant and had been the cause of her alarm. Meanwhile Elisa, assisted by the two physicians who were fortunately present, recovered her senses, and she explained that the cry which she also heard, certainly alarmed her at first, but on looking up, she thought she beheld a phantom; it seemed as if the Virgin stood before her, her face and form rigid like those of a


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 but what was most in my thoughts on that day when the world of nature showed its teeth to me was the wretchedness of animal life. I do not know why that should have seemed more pitiful to me, and more fundamental, but it did. Human suffering, perhaps, is complicated by moral issues; man can look before and after and find remote justifications and stern consolations outside his present experiences; but the poor birds and beasts, they have only their present experiences and their individual lives cut off and shut in. How can there be righteousness in any scheme that afflicts them? I thought of one creature after another, and I could imagine none that had more than an occasional gleam of false and futile satisfaction between suffering and suffering. And to-day, gentlemen, as I sit here with you, the same dark stream of conviction pours through my mind. I feel that life is a weak and inconsequent stirring amidst the dust of space and time, incapable of overcoming even its internal dissensions, doomed to phases of delusion, to irrational and undeserved punishments, to vain complainings and at last to extinction.

"Is there so much as one healthy living being in the world? I question it. As I wandered that day, I noted the trees as I had never noted them before. There was not one that did not show a stricken or rotten branch, or that was not studded with the stumps of lost branches decaying backwards towards the main stem; from every fork came dark stains of corruption, the bark was twisted and contorted, and fungoid protrusions proclaimed the hidden mycelium of disease. The leaves were spotted with warts and


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 corpse, the sight of which deprived her of sensation.”sensation. [sic]

“I am happy,” said the host, “that it is in my power to relieve you from all apprehension as regards the phantom. My Madonna is hung in a most advantageous morning light, but in the evening the rays of the lamp produce quite a contrary effect, and give the picture so death-like an aspect, that I am sometimes inclined to hang a curtain before it. Only look now and convince yourself.”

He then led the still exhausted girl back to her seat, from whence the picture had a most singular effect; the face of the mother appearing almost colourless, presented a shadowy, unearthly contrast to the healthful rounded form of the infant. Elisa immediately recognized the phantom created by her over-excited imagination.

The scream remains to be inquired into said the hostess, ringing for the domestics. The nursery maid was called. “It was nothing of any consequence, gnädige frau, only the night lamp went out, and the little Emelius waking, shrieked to find himself in the dark.”

“Heaven be praised!” observed Falk, sotto voce to Anselm; “I was absolutely frightened, for just as I began to read, the singular connexion between my poem and the previous conversation fell like a weight upon my heart. However, she does not appear to have noticed it.”

The little New-Year’s gifts with which the host presented each of his friends, now completely restored the cheerfulness of the party. Each received some bagatelle in complimentary or playful allusion to his or her tastes or feelings. The baron’s portion was an ancient castle, which changed itself into a temple of Hymen; Anselm’s, a wine glass that became a smiling Hebe; Falk’s, a dance of Bacchanals round a wine barrel, which, seen by candle-light, presented the Muses at the fountain of Helicon; and Elisa received a rosebud, changing to a Cupid, surrounded by children’s playthings. The song and the jest went merrily round; Falk was at last enabled to read his ode to the New Year without interruption, and as the party were about to separate, the baron invited them all to re-assemble at his castle at the same period in the ensuing year. The proposition was gladly acceded to, and the friends drank to their next happy meeting, in a bumper of the oldest and best that their host’s liberal cellar afforded.

“Keep your word,” said Elisa, as she took leave. “Not one of us must be absent on the next New Year’s Night; remember, the first promise made in the year is irrevocable, and must be conscientiously adhered to.”

Christmas passed off with the greatest possible hilarity; the customary étrennes of the season were interchanged, not forgetting the absent baron, for whom a store of badinage was in preparation with which to surprize him at the approaching reunion of the little coterie at the castle, where he and his young wife passed their time in a state of uninterrupted happiness. During the year repeated invitations had been sent and accepted; and the friends already enjoyed by anticipation the pleasures of that social intercourse which a few days spent together in the country would afford them. Hard frost and a brilliant sky enlivened the last days of December, as well as the prospects of the party. It was arranged they should all meet at the baron’s on the 31st, and while celebrating the vanishing moments of the year, herald in the merry hours they hoped to enjoy at the hospitable mansion.

Schloss Hartenstein is situated on a prominent rock, surrounded by beautiful and romantic scenery. The style of architecture suffices to show (even were old chronicles wanting to testify it) that the castle took its origin in the earliest feudal ages. Owing to repeated hostile attacks the building (excepting the many dungeons and passages excavated to the very depth of the rock) had at various periods been partially destroyed; so that the eye of the most casual observer discerns the tastes and requisites of many a century, both as regards the form and distribution of the different parts appropriated to internal convenience. In later times the more recent possessors have endeavoured to


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 blemishes, and gnawed and bitten by a myriad enemies. I noted too that the turf under my feet was worn and scorched and weary; gossamer threads and spiders of a hundred sorts trapped the multitudinous insects in the wilted autumnal undergrowth; the hedges were a slow conflict of thrusting and strangulating plants in which every individual was more or less crippled or stunted. Most of these plants were armed like assassins; they had great thorns or stinging hairs; some ripened poisonous berries. And this was the reality of life; this was no exceptional mood of things, but a revelation of things established. I had been blind and now I saw. Even as these woods and thickets were, so was all the world

"I had been reading in a book I had chanced to pick up in this lodging about the jungles of India, which many people think of as a vast wealth of splendid and luxuriant vegetation. For the greater part of the year they are hot and thorny wastes of brown, dead and mouldering matter. Comes the steaming downpour of the rains; and then for a little while there is a tangled rush of fighting greenery, jostling, choking, torn and devoured by a multitude of beasts and by a horrible variety of insects that the hot moisture has called to activity. Then under the dry breath of the destroyer the exuberance stales and withers, everything ripens and falls, and the jungle relapses again into sullen heat and gloomy fermentation. And in truth everywhere the growth season is a wild scramble into existence, the rest of the year a complicated massacre. Even in our British climate is it not plain to you how the summer outlasts the


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 said Falk; “and I am sure all present are desirous to know what Elisa then concealed from us.”

“It is no secret,” said Cecilia; “yet I presume the baron is not aware of it, therefore I request you will use the information discreetly. There exists in the family of our friend an old tradition, whose original meaning, like many other things of the kind, has been obscured in the lapse of time. The legend declares, that the death of every member of that family shall be announced by the sound of a bell, and that the last of them should ring his own knell. I have never been able to ascertain the origin of this singular prediction, yet the village church books can prove that the different members of the family have died while the hour was striking. It is said that one of them having lain for some days in the last agonies, commanded the bells to be tolled, which being done, he closed his eyes, and slept in peace. It is not for me to decide whether this be truth or fable; I will only show you how singularly the tradition has been verified in the case of Elisa’s father. The major was, as you know, the last of his line, and this circumstance awakened the remembrance of the prediction which had been for many years almost forgotten. Without being exactly superstitious, the major always disliked the subject of the tradition to be reverted to, and gave orders, through an indirect channel, that a large house-bell used for assembling the domestics at dinner, should be taken from its place. When he was attacked with his last illness, the doctors gave up all hope of saving him—not so the peasantry; they maintained that so long as their lord was not a bell-ringer, there could be no fear of his life. Their hope was strengthened by an accident which seemed to promise a removal of every bell from the vicinity of the invalid. It happened that on a Saint’s-day one of the bells became injured, and in order to improve the chime, the old set was taken down to be re-cast. This was no sooner done, than the major’s health began daily to improve; only a visionary dread that he suffered from, amounting sometimes almost to mental aberration, caused his medical attendants still some anxiety. One fancy tormented him in particular, namely, that the castle might take fire, and from the want of an alarm-bell, assistance would come too late. In this respect, his fears were certainly not groundless; accordingly the old house-bell was again restored to its place: upon this, the major appeared calmer; but on the following night experienced so violent a relapse, that he quite overcame his attendants; he ran madly through the castle, shrieking ‘Fire! fire!’ Fate led him to the newly-suspended bell, and seizing the rope with both hands, he rang an alarum that set the whole household in commotion, and at last fell exhausted and lifeless upon the ground. You will agree with me,” continued Cecilia, “that Elisa’s emotion was caused more by the connexion with the death-bell than the apparition of Angelica?”

“Undoubtedly,” answered Falk; “and I doubly regret that I was persuaded to read the poem after our previous conversation. The remembrance of it will always be painful to me.”

“True,” observed Cecilia; “but these circumstances cannot be foreseen. Who knows but accident may again frustrate your best intentions?”

“Never fear; I am now on my guard.”

“Who can tell? Surely you anticipated no such result last year?”

“Experience makes us wise,” said Falk.

“It is my opinion,” rejoined Cecilia, “that you will not have the opportunity of paying compliments, for I’ll wager anything Elisa does not arrive before to-morrow.”

“And I,” said Falk, “will wager what you will that she returns to-day. I know Elisa, and know how strictly she keeps her word.”

Cecilia purposely turned the conversation to the huntsmen, who might shortly be expected. She then went to the piano, and proposed they should amuse themselves with a little music. Time, aided by the fascination of song, flew rapidly by, and it was late before the hunting party returned from the


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 forest, laden with its spoil. The baron led his guests to the supper-room, where an elegant repast awaited them.

“Just so were we all seated this time last year,” exclaimed Herrmann, “with the exception of the mistress of the feast, and that she should be wanting is, indeed, a misfortune. Our round table puts one in mind of a beautiful face deprived of one of its visual organs. Will she really not arrive today?”

“My dear friends,” said the baron, “in pity cease these inquiries. Believe me, I miss my wife even more than you can; but, under the circumstances, too much exactitude would have been cruel.”

“Ah! ah!” said Falk, “I see how it is; you are under the slipper already. However, she shall be at least symbolically among us. Let me arrange it. In some monasteries they have a custom, and it is a pretty one, when the abbot dines from home, of placing opposite his chair a bouquet of beautiful flowers instead of the plate—thus.”—While speaking he had drawn a chair to the table, and taking a few roses from an ornamental basket of fruit, had placed them in a glass before the vacant seat.

The baron was ill at ease, but, rousing himself, said, “Come, my friends, let us be gay, and not deplore what is unavoidable; though my wife will not thank you when she is informed that her absence has cast a damp upon your spirits. Come, fill your glasses. Wine is like sunshine and vernal showers together—let our mirth bloom and flourish beneath its influence.”

The guests took the hint of their hospitable entertainer, and the ladies exerted themselves to appear more animated. Only the baron and Cecilia exchanged occasional uneasy glances, and now and then looked towards the window, as if in expectation of some one’s arrival.

Falk whispered to his inquisitive neighbours his conviction that they were to be surprised by the sudden return of Elisa, and thus prevented those wearying inquiries which the baron had endeavoured to avoid.

It had just struck eleven when a horseman alighted at the castle gate, and was speedily ushered into the supper-room. He brought the baron intelligence that his lady was well, but could not possibly be with him before an early hour on the morrow. A billet from the hand of the baroness confirmed the message, and conveyed her affectionate New Year’s wishes to her assembled friends.

“Now from my heart I can be cheerful,” exclaimed the baron, as the envoy withdrew.—“Now I confess to you that I have passed the last few hours in a state of mortal anxiety. To-morrow I will explain all, and am confident you will grant me your forgiveness for having played the host so unworthily.”

The baron was besieged for an earlier explanation.

After some reluctance he said, “Well, be it so, though strangely enough we recur to the same topic that occupied us the last New Year’s-night.”

“Hast thou had a vision?” quoth Falk. “Impossible!”

“Something like it,” said the baron; “though not I myself, but my wife. Her lively imagination is so apt to border on the romantic, that I took but little notice of the circumstance at the time. However, as the critical moment approached, the mere thought of the coincidence made me tremble like a child. You all, probably, remember our conversation on the last New Year’s-eve, and that it turned upon the obscure, but still interesting theme of presentiments and forebodings; also the alarm caused by the sudden fainting fit of my then betrothed Elisa?”

“I remember it well,” interposed Adolf (better known as “the host,”) “and the false light giving my Madonna a spectre-like appearance.”

Exactly,” replied the baron. “As early as possible the next morning I called, and found Elisa perfectly recovered and cheerful as usual; all was forgotten, and we conversed as young lovers are wont. As was natural, I besought her to fix the earliest period for our union; at this she became thoughtful, and no longer listened to my plans for little excursions and other summer amusements; and when at last I expressed my surprise at the change in her demeanour, she sorrowfully re-


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 improve and impart an air of comfort to the Schloss as a dwelling, without interfering with, or injuring the massive antiquity of the exterior, so that many parts of the building present a rather ludicrous contrast between the present arrangement of some of the apartments, and what had been evidently their primitive destination. Altogether the ensemble, although strikingly singular, is far from disagreeable to the eye of a spectator. It must be allowed that a considerably less space would have sufficed for a more superb, as well as a more commodious residence; but, the absence of all uniformity is more than compensated for by the picturesque and disjointed masses of building which surprise the visitor in every possible direction, and any endeavour to explore the whole of this elaborate structure would be fruitless indeed, as many parts of it remain unknown to its present occupier, and perhaps have not been visited for many successive generations.

The deep snow having become firm and hardened, rendered the roads delightfully easy, and the travellers arrived in the highest spirits at the castle; most of them were strangers to it, and the novelty of the scene attracted their attention from object to object, as the baron led them through innumerable corridors and lofty halls, until they reached the warm and cheerful withdrawing room.

“And where is the lady of the house?” eagerly inquired Falk; after the hearty “Welcome to Hartenstein!” had been again repeated to the guests; “I fear that we arrive too early, but the roads are now so good, that we travelled faster than we expected.”

“Alas! I am a widower bewitched,” replied the baron, “so I must e’en solicit the indulgence of the ladies if the absence of the hostess is too observable in my performance of the honours to them. Meanwhile, I trust that this evening, or early to-morrow, my wife will be enabled to resume her agreeable office; we have been spending Christmas with my mother-in-law, and so not entirely to spoil the good old lady’s pleasure, I found myself compelled to leave her daughter with her a couple of days longer.”

“But she may still arrive to-day,” exclaimed several voices at once.

“I certainly expect her,” said the baron; “yet I know how difficult the separation will be, and her present situation renders her mother trebly anxious on her account. Their medical adviser laughs at these alarms, and will not hear of any danger; but you all know how impossible it is to oppose reasoning to the fond wishes of an anxious mother; to-morrow, however, my wife will undoubtedly be here.”

The baron had arranged a hunting party for the gentlemen; Falk alone devoted himself to the ladies and the tea-table, where Cecilia, a near relation of Elisa’s, presided in her absence; he looked more confidently than any of them for the return of Elisa, and at every noise in the castle-yard sprang to the window, in the expectation of seeing her. At last his impatience increased so much, that the party jested him about it.

“Laugh if you will,” he retorted; “but I owe Elisa some satisfaction since last year, consequently her return concerns me more than any of you.”

In reply to the general inquiry, Falk reminded them of the ominous commencement of his New Year’s poem, which he thought might, under the then existing circumstances, have powerfully affected Elisa, although she was too good-natured to make it evident.

Cecilia begged to be enlightened—“You have sufficient reason,” she said, “when all was told her, to atone for the alarm you caused Elisa. But you are, apparently, yourself unaware why the first line of your poem so strongly affected her.”

Cecilia was pressed by all to be more explicit.

She continued. “After what you have related, it was scarcely the story of Angelica, that Elisa excused herself from relating; had she mentioned the circumstance, upon which I am convinced her mind was dwelling at the time, you would doubtless not have read your poem in her presence.”

“Really, you make me uneasy,”


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 plied: ‘We must not indulge in too happy anticipations; perhaps this year may not yet witness our union.

“Bravo!” cried Herrmann, “the old year has belied the prophecy.”

“I was nevertheless anxious,” said the baron.

“Impossible,” interrupted Herrmann; “you were married whilst winter and spring yet strove for mastery.”

“You will agree with me,” continued the baron, “when you have heard all. I could not prevail upon her to explain her enigmatical meaning. Well, time passed on and the subject was gradually forgotten; my mother-in-law coincided in my wish that the marriage should take place immediately; not the shadow of an obstacle presented itself, and in the first days of spring I led my Elisa to my paternal home. As I sat beside her for the first time alone in the twilight, amongst other prattle I jested her upon her false prophecy; she looked down and turned very pale; at length, with deep emotion, she exclaimed, ‘Oh! that we had waited one other year; my dream will be accomplished, but far, far worse for us both.’ There was so much of solemnity in her manner that I tried every persuasion to win her secret from her, and with some difficulty succeeded in doing so. It appeared that that same New Year’s-night Elisa’s vision transported her to the next—namely the present; this was doubtless occasioned by my proposition that we should re-assemble here. Hartenstein was also the scene of her imaginings. She found herself here surrounded by you all, but she was still my betrothed, not my wife. The interpretation the little dreamer put upon this was, either that she should not be my wife at this period, or, if so, would be only as one dead among us.”

“Now I have it,” said Falk; tis on that account the amiable Elisa is absent.”

“Yes,” continued the baron; “I endeavoured to reason her out of this persuasion, and to convince her of the very natural connexion between her dream and the previous discussion. At last I succeeded in calming her, and, by the summer, dreams and fears were thought of no more. Meanwhile, we laid down many plans for winter pastime, and repeated our invitation to you. During the last month, the old fantasy has again returned, and I confess it, I myself urged her to pass this portentous night at her mother’s; nor was my mind easy until news arrived that she was well and determined to remain where she is until to-morrow; for the wish that we should pass to-day together having originated with herself, she deemed it a point of honour not to be absent.”

“That I can well believe,” observed Falk. “She is indeed a being full of truth and candour, and would keep her word unto the grave itself.”

“She is so,” replied the baron; “but her romantic turn of mind often causes me great uneasiness.”

“Time will soften that down,” said Herrmann. “Youth, without a tinge of the romantic, is always cold and repulsive.”

“I don’t deny it,” continued the baron, “I only say it makes me uneasy; such natures prey upon themselves; what would only affect the thoughts or feelings of another, attacks them in the very core of life. That dream occasioned my wife a severe fit of illness which it required great care and several little summer excursions to remove.”

“The dream had probably less to do with it than the interpretation,” said Herrmann. “There was nothing in the vision, it is only the conventional idea that dreams are to be explained in a contrary sense, which forces itself unpleasantly upon the mind.”

“That is not a merely conventional idea,” observed Falk. “Love and death, marriage and the grave, bear the same relation to each other as does the spring to the autumn, or morn to the evening. In dreams, the symbolical representation of one may signify the approach of the other in life, even as the rosy clouds of morning portend a storm, or the same in evening a bright and genial day. There is certainly something appalling in that dream, particularly for an imaginative mind prone to tint everything with its own colours.”

“The extraordinary part of the story remains to be told,” said the baron; “it may also serve to prove what


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 strange effects may arise from an over-heated imagination. My wife had never seen Hartenstein until I brought her here as its mistress; and I know that she had never heard any precise description of its localities, as I wished her to be agreeably surprised on her arrival, the castle having been, at a remote period, in the possession of her family: strange to say, the vision presented to her mind everything precisely as she found it. She also pointed out to me a peculiarity in the building unknown to myself, and probably to many of my predecessors.”

“Doubtless,” rejoined Falk, as the baron remained silent; “doubtless, this old stronghold conceals many a wonder of feudal times; I have oft heard tell of subterranean passages where the spirits of monks keep watch over their hidden treasures. Let us hear some of them.”

The baron proceeded: “It appears that each New Year’s-night leads us to the same topic. Well, let it be so—perhaps I had better relate to you as I found it, an old legend discovered amongst some papers in the archives. It is a fact we must all acknowledge, I believe, that our feudal ancestors were distinguished more by their power and ferocity, than by the nobler feelings of human nature. Of this description was Ritter Wolff, who dwelt many centuries back at Hartenstein. He was wealthy, bold, and the terror of his neighbours—consequently overbearing—and his wrath, when his slightest wish was opposed, knew no bounds. It happened that two young men were found poaching in the Ritter’s forests, and were taken prisoners by the huntsmen. Ritter Wolff, according to the custom of the times, ordered them to be confined in the castle dungeon, and at the expiration of a few days to be put to death. The father of the youths, a respectable citizen, tendered a large ransom for them, but in vain; the Ritter was inexorable, and added insult to injury. This was more than human nature could bear, and the unfortunate old man, forgetting the power of his oppressor, gave vent to his feelings in no measured terms. Wolff’s rage was ungovernable. He commanded him to be cast into the deepest dungeon, and for days the Ritter brooded over some extravagant mode of punishment, until at last some wealthy citizens succeeded in ransoming the old man and one of his sons, on account of their handicraft, for they were bell-founders famed far and wide. But the knight gave them their liberty only with this dread restriction, namely, that the father should with his own hand cast a bell whose first sound should summon his imprisoned son to death. The shortest possible time was purposely fixed for its completion, in order that the miserable parent should use every exertion to hasten the last moments of his child. To save the life of one, the wretched father saw himself compelled to cast a death-bell for his firstborn. Even the Ritter’s dependants and vassals were moved to compassion at sight of the old man going about silently with his tools, borne down as he was with a weight of grief and years. They tried to comfort him, and would gladly have assisted him. Many collected all the bits of metal they possessed, that they might be melted down; but the allotted time was so short, that the necessary quantity could not be procured, until several crucifixes sacred to their private devotions were contributed by his poor relations in the town. Amidst tears, and groans, and many an imprecation, the hated work was completed—the fatal bell was cast.

The old man’s fellow-citizens, aided by nearly all the Ritter’s dependants, hazarded one petition more. It was generally believed that Wolff would be satisfied with the father’s sufferings in the prosecution of the work, and not exact the fulfilment of the horrid sentence. But entreaties were of no avail. The bell was suspended in the tower, and no sooner ready than the Ritter commanded it should be tolled for the death of the prisoner. Then it was that the parent’s reason forsook him. Madly raving, he ran to the tower, seized the rope, and himself sounded the knell. His wild cries were heard shrill above the booming tones. He invoked the saints whose images had mingled in that fearful cast to shower vengeance on the oppressor, and then pronounced a curse upon the bell, that henceforth its sound might bring misfortune upon


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 “I do not agree with you,” observed Anselm; “the former proprietors might have had equal foresight, before they gave up the castle for the sake of a bell, but they feared lest the dark prophecy should be connected with the duration of their line.”

“On which account it shall not be destroyed,” interrupted the baron; “it shall continue, but in a situation where its sound shall not disturb the peace of my family. Besides, the anathema has been accomplished to the letter; the name of the Ritter has long since passed into oblivion; my father-in-law was the last of his line, and my wife, fortunately, bears that name no longer.”

“I quite agree with Anselm,” said Cecilia, “that too much foresight often produces the evil it would avoid.”

“Pray,” said Herrmann, “let the gloomy subject rest; the old year has scarcely one short quarter of an hour to exist. Let us sing our adieu to her, and a welcome to the new one. Hist! First in quartett, and the last line in full chorus.”

Herrmann, Falk, Adolf, and Julie began:—

Scarcely had the chorus finished when a tremendous crash that almost shook the massive building, started the affrighted guests from their seats. The baron, with much presence of mind, opened the window, the sound appearing to come from without. While they were yet conjecturing as to the probable cause of it, another and a louder report took place, followed by a long reverberation.

“It had the sound of a bell,” faltered the baron, visibly agitated.

Some of his friends thought the noise more resembled the falling of brickwork or stone.

All the household had run to the yard in their first fright, and the baron was proceeding to inquire personally into it, when the noise was again repeated, and sounded distinctly like powerful strokes dealt upon some metal substance. Fearfully the hollow sounds boomed through the midnight air, and immediately another crash ensued, while several voices from the court-yard exclaimed at once, that the old tower was falling in.

“The same—the walled-up belfry,” sighed the baron.

It struck midnight.

Again all was still; but, as the company were about to resume their seats, in the chair which Falk had playfully placed for the baroness, was her form distinctly visible: with the last stroke of the pendulum it disappeared, before the terrified guests had time to utter more than an exclamation of alarm.

The domestics now returned to say, “that the roof of the old tower had fallen, and that amongst the rubbish fragments of a huge bell were to be seen, which in its fall, must have occasioned the strange sounds they had heard.”

“The coincidence is singular,” said the baron, with a faltering voice. “The bell is destroyed at the same moment that the shade of my absent wife appeared to all of us. That dream! I can no longer doubt my loss!”

An express was instantly dispatched to bring immediate intelligence of the baroness, and relays of horses were sent on to expedite it as much as possible. Before sunrise the messenger returned, his dejected countenance too plainly showing the nature of his mission. The baroness had been attacked by spasms. Medical assistance was promptly rendered, but every exertion to save her proved unavailing. She expired as the clock struck twelve.

“Everything has had its portent, and all is consummated,” exclaimed the baron in the bitterest grief.

No one ventured to intrude words of vain comfort on the bereaved hus-


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title: Radio-activity/Appendix B


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text: Collier's New Encyclopedia (1921)/Caledonian Canal


text: Collier's New Encyclopedia (1921)/Calends


text: Collier's New Encyclopedia (1921)/Caledonia


text: Collier's New Encyclopedia (1921)/Calderon de la Barca, Pedro


text: Collier's New Encyclopedia (1921)/Calendula


text: Collier's New Encyclopedia (1921)/Calder, William M.


text: Collier's New Encyclopedia (1921)/Caldecott, Randolph


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54, Saga of the Foster-brothers (1010-1030) tells of Thormod Kolbrunarskald and Thorgeir Havarsson. Finally, we must mention, the story of Hen-Thore (about 960) and the saga of (950-990).

In the North of Iceland we find (930-984) of the above-mentioned skald of that name. His love is the chief topic, wherefore it contains a number of love-songs. Fine descriptions of Icelandic customs are found in (988-1008) and in, the story of the Waterdale Men (870-1000), which especially throw light upon the conditions as shaped by the transition to Christianity. , the story of Grette the Strong (872-1033), is a saga adorned with mythic exaggerations and fables, but still abounding in interest, excellently told, and giving the history of the outlaw Grette the Strong, celebrated for his courage and strength and regarded by the Icelanders as a national hero. Viga-Glum's Saga (920-1000) distinguished for its graphic and attractive descriptions, and, the story of the Lightwater Men (990-1050), in the latter of which the chieftain Gudmund the Mighty is the hero, also belong to the north of Iceland.

Of the sagas relating to the of Iceland the  (970-990) telling of the feuds between the men of Hof in Weapenfirth (whence the name of the saga) and the men of Crosswick, and the  (about 950), the saga of the Hrafnkel, Priest of Frey, are the most important. The latter especially gives a characteristic picture of social conditions together with interesting sketches of the worship of the heathen gods, of the administration of law and of political institutions of Iceland.


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Rh We have frequently alluded to the fact that Icelandic traditions began in an early day to be concerned with the history of Norway. Are Thorgilsson made Norwegian history one of his chief studies, the results of which he put in writing, and after him others carried the work in this direction forward on a grand scale. The results are embodied in various sagas of Norwegian kings, some giving an account of only one, others of several kings. Olaf Trygvason and St. Olaf being the most prominent characters among the rulers of Norway, receive special attention from the saga-writers, but there is no lack of works giving the history of other Norwegian kings, and efforts were soon made to present continuous sketches of the lives of several kings as the preparation for a genuine history of Norway. By far the greater number of these sagas were produced in Iceland, though, as a matter of course, the materials on which they are based came mostly from Norway, or in other words were communicated by Norwegians. It is also known that Norwegians took part in the composition of sagas, though it cannot be determined how much of the work was done by them.

Among the first efforts to treat the history of Norway connectedly, excepting, of course, the above-mentioned work


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56 by Are Thorgilsson, are a chronicle based on oral tradition and written in the Latin tongue by the Norwegian monk about the year 1179, and a "Historia Norvagia" also apparently written by a Norwegian in the twelfth century. Mention should also be made in this connection of (i.e. abridgement or epitome), a short and upon the whole imperfect history of the Norwegian kings from Halfdan, the Swarthy, to Sigard Jossalafar, which probably was written in Iceland toward the end of the twelfth century. Far superior to that work is the (the magnificent parchment). To be sure the sources from which it is compiled are used with but little criticism, but the style is clear and dramatic, and the language though terse, is vivid and fluent. In this work is found a number of skaldic poems, for instance the Eiriksmál on Erik Bloodyaxe.

But the crown of Icelandic historiography is, which towers above all other Icelandic histories like a splendid tree above the low brushwood. Snorre was born in the year 1178 and belonged to one of the most celebrated families of Iceland. In his fourth year he became domiciled at Odde in the abode of Jon Loptsson, great-grandson of Sæmund, where he had the very best opportunities, for acquiring a thorough education. His foster father, himself one of the most learned men of his time, took pains to transmit to him the great fund of historical knowledge which he had inherited from his grandfather. By a wealthy marriage and by means of various prudent enterprises Snorre acquired great riches, and became one of the most influential men of the country. He possessed sixteen farms and was able to appear at the Thing with a following of eight hundred men. But his power and insolence made


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Rh him many enemies, and he was constantly engaged in litigation with other prominent men, mostly his own kinsfolk. In the year 1218 Snorre came for the first time to Norway, where the young Hakon Hakonson was then reigning under the protection of Jarl Skule. Snorre was received with great distinction, composed the poem Háttatal in honor of the king and jarl, and was made a courtier. The next year a serious trouble arose between the Norwegians and the Icelanders, and Skule even contemplated an expedition to Iceland in order to avenge an outrage which one of the chiefs there had inflicted on some Norwegian merchants. Snorre, it is true, succeeded in persuading the jarl to abandon his project, but he had to pledge himself to work for the realization of a plan long cherished by the Norwegian king, of subjugating Iceland to the throne of Norway, a promise which Snorre does not, however, seem to have kept. After his return to Iceland he increased his fortune and influence, but on the other hand he became more and more entangled in hostilities, and his enemies, headed by his own nephew, Sturla Sighvatson, made use of the feud between King Hakon and Jarl Skule to turn the former againt Snorre, whose position was thus greatly imperilled. He therefore betook himself to Norway to seek help from the jarl. Then he returned to Iceland, where his nephew in the meantime had fallen in a struggle with Snorre's son-in-law, Gissur. But in Gissur he found a no less dangerous enemy than his nephew had been, and at the behest of king Hakon Gissur murdered his father-in-law, September 22, 1241.

Despite this restless life, which constitutes but a single, though a prominent episode in this stormy time by which Iceland was visited before the fall of the republic, and which necessarily weakened and shattered all social and political ties and made the country a sure prey of the Norwegian king, we say despite this restless life, Snorre found time to develop a literary activity which marks the zenith of the production of historical sagas. His sagas of the kings of


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58 Norway, the, — so called from the first two words of one of the manuscripts (kringla heimsins, the earth's circle) — begins with the saga of the royal family of the Ynglings, who were descended from the gods and ruled at Upsala, and then tells the history of Norway, carrying it forward to the year 1177. The short Ynglinga Saga, based on the old "Ynglingatal," the poem composed by the skald Thjodolf of Hvin, is throughout mythic and heroic, and is peculiarly interesting as an effort to present the ancient gods as historical persons; but in the saga of Halfdan the Swarthy the light of history dawns, and we soon enter the broad daylight of facts. Snorre's sources were, besides the traditions and songs that still existed in his time, a whole cycle of written sagas. Without doubt he consulted all the historical works which we have already mentioned and many others which have not been preserved, and his activity was not confined simply to copying and compiling from his predecessors, but he reproduced them with a care and criticism which his forerunners in the saga field had not fully learned to apply. He makes extensive use of the songs of the skalds of former ages and of his own time, and adds in his descriptions a number of new facts that were unknown to the earlier writers. All these things together, in connection with his classic language and style and the unity and comprehensiveness that distinguish his work, not only raise him above all other saga writers, but make him a truly great historian.

That Snorre closes his work with the year 1117 must doubtless be accounted for by the fact that the Saga of King Swerre, who ascended the throne of Norway in 1184, was already written by one of Swerre's contemporaries, the Abbot of the Thingeyra monastery in the north of Iceland. Karl Jonsson visited Norway and produced his saga under the supervision and with the coöperation of the king himself. Already before this attempts had been made at writing contemporary history. Thus the "Hryggjar-


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Rh stykki," by the Icelander, treats of his contemporary kings Harald Gille, Magnus the Blind, and Sigurd the Severe. The book is not now extant, but was in its time consulted by later authors. Probably it is also preserved in the so-called "Morkinskinna" (Rottenskin), which describes the period from Magnus the Good (1035) to 1157, and which, although in its present form coming from a later hand, is apparently originally the work of Snorre. Among documents, which served as Snorre's sources, must also be mentioned the so-called legendary saga of St. Olaf, which tells especially of Olaf's miracles and is in this respect based on older miracle books and collections of legends relating to this king.

The continuation of the Heimskringla, which various authors have contributed, embraces in addition to Swerre's saga the history of the later kings down to Magnus Lagabæter (Law-mender). Of the saga of this king, which, like that of Hakon Hakonson, was written by one of Snorre's relatives,, we now possess only a fragment, which forms the last link in the long chain of historical works produced by Icelanders and Norwegians in the middle ages. Worthy of mention are also the so-called great or historical saga of St. Olaf and the great, which was written in the fourteenth century and is a compilation of all earlier sources into a history of this king.


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60 A collection of sagas which also deserves special mention is the (the book of Flat Isle), so called because it was found on the small island Flatey in Broadforth. The book is written toward the end of the fourteenth century by two Icelandic priests, and contains in strange confusion and wholly without criticism a large number of sagas (Olaf Trygvason's Saga, St. Olaf 's Saga, Swerre's Saga, Hakon Hakonson's Saga, etc.), of poems (Einar Skulason's "Geisli," Einar Gilsson's "Olafsrima," etc.) and of shorter stories; but it is important, because much is found there which otherwise would have been lost. The Flatey-book is not, however, the only old Icelandic manuscript in which a variety of matters are collected, but none other confuses things on so vast a scale.

The Flatey-book naturally leads us to discuss the sagas which speak of other countries than Iceland and Norway, as it contains sagas of the Fareys and the Orkneys. The Saga gives an account of the introduction of Christianity on the Fareys and of various events connected therewith which group themselves around the poetically sketched popular hero, Sigmund Brestesson. It is an interesting and graphically told saga, which, however, has more poetic than historical value. The resembles in its style the sagas of the kings, and gives the history of the jarls of the Orkneys from the close of the ninth century to 1222. It contains many songs, and seems on the whole to be founded on short stories of an older date. and (a part of the eastern coast of North America, the present Massachusetts and Rhode Island, which was discovered by the Icelanders at the close of the tenth century) accounts are found in the sagas of Erik the Red, in, and in the , all of which contain, important contributions to the knowledge of the discoveries and of the life of the settlers in Greenland. For the history of the  and especially the  are of importance. The former tells in a most lucid manner of the Jomsvikings


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 in Thy service. Thou art our Inspirer; so we lay bare our hearts to Thee. Thou art our eternal Companion; therefore we confide in Thy guidance. It is by Thy ordaining man lives, feels and thinks. At Thy summons man leaves this for nobler Regions. Yet O God, in Thy all-wise ordaining, Thy all-ruling providence, Thou hast formed this relation of friendship for an inspired example, as a sustaining strength. Thou who choosest to draw soul to soul and cement heart to heart, may we be sustained by the faith that, though the form may change and the scene may shift, yet unto the heart there is no permanent loss of vision or of communion! Ah Lord of life and death, dost Thou sanction that hope? Is it approved of Thee? Or is it a mere fancy? Mayest Thou grant us the grace to realise the endless fruition of the promising faculties budding forth in such progressive souls into truth confirmed, wisdom matured, goodness expanded and devotion deepened ever-more I Hope suggests, and the heart rejoices to feel, that we are here only to lay the foundations. Now wetted and nourished with


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 sorrow, now once again sustained through adversity, may we endure from age to age and grow larger from generation to generation! €an it be that all this investment of truth and love and holiness, so abundant and promising, will all be rung out of existence? Ah, no; truth is triumphant; love is eternal; virtue is immortal; and' goodness is never to be exhausted. We feel that sorrow has darkened our prospect and that we toiled together in vain as co-workers and as brethren. But, O Lord, as deep as ai’B the associations, so inspiring are the suggestions. Thou art eternal. We are Thy children. We will be everlastingly glorifying Thee here and hereafter. May we be sustained with this hope!

We are brought here this evening to discharge a duty which various feelings enjoin on us-the melancholy duty of lamenting a heavy loss, the pious duty of cherishing a dear memory and also the loving duty of saying ‘adieu’ and yet ‘welcome'. To me, who have had the privilege of knowing the dear friend under hallowed associations,


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 perhaps for a longer period and more intimately than almost all else here, this is really marked and noted event in my life. As I have felt and as I have often told others, this is an event which has made this world poorer and death dearer; an event which has left me devoid of las presence here below but yet plants a hope in the hereafter; and an event which stirs me to long to be freed from the allurements of physically tempting life, not in the commercial sense of higher advantages, but in the spiritual signification of seeing a holier vision and living a nobler existence. This event has thrilled through every fibre of his dearest friends. While it is usual to say, ‘Let Thy will be done,’ we ai'e now face to face with the now and pressing enquiry, ‘What is Thy will?’ This is an event which, unlike many a passing event of the time, is significant of more than one inspiring truth. I have been made to feel now, if at any time in my life, that, as the poet has said, one crowded hour of glorious life is worth an age without a name. Here is a brief life but a rich one, and an early death but a gentle, peaceful.


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 pious passing away. And as I take a review of the many leading incidents of this noble soul, I feel that it is not the lack of opportunity but the absence of spirit that makes life so very barren in us. Here is a young man who lived for a few years, yet with a matured spirit that a sage may covet, with a serene repose that a saint may envy and a sustaining faith which a prophet may follow as an example. He passed through these years as the inspiring example of a noble life to his survivors. And as we dwell upon that life, we feel how much is possible for man and how deeply inlaid this life is with Divine presence. He was a man of twenty-five years more or less. In this short span of life, he illustrated in himself, in so many ways, the rich possibilities of youth well spent and of opportunities sacredly employed. We also feel compelled by the physical absence, with more than usual emphasis, to dwell upon that life, that so we may sustain and intensify its healthy influence within us. By its very withdrawal, it is made more significant and its spirit is better brought home to us.


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 Let us first of all take that which most prominently attracted tke attention of everyone—his serenity, lis calm-reposing, unshaken trust that all is well in spite of seeming troubles and sorrows. Smarting with an uncommon degree of pain, dissociated from dear ones, shifted from place to place as a homeless wanderer, deprived of those pleasures which are dear to all, looked down upon by those who ought to have understood him better, deserted by those who ought to have been brought close to him, suspected by those who ought to have confided in him, neglected by those who ought to have clung to him and entirely ignored by those who ought to have followed his way, he had no complaint against any person, except the general one of man’s negligence in that man is so blind to the goodness of God. That serenity which was so striking, which often misled others as to the nature of his complaint, and which one made light of, was the marked feature that struck every thoughtful observer that stood by him even for a few short hours. If he was able, too, at the close


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Rh and of their defeat in the battle with jarl Hakon, and of Gorm the Old, and Harald Bluetooth, while the latter contains the history of Denmark from Gorm the Old down to Knud VI, and furnishes a very full and interesting account of Knud the Saint. is mentioned only incidentally in some of the sagas, as for instance in that of Egil Skallagrimsson and in a few of the shorter stories of which the historical value is very insignificant. Contributions to the history of are found in, which, though full of embellishments, still helps to illustrate and explain the account of Nestor.

The historical taste which produced this extensive literature was gradually lost. Many causes, both external and internal, united in bringing this magnificent intellectual activity to a standstill. It was a matter of course, that the greater the number of sagas that were put in writing and thus made accessible to the many, the more did the interest in the oral tradition diminish, and the latter was the most important condition for the gathering and preservation of the saga materials. The decline of oral tradition can also be partly accounted for by the fact that the social conditions in Iceland gradually assumed a new character and consequently the saga materials, which were formerly liable to develop anywhere, now gathered around a few centres and no longer awakened the same general interest as before. The original institutions under which the Icelandic freeman considered himself the equal of every other freeman in the land, had gradually developed into the government of a few, inasmuch as a comparatively large power was centred in the hands of a few chiefs; and while formerly the law itself, the greater or lesser knowledge of it, and the ability to apply it, in connection with public opinion, as a rule decided all disputes, it now depended chiefly on who could furnish the largest army with which to annihilate his opponent.


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62 The bloody feuds which were carried on toward the fall of the republic between the mighty men of Iceland, and of which the Sturlunga saga furnishes a most graphic and interesting picture, could not help giving all the conditions of life an entirely new character, and that one which was not favorable to saga-writing. The age of magnificently endowed heroes was past, violence and treachery now determined the course of events; only the few who had power and influence took any interest in public affairs, and the few events of importance could easily be recorded by the annalists. As a matter of course this decline of historical interest in reference to the affairs of Iceland, also greatly diminished the taste for foreign history. In short, when the writing of Icelandic sagas ceased, that magnificent literary industry which the Icelanders had devoted to chronicling the events of Norway also came to a close. It might reasonably be supposed that the union of Iceland with Norway was the very thing needed to bring the sagas of the Norwegian kings to unfold their fairest blossoms, but quite on the contrary, no sooner were the Icelanders united with Norway than this branch of their literary activity ceased entirely. The intercourse between Iceland and Norway was not interrupted, but their mutual relations assumed wholly new forms. The Icelanders no longer visited the Norwegian kings in the capacity of skalds or for the purpose of becoming their courtiers, and thus the conditions for saga writing disappeared and the Norwegians who came to Iceland, being mostly ignorant merchants and seamen, could not take the place of the sagamen. Besides, the island was devastated in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries by epidemics such as the black plague, by famine, etc.

All these circumstances combined were surely sufficient to explain why the literary productions ceased and why those Icelanders who still had taste for intellectual employment mainly confined themselves to copying and preserving what they had inherited from the past. But in addition to these


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 which racked his brain as he lay extended on the sofa: these were the doubts which he determined should be at once and for ever resolved.

It was evening. Isabella and Emily had strolled out with Mr. Trundle; the deaf old lady had fallen asleep in her chair; the snoring of the fat boy, penetrated in a low and monotonous sound from the distant kitchen; the buxom servants were lounging at the side-door, enjoying the pleasantness of the hour, and the delights of a flirtation, on first principles, with certain unwieldy animals attached to the farm; and there sat the interesting pair, uncared for by all, caring for none, and dreaming only of themselves; there they sat, in short, like a pair of carefully-folded kid-gloves—bound up in each other.

"I have forgotten my flowers," said the spinster aunt.

"Water them now," said Mr. Tupman in accents of persuasion.

"You will take cold in the evening air," urged the spinster aunt, affectionately.

"No, no," said Mr. Tupman rising; "it will do me good. Let me accompany you."

The lady paused to adjust the sling in which the left arm of the youth was placed, and taking his right arm led him to the garden.

There was a bower at the further end, with honeysuckle, jessamine, and creeping plants--one of those sweet retreats which humane men erect for the accommodation of spiders.

The spinster aunt took up a large watering-pot which lay in one corner, and was about to leave the arbour. Mr. Tupman detained her, and drew her to a seat beside him.

"Miss Wardle!" said he.

The spinster aunt trembled, till some pebbles which had accidentally found their way into the large watering-pot shook like an infant's rattle.

"Miss Wardle," said Mr. Tupman, "you are an angel."

"Mr. Tupman!" exclaimed Rachael, blushing as red as the watering-pot itself.


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 "Nay," said the eloquent Pickwickian—"I know it but too well."

"All women are angels, they say," murmured the lady, playfully.

"Then what can you be; or to what, without presumption, can I compare you?" replied Mr. Tupman.?" replied Mr. Tupman. "Where was the woman ever seen who resembled you? Where else could I hope to find so rare a combination of excellence and beauty? Where else could I seek toOh!" Here Mr. Tupman paused, and pressed the hand which clasped the handle of the happy watering-pot.

The lady turned aside her head. "Men are such deceivers," she softly whispered.

"They are, they are," ejaculated Mr. Tupman; "but not all men. There lives at least one being who can never change—one being who would be content to devote his whole existence to your happiness—who lives but in your eyes—who breathes but in your smiles—who bears the heavy burden of life itself only for you."

"Could such an individual be found," said the lady

"But he can be found," said the ardent Mr. Tupman, interposing.

"He is found. He is here, Miss Wardle."

And ere the lady was aware of his intention, Mr. Tupman had sunk upon his knees at her feet.

"Mr. Tupman, rise," said Rachael.

"Never!" was the valorous reply. "Oh, Rachael!"—He seized her passive hand, and the watering-pot fell to the ground as he pressed it to his lips.—" Oh, Rachael! say you love me."

"Mr. Tupman," said the spinster aunt, with averted head—"I can hardly speak the words; but—but—you are not wholly indifferent to me."

Mr. Tupman no sooner heard this avowal, than he proceeded to do what his enthusiastic emotions prompted, and what, for aught we know (for we are but little acquainted with such matters), people so circumstanced always do. He jumped


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Rh circumstances there was still another which largely contributed to undermine the historical talent of which the sagas give such a striking evidence, namely, the increasing influence which the romances introduced from abroad exercised on the whole North and also on Iceland. Of "lygisagas," that is fictitious accounts of northern events, mention is made in an early day, but toward the close of the old Norse literary period foreign works found admittance and made their influence felt on the development of northern literature. This influence manifests itself partly in the domain of history, inasmuch as it produced a tendency to adorn the events with poetical embellishments, and partly in the domain of poetry, where the mythic and heroic traditions which were now put in writing were exaggerated and embellished according to the well known style of the French and German romances of chivalry, so that the original frequently very ancient elements became more or less indiscernible. Wholly new fictions were also written in this style so widely different from that of the earlier literature.

We will first briefly consider the sagas, since they deal with life in the north and relate stories which are, excepting the embellishments, very old and founded on the traditions out of which the whole literary development grew. These sagas are chiefly transprosings of old poems, of which fragments of more or less length are at the same time introduced. In one of the most important sagas of this kind, the, the transproser's embellishments are very easily separated from the ancient traditions, since several of the old poems, on which the saga is based, are preserved in the Elder Edda. The whole middle portion of the saga is a transprosing of the poems which relate to the Volsungs, and the opening chapters are also clearly based on very ancient songs, which are now lost, while the last chapters are unmistakably a later addition to the original cycle of poems. The Volsunga Saga is of great importance on account of the connected narration of all the parts of the Volsung story.


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 118 THE PICKWICK CLUB. 1 up, and, throwing his arm round the neck of the spinster aunt, imprinted upon her lips numerous kisses, which after a due show of struggling and resistance, she received so passively, that there is no telling how many more Mr. Tupman might have bestowed, if the lady had not given a very unaffected start and exclaimed in an affrighted tone—

"Mr. Tupman, we are observed!—we are discovered!"

Mr. Tupman looked round. There was the fat boy, perfectly motionless, with his large circular eyes staring into the arbour, but without the slightest expression on his face that the most expert physiognomist could have referred to astonishment, curiosity, or any other known passion that agitates the human breast. Mr. Tupman gazed on the fat boy, and the fat boy stared at him; and the longer Mr. Tupman observed the utter vacancy of the fat boy's countenance, the more convinced he became that he either did not know, or did not understand, anything that had been going forward. Under this impression, he said with great firmness—

"What do you want here, sir?"

"Supper's ready, sir," was the prompt reply.

"Have you just come here, sir?" inquired Mr. Tupman, with a piercing look.

"Just," replied the fat boy.

Mr. Tupman looked at him very hard again; but there was not a wink in his eye, or a curve in his face.

Mr. Tupman took the arm of the spinster aunt, and walked towards the house; the fat boy followed behind.

"He knows nothing of what has happened," he whispered.

"Nothing," said the spinster aunt.

There was a sound behind them, as of an imperfectly suppressed chuckle. Mr. Tupman turned sharply round. No; it could not have been the fat boy; there was not a gleam of mirth, or anything but feeding in his whole visage.

"He must have been fast asleep," whispered Mr. Tupman.

"I have not the least doubt of it," replied the spinster aunt.


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 They both laughed heartily.

Mr. Tupman was wrong. The fat boy, for once, had not been fast asleep. He was awake—wide awake—to what had been going forward.

The supper passed off without any attempt at a general conversation. The old lady had gone to bed; Isabella Wardle devoted herself exclusively to Mr. Trundle; the spinster's attentions were reserved for Mr. Tupman; and Emily's thoughts appeared to be engrossed by some distant object—possibly they were with the absent Snodgrass.

Eleven—twelve—one o'clock had struck, and the gentlemen had not arrived. Consternation sat on every face. Could they have been waylaid and robbed? Should they send men and lanterns in every direction by which they could be supposed likely to have travelled home? or should theyHark!there they were. What could have made them so late? A strange voice, too! To whom could it belong? They rushed into the kitchen whither the truants had repaired, and at once obtained rather more than a glimmering of the real state of the case.

ho Mr. Pickwick, with his hands in his pockets and his hat cocked completely over his left was leaning against the dresser, shaking his head from side to side, and producing a constant succession of the blandest and most benevolent smiles without being moved thereunto by any discernible cause or pretence whatsoever; old Mr. Wardle, with a highly-inflamed countenance, was grasping the hand of a strange gentleman muttering protestations of eternal friendship; Mr. Winkle, supporting himself by the eight-day clock, was feebly invoking destruction upon the head of any member of the family who should suggest the propriety of his retiring for the night; and Mr. Snodgrass had sunk into a chair, with an expression of the most abject and hopeless misery that the human mind can imagine, portrayed in very lineament of his expressive face.

"Is anything the matter?" inquired the three ladies.


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 "Nothing the matter," replied Mr. Pickwick. "We-we're -all right.-I say, Wardle, we're all right, an't we?"

"I should think so," replied the jolly host.-"My dears, here's my friend, Mr. Jingle-Mr. Pickwick's friend, Mr. Jingle, come 'pon-little visit."

"Is anything the matter with Mr. Snodgrass, sir?" inquired Emily, with great anxiety.

"Nothing the matter, ma'am," replied the stranger. "Cricket dinner-glorious party-capital songs-old port -claret-good-very good-wine, ma'am-wine."

"It wasn't the wine," murmured Mr. Snodgrass, in a broken voice. "It was the salmon." (Somehow or other, it never is the wine, in these cases.)

"Hadn't they better go to bed, ma'am?" inquired Emma. "Two of the boys will carry the gentlemen up stairs." "I won't go to bed," said Mr. Winkle, firmly. "No living boy shall carry me," said Mr. Pickwick, stoutly; and he went on smiling as before. "Hurrah!" gasped Mr. Winkle, faintly. Hurrah!" echoed Mr. Pickwick, taking off his hat and dashing it on the floor, and insanely casting his spectacles into the middle of the kitchen.-At this humorous feat he laughed outright. - "Let's-have - 'nother 'nother-bottle," bottle," cried Mr. Winkle, commencing in a very loud key, and ending in a very faint one. His head dropped upon his breast; and, muttering his invincible determination not to go to his bed, and a sanguinary regret that he had not "done for old Tupman" in the morning, he fell fast asleep; in which condition he was borne to his apartment by two voung giants under the personal superintendence of the fat boy, to whose protecting care Mr. Snodgrass shortly afterwards confided his own person. Mr. Pickwick accepted the proffered arm of Mr. Tupman and quietly disappeared, smiling more than ever; and Mr. Wardle, after taking as affectionate a leave of the whole family as if he were ordered for immediate execution, consigned to Mr.


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64 When we compare the poems that have come down to our time with the Volsunga Saga we find that the relation between song and story, wherever the transproser's method can be detected, is of such a nature that in all probability the leading features of the traditions have as a rule been preserved in their pure and original form. Occasionally, it is true, a romantic chord is struck which cannot be traced back to the songs, and which cannot be made to harmonize with the ancient traditions, but reminds us of the age of chivalry with its tendency to tell supernatural adventures and paint the most grotesque pictures with the most glowing colors. Not unfrequently the original plot has been distorted by the transproser for the reason that he has not correctly understood the poem. But viewed as a whole the transprosing is faithfully done, and the impression we get from those parts of which we possess only the prosaic paraphrase is uniformly the same as that which we get from those passages of which the original poems are preserved. The saga is in fact throughout, by virtue of its natural simplicity, an exceedingly fascinating reproduction substantially of the songs with which we are familiar, and frequently it approaches the form of the verse so closely that we catch glimpses of the latter with its alliterations. The Volsunga saga is particularly interesting from the fact that it illustrates how the original and ancient nucleus of the saga in the course of time has received various additions, other traditions having become united with the Volsung legends. A remarkable example of this is the expansion which the Sigurd traditions have received by becoming united with the traditions relating to the viking king Ragnar Lodbrok, the latter's wife Aslaug being represented as a daughter of Sigurd and Brynhild. This is a striking illustration of the tendency quite common among the ancients to connect the most prominent families with kings and heroes of the heroic age. That the organic unity of the story could not but suffer by this blending of one episode with another for the purpose of bringing the Volsung race down to historical times, must be


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'''FIGURE 6. Age composition of the population (U/OU)'''

'''FIGURE 7. Age-sex composition of the population of the Czech Lands and Slovakia, 1972 (U/OU)'''

In 1972, 22.9% of the population consisted of persons under age 15, and 17.4% were age 60 or older. Reflecting the higher mortality rates among males, the female population had a markedly higher proportion of older members than did the male population. During the period 1950-72, the population in the working (or able-bodied) ages—16 to 59 for males and 16 to 54 for females—increased less rapidly than did that in the other two broad age groups, and therefore the working-age population declined as a share of the total. The proportion of persons under working age also declined, while the share of the population in the older ages increased sharply.

Women have outnumbered men in Czechoslovakia throughout the 20th century. In 1972 the population comprised 7,030,786 males and 7,404,827 females, a ratio of 94.9 males per 100 females. Males outnumbered females in all age groups under 30. Beginning at age 30, however, women exceeded men in all age groups, and they did so strikingly at the older ages. The deficiency of males is greater in the more urbanized Czech Lands. In 1972 the latter area had a ratio of 93.9 males per 100 females whereas Slovakia had a ratio of 97.3. The lower sex ratio in urban areas also reflects the greater opportunities for employment of females in the cities.

D. Living and working conditions (U/OU)

Living levels in Czechoslovakia are higher than those in the other European Communist countries except for East Germany, but are lower than those in the United States and many Western European countries. The industrialized western and central regions of Czechoslovakia were on economic par with neighboring Germany before World War II and suffered little damage during the war, with the result that living levels recovered rapidly to prewar levels during the late 1940's. As in the other Communist countries, however, Czechoslovak consumers were forced to lower their levels of living as the government invested the country's resources during the 1950's primarily in production of capital goods, particularly in heavy industry. In the distribution of income, both the peasants and unskilled urban laborers have been far better off than they were before the war. Conversely, most white-collar employees (including nearly all of the prewar middle class) and skilled urban workers have been considerably worse off. The most highly educated and technically skilled elements of the population have had the most reason to be discontented with their living conditions and with the inconveniences and chronic shortages which have so

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 and replied to his menaces by a shout of triumph, as his horses, answering the increased application of whip and spur, broke into a faster gallop, and left the pursuers behind.

Mr. Pickwick had just drawn in his head, and Mr. Wardle, exhausted with shouting, had done the same, when a tremendous jolt threw them forward against the front of the vehicle. There was a sudden bump—a loud crash—away rolled a wheel, and over went the chaise.

After a very few seconds of bewilderment and confusion, in which nothing but the plunging of horses, the breaking of glass, could be made out, Mr. Pickwick felt himself violently pulled out from among the ruins of the chaise; and as soon as he had gained his feet, extricated his head from the skirts of his great coat, which materially impeded the usefulness of his spectacles, the full disaster of the case met his view.

Old Mr. Wardle without a hat, and his clothes torn in several places, stood by his side, and the fragments of the chaise lay scattered at their feet. The post-boys, who had succeeded in cutting the traces, were standing, disfigured with mud and disordered by hard riding, by the horses' heads. About a hundred yards in advance was the other chaise, which had pulled up on hearing the crash. The postilions, each with a broad grin convulsing his countenance, were viewing the adverse party from their saddles, and Mr. Jingle was contemplating the wreck from the coach-window, with evident satisfaction. The day was just breaking, and the whole scene was rendered perfectly visible by the grey light of the morning.

"Hallo!" shouted the shameless Jingle, "anybody damaged? —elderly gentlemen—no light weights—dangerous work—very."

"You're a rascal!" roared Wardle.

"Ha! ha!" replied Jingle; and then he added, with a knowing wink, and a jerk of the thumb towards the interior of the chaise—"--I say—she's very well—desires her compliments


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 "Never mind," replied his companion, "it will soon be over. Steady, steady."

Mr. Pickwick planted himself into his own corner, as firmly as he could; and on whirled the chaise faster than ever.

They had travelled in this way about three miles, when Mr. Wardle, who had been looking out of the window for two or three minutes, suddenly drew in his face, covered with splashes, and exclaimed in breathless eagerness—

"Here they are!"

Mr. Pickwick thrust his head out of his window. Yes: there was a chaise and four, a short distance before them, dashing along at full gallop.

"Go on, go on," almost shrieked the old gentleman.

"Two guineas a-piece, boys—-don't let 'em gain on us—keep it up—keep it up."

The horses in the first chaise started on at their utmost speed; and those in Mr. Wardle's galloped furiously behind them.

"I see his head," exclaimed the choleric old man. "Damme, I see his head."

"So do I," said Mr. Pickwick, "that's he."

Mr. Pickwick was not mistaken. The countenance of Mr. Jingle, completely coated with the mud thrown up by the wheels, was plainly discernible at the window of his chaise; and the motion of his arm, which he was waving violently towards the postilions, denoted that he was encouraging them to increased exertion.

The interest was intense. Fields, trees, and hedges, seemed to rush past them with the velocity of a whirlwind, so rapid was the pace at which they tore along. They were close by the side of the first chaise. Jingle's voice could be plainly heard, even above the din of the wheels, urging on the boys. Old Mr. Wardle foamed with rage and excitement. He roared out scoundrels and villains by the dozen, clenched his fist and shook it expressively at the object of his indignation; but Mr. Jingle only answered with a contemptuous smile,


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 "Yes, sir."

"Tall gentleman—dress coat—long legs—thin body?"

"Yes, sir."

"Elderly lady—thin face—rather skinny—eh?"

"Yes, sir."

"By heavens, it's the couple, Pickwick," exclaimed the old gentleman.

"Would have been here before," said the hostler, "but they broke a trace."

"It is!" said Wardle, "it is by Jove! Chaise and four instantly! We shall catch them yet, before they reach the next stage. A guinea a-piece, boys—be alive there—bustle about—there's good fellows."

And with such admonitions as these, the old gentleman ran up and down the yard, and bustled to and fro, in a state of excitement which communicated itself to Mr. Pickwick also; and under the influence of which, that gentleman got himself into complicated entanglements with harness, and mixed up with horses and wheels of chaises, in the most surprising manner, firmly believing that by so doing he was materially forwarding the preparations for their resuming their journey.

"Jump in—jump in!" cried old Wardle, climbing into the chaise, pulling up the steps, and slamming the door after him.

"Come along! Make haste!" And before Mr. Pickwick knew precisely what he was about, he felt himself forced in at the other door, by one pull from the old gentleman, and one push from the hostler; and off they were again.

"Ah! we are moving now," said the old gentleman exultingly. They were indeed, as was sufficiently testified to Mr. Pickwick, by his constant collisions either with the hard wood-work of the chaise, or the body of his companion.

"Hold up!" said the stout old Mr. Wardle, as Mr. dived head foremost into his capacious waistcoat.

"I never did feel such a jolting in my life," said Mr. Pickwick.


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 down the narrow road, and howled dismally through the trees which skirted the pathway. Mr. Pickwick drew his coat closer about him, coiled himself more snugly up into the corner of the chaise, and fell into a sound sleep, from which he was only awakened by the stopping of the vehicle, the sound of the hostler's bell, and a loud cry of "Horses on directly!"

But here another delay occurred. The boys were sleeping with such mysterious soundness, that it took five minutes a-piece to wake them. The hostler had somehow or other mislaid the key of the stable, and even when that was found, two sleepy helpers put the wrong harness on the wrong horses, and the whole process of harnessing had to be gone through afresh. Had Mr. Pickwick been alone, these multiplied obstacles would have completely put an end to the pursuit at once, but old Wardle was not to be so easily daunted; and he laid about him with such hearty good-will, cuffing this man, and pushing that; strapping a buckle here, and taking in a link there, that the chaise was ready in a much shorter time than could reasonably have been expected, under so many difficulties.

They resumed their journey; and certainly the prospect before them was by no means encouraging. The stage was fifteen miles long, the night was dark, the wind high, and the rain pouring in torrents. It was impossible to make any great way against such obstacles united: it was hard upon one o'clock already; and nearly two hours were consumed in getting to the end of the stage. Here, however, an object presented itself, which rekindled their hopes, and re-animated their drooping spirits.

"When did this chaise come in?" cried old Wardle, leaping out of his own vehicle, and pointing to one covered with wet mud, which was standing in the yard.

"Not a quarter of an hour ago, sir; " replied the hostler, to whom the question was addressed.

"Lady and gentleman?" inquired Wardle, almost breathless with impatience.


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 "How long is it since a post-chaise went through here?" inquired Mr. Wardle.

"How long?"

"Ah!"

"Why, I don't rightly know. It worn't a long time ago, nor it worn't a short time ago—just between the two, perhaps."

"Has any chaise been by at all?"

"Oh yes, there's been a shay by."

"How long ago, my friend," interposed Mr. Pickwick, "an hour?"

"Ah, I daresay it might be," replied the man.

"Or two hours?" inquired the post-boy on the wheeler.

"Well, I shouldn't wonder if it was," returned the old man doubtfully.

"Drive on, boys," cried the testy old gentleman; "don't waste any more time with that old idiot!"

"Idiot!" exclaimed the old man with a grin, as he stood in the middle of the road with the gate half-closed, watching the chaise which rapidly diminished in the increasing distance.

"No—not much o' that either; you've lost ten minutes here, and gone away as wise as you came, arter all. If every man on the line as has a guinea give him, earns it half as well, you won't catch t'other shay this side Mich'lmas, old short-and-fat." And with another prolonged grin, the old man closed the gate, re-entered his house, and bolted the door after him.

Meanwhile the chaise proceeded, without any slackening of pace, towards the conclusion of the stage. The moon, as Wardle had foretold, was rapidly on the wane; large tiers of dark heavy clouds, which had been gradually overspreading the sky for some time past, now formed one black mass over head; and large drops of rain which pattered every now and then against the windows of the chaise, seemed to warn the travellers of the rapid approach of a stormy night. The wind, too, which was directly against them, swept in furious gusts


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 several atolls, with Rongelap at 80 nmi (148 km) the closest. Storms are infrequent, although typhoons occur; nevertheless, both wind and sea are continuous erosional agents. Although possible at any time, most tropical storms occur from September to December. Cumulus clouds are abundant in the area.

The Bikini region incorporates three basic wind systems. Northeast trade winds extend from the surface to 25,000 to 30,000 feet (7.6 to 9.1 km), upper westerlies from the top of the trades to the base of the tropopause at 55,000 to 60,000 feet (16.8 to 18.3 km), and Krakatoa easterlies from the tropopause up into the stratosphere. These systems are all basically east-to-west or west-to-east air currents. Day-to-day changes reflect relatively small north-south components, which are markedly variable. Greatest variation occurs in the upper westerlies, particularly during late summer and fall.

Steady northeast trade winds in the lower levels cause water at the surface of the lagoon to flow from northeast to southwest, where it sinks to the bottom and returns along the lower levels of the lagoon, rises to the surface along the eastern arc of the reefs and islands, and is moved by winds to the southwest again. Lagoon waters moving in this closed loop also mix with those of the open ocean, resulting in a flushing action.

At Bikini, ocean water flows in over northern and eastern reefs and flows out of the western portion of Eneu Channel. Water exchanges over the western reefs with the tides, ocean water flowing in and mixing with the flood and lagoon water flowing out with the ebb. The net rate of flushing of Bikini waters is such that one-half of the lagoon waters is replaced by ocean water in 22 days and the original volume will account for only 10 percent of the lagoon volume after 2-1/2 months (Reference C.9.209, p. F-25).

During CROSSROADS, the Marshall Islands were under the jurisdiction of a U.S. military governor who reported to the Chief of Naval Operations and ultimately to the Secretary of the Navy. Since July 1947 these islands have been part of the Trust Territory of the Pacific Islands, a strategic area trusteeship of the United Nations, administered by the United States (Reference A.8, pp. 507-551).

In order to prepare Bikini Atoll for test operations, a considerable amount of work was required in the lagoon and on the principal islands. First, it was necessary to clear the lagoon of Japanese mines. On 10 March a survey unit arrived and began hydrographic and land surveys to augment the data recorded on the available Japanese charts. After the survey several coral heads were blasted out to permit safe navigation of large ships and to permit proper placement of ships in the proposed target arrays. Navigational and mooring buoys were laid in the lagoon and beacons placed on shore. On the islands, photographic towers (Figure 7), recording stations, recreational facilities (Figure 8), and landing facilities were constructed. This work was started on 20 March with the arrival of the 53rd Special Naval Construction Battalion, assisted by elements of the service groups and minesweeping units of the Pacific Fleet (Reference C.9.206, p. V-(B)-4).

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Figure 7. Erection of photo towers on Bikini, prior to CROSSROADS, 1946.

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 companion. When they had gone over that much ground, however, and the horses getting thoroughly warmed began to do their work in really good style, Mr. Pickwick became too much exhilarated with the rapidity of the motion, to remain any longer perfectly mute.

"We're sure to catch them, I think," said he.

"Hope so," replied his companion.

"Fine night," said Mr. Pickwick, looking up at the moon, which was shining brightly.

"So much the worse," returned Wardle; "for they'll have had all the advantage of the moonlight to get the start of us, and we shall lose it. It will have gone down in another hour."

"It will be rather unpleasant going at this rate in the dark, won't it?" inquired Mr. Pickwick.

"I dare say it will," replied his friend drily.

Mr. Pickwick's temporary excitement began to sober down a little, as he reflected upon the inconveniences and dangers of the expedition in which he had so thoughtlessly embarked. He was roused by a loud shouting of the post-boy on the leader.

"Yo—yo—yo—yo—yoe," went the first boy.

"Yo—yo—yo—yoe!" went the second.

"Yo—yo—yo—yoe!" chimed in old Wardle himself, most lustily, with his head and half his body out of the coach window.

Yo-yo-yo-yoe!" shouted Mr. Pickwick, taking up the burden of the cry, though he had not the slightest notion of its meaning or object. And amidst the yo—yoing of the whole four, the chaise stopped.

"What's the matter?" inquired Mr. Pickwick.

"There's a gate here," replied old Wardle. "We shall hear something of the fugitives."

After a lapse of five minutes, consumed in incessant knocking and shouting, an old man in his shirt and trousers emerged from the turnpike-house, and opened the gate.


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 cried the host; and away they went, down the narrow lanes: jolting in and out of the cart-ruts, and bumping up against the hedges on either side, as if they would go to pieces every moment.

"How much are they a-head?" shouted Wardle, as they drove up to the door of the Blue Lion, round which a little crowd had collected, late as it was.

"Not above three-quarters of an hour," was everybody's reply.

"Chaise and four directly!--out with 'em! Put up the gig afterwards."

"Now, boys!" cried the landlord—"chaise and four out —make haste—look alive there!"

Away ran the hostlers, and the boys. The lanterns glimmered, as the men ran to and fro; the horse's hoofs clattered on the uneven paving of the yard; the chaise rumbled as it was drawn out of the coach-house; and all was noise and bustle.

"Now then—is that chaise coming out to-night?" cried Wardle.

"Coming down the yard now, sir," replied the hostler. Out came the chaise—in went the horses—on sprung the boys-in got the travellers.

"Mind-the seven-mile stage in less than half an hour!" shouted Wardle.

"Off with you!"

The boys applied whip and spur, the waiters shouted, the hostlers cheered, and away they went, fast and furiously.

"Pretty situation," thought Mr. Pickwick, when he had had a moment's time for reflection. "Pretty situation for the General Chairman of the Pickwick Club. Damp chaise —strange horses—fifteen miles an hour—and twelve o'clock at night!"

For the first three or four miles, not a word was spoken by either of the gentlemen, each being too much immersed in his own reflections to address any observations to his