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 hat on his head, he carried in his hand a high stick, such as gentlemen of his profession usually elevate in a sloping position over the roofs of carriages.

"Smauker, my lad, your fin," said the gentleman with the cocked hat.

Mr. Smauker dovetailed the top joint of his right hand little finger into that of the gentleman with the cocked hat, and said he was charmed to see him looking so well.

"Well, they tell me I am looking pretty blooming," said the man with the cocked hat, "and it's a wonder, too. I've been following our old woman about, two hours a-day, for the last fortnight; and if a constant contemplation of the manner in which she hooks-and-eyes that infernal lavender coloured old gown of hers behind, isn't enough to throw any body into a low state of despondency for life, stop my quarter's salary."

At this, the assembled selections laughed very heartily; and one gentleman in a yellow waistcoat, with a coach trimming border, whispered a neighbour in green foil smalls, that Tuckle was in spirits to-night.

"By the bye," said Mr. Tuckle, "Smauker, my boy, you" The remainder of the sentence was forwarded into Mr. John Smauker's ear, by whisper.

"Oh, dear me, I quite forgot," said Mr. John Smauker. "Gentlemen, my friend Mr. Weller."

"Sorry to keep the fire off you, Weller," said Mr. Tuckle, with a familiar nod. "Hope you're not cold, Weller."

"Not by no means, Blazes," replied Sam. "It 'ud be a wery chilly subject as felt cold wen you stood opposit. You'd save coals if they put you behind the fender in the waitin' room at a public office, you would."

As this retort appeared to convey rather a personal allusion to Mr. Tuckle's crimson livery, that gentleman looked majestic for a few seconds, but gradually edging away from the fire, broke into a forced smile, and said it wasn't bad.

"Wery much obliged for your good opinion, sir," replied


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 excited, highly displeased, and naturally indignant, at the very extraordinary course he has thought proper to pursue."

"I will, sir," replied Sam.

"You'll tell him," said Mr. Pickwick, "that if he does not come back to this very house, with you, he will come back with me, for I will come and fetch him."

"I'll mention that 'ere, sir," rejoined Sam.

"You think you can find him, Sam?" said Mr. Pickwick, looking earnestly in his face.

"Oh, I'll find him if he's any vere," rejoined Sam, with great confidence.

"Very well," said Mr. Pickwick. "Then the sooner you go the better."

With these instructions, Mr. Pickwick placed a sum of money in the hands of his faithful servitor, and ordered him to start for Bristol immediately, in pursuit of the fugitive.

Sam put a few necessaries in a carpet bag, and was ready for starting. He stopped when he had got to the end of the passage, and walking quietly back, thrust his head in at the parlour door.

"Sir," whispered Sam.

"Well, Sam," said Mr. Pickwick.

"I fully understands my instructions, do I, sir?" inquired Sam.

"I hope so," said Mr. Pickwick.

"It's reg'larly understood about the knockin' down, is it, sir?" inquired Sam.

"Perfectly," replied Mr. Pickwick. "Thoroughly. Do what you think necessary. You have my orders."

Sam gave a nod of intelligence, and withdrawing his head from the door, set forth on his pilgrimage with a light heart.


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 "And I'm sorry to say, Sam," continued Mr. Pickwick, with a most perplexed countenance, " that in dread of this violence, Mr. Winkle has gone away."

"Gone avay!" said Sam.

"Left the house early this morning, without the slightest previous communication with me," replied Mr. Pickwick. "And is gone, I know not where."

"He should ha' stopped and fought it out, sir," replied Sam, contemptuously. "It wouldn't take much to settle that 'ere Dowler, sir."

"Well, Sam," said Mr. Pickwick, "I may have my doubts of his great bravery and determination, also. But however that may be, Mr. Winkle is gone. He must be found, Sam. Found and brought back to me."

"And s'pose he won't come back, sir?" said Sam.

"He must be made, Sam," said Mr. Pickwick.

"Who's to do it, sir?" inquired Sam with a smile.

"You," replied Mr. Pickwick.

"Wery good, sir."

With these words Mr. Weller left the room, and immediately afterwards was heard to shut the street door. In two hours' time he returned with as much coolness as if he had been despatched on the most ordinary message possible, and brought the information that an individual, in every respect answering Mr. Winkle's description, had gone over to Bristol that morning, by the branch coach from the Royal Hotel.

"Sam," said Mr. Pickwick, grasping his hand, "you're a capital fellow; an invaluable fellow. You must follow him, Sam."

"Cert'nly, sir," replied Mr. Weller.

"The instant you discover him, write to me immediately, Sam," said Mr. Pickwick. "If he attempts to run away from you, knock him down, or lock him up. You have my full authority, Sam."

"I'll be wery careful, sir," rejoined Sam.

"You'll tell him," said Mr. Pickwick, "that I am highly


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 "Yes, I am," said the man with the cocked hat.

"Wot, and leave three quarters of a bowl of punch behind you!" said Sam; "nonsense, set down agin."

Mr. Tuckle was not proof against this invitation. He laid aside the cocked hat and stick which he had just taken up, and said he would have one glass, for good fellowship's sake.

As the gentleman in blue went home the same way as Mr. Tuckle, he was prevailed upon to stop too. When the punch was about half gone, Sam ordered in some oysters from the greengrocer's shop; and the effect of both was so extremely exhilarating, that Mr. Tuckle, dressed out with the cocked hat and stick, danced the frog hornpipe among the shells on the table: while the gentleman in blue played an accompaniment upon an ingenious musical instrument formed of a hair comb and a curl-paper. At last, when the punch was all gone, and the night nearly so, they sallied forth to see each other home. Mr. Tuckle no sooner got into the open air, than he was seized with a sudden desire to lie on the curbstone; Sam thought it would be a pity to contradict him, and so let him have own way. As the cocked hat would have been spoilt if left there, Sam very considerately flattened it down on the head of the gentleman in blue, and putting the big stick in his hand, propped him up against his own street-door, rang the bell, and walked quietly home.

At a much earlier hour next morning than his usual time of rising, Mr. Pickwick walked down stairs completely dressed, and rang the bell.

"Sam," said Mr. Pickwick, when Mr. Weller appeared in reply to the summons, "shut the door."

Mr. Weller did so.

"There was an unfortunate occurrence here, last night, Sam," said Mr. Pickwick, "which gave Mr. Winkle some cause to apprehend violence from Mr. Dowler."

"So I've heerd from the old lady down stairs, sir," replied Sam.


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 gentleman whom he had not the pleasure of an intimate acquaintance with, but who was the friend of Mr. John Smauker, which was a sufficient letter of recommendation to any society of gentlemen whatever, or wherever. On this account, he should have been disposed to have given Mr. Weller's health with all the honours, if his friends had been drinking wine; but as they were taking spirits by way of a change, and as it might be inconvenient to empty a tumbler at every toast, he should propose that the honours be understood.

At the conclusion of this speech, everybody took a sip in honour of Sam; and Sam having ladled out, and drunk, two full glasses of punch in honour of himself, returned thanks in a neat speech.

"Wery much obliged to you, old fellers," said Sam, ladling away at the punch in the most unembarrassed manner possible, "for this here compliment; wich, comin' from sich a quarter, is wery overvelmin'. I've heerd a good deal on you as a body, but I will say, that I never thought you was sich uncommon nice men as I find you air. I only hope you'll take care o' yourselves, and not compromise nothin' o' your dignity, which is a wery charmin' thing to see, when one's out a walkin', and has always made me wery happy to look at, ever since I was a boy about half as high as the brassheaded stick o' my wery respectable friend, Blazes, there. As to the wictim of oppression in the suit o' brimstone, all I can say of him, is, that I hope he'll get jist as good a berth as he deserves: in vich case it's wery little cold swarry as ever he'll be troubled with agin."

Here Sam sat down with a pleasant smile, and his speech having been vociferously applauded, the company broke up.

"Why, you don't mean to say you're a goin', old feller?" said Sam Weller to his friend Mr. John Smauker.

"I must indeed," said Mr. Smauker; "I promised Bantam."

"Oh, wery well," said Sam; "that's another thing. P'raps he'd resign if you disappinted him. You ain't a goin', Blazes?"


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Runo XXXVIII]

And began the conversation,

And she turned to him and asked him

How her child’s health was at present,

If her daughter was contented,

As the daughter-in-law of master,

And the daughter-in-law of mistress.

Thereupon smith Ilmarinen,

Head bowed down, and deeply grieving,

And his cap all sloping sideways,

Answered in the words which follow:

“Do thou not, O mother, ask me,

Do not question me in thiswise

How your daughter may be living,

How your dear one now is dwelling!

Death has borne her off already,

Grisly death has seized upon her.

In the ground is now my berry,

On the heath is now my fair one,

And her dark locks ’neath the stubble,

’Neath the grass my silver-fair one.

Give me now your second daughter,

Give me now that youthful maiden,

Give her to me, dearest mother,

Give me now your second daughter,

Thus to occupy the dwelling,

And the station of her sister.”

Louhi, Pohjola’s old Mistress,

Answered in the words which follow:

“Ill have I, unhappy, acted,

And it was a sad misfortune

When to thee my child I promised,

And I gave to thee the other,

In her early youth to slumber,

For the rosy-cheeked one perished.

To the mouth of wolf I gave her,

To the jaws of bear when growling.

“No more daughters will I give you,

Nor my daughter will I give you,

That she wash the soot from off you,

And she scratch the soot from off you,

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134

Sooner would I give my daughter,

And would give my tender daughter,

To the fiercely-foaming cataract,

To the ever-seething whirlpool,

As a prey to worms of Mana,

To the teeth of pike of Tuoni.”

Thereupon smith Ilmarinen,

Mouth and head both turning sideways,

With his black hair in disorder,

As his head he shook in anger,

Pushed his way into the chamber,

And beneath the roof he entered,

And he spoke the words which follow:

“Come thou now with me, O maiden,

In the station of thy sister,

And to occupy her dwelling,

Cakes of honey there to bake me,

And the best of ale to brew me.”

From the floor there sang a baby,

Thus he sang, and thus made answer:

“Quit our castle, guest unwelcome,

From our doors, O stranger, hasten!

Thou before hast harmed our castle,

Evil much hast wrought our castle,

When the first time here thou earnest,

And within our doors hast entered.

“Maiden, O my dearest sister,

O rejoice not in this lover,

Neither in his mouth so subtle,

Neither in his feet well-shapen,

For his gums are like a wolf’s gums,

Curved his claws like those of foxes,

And the claws of bears conceals he,

And his belt-knife blood is drinking,

’Tis with this that heads he severs,

And with this the backs lays open.”

Then the maiden’s self made answer,

Thus she spoke to Ilmarinen:

“I myself will not go with you,

Trouble not for such a scoundrel,

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text: The Illustrators of Montmartre/Chapter 2


text: The Illustrators of Montmartre/Chapter 3


text: The Illustrators of Montmartre/Chapter 4


text: The Illustrators of Montmartre/Chapter 5


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text: The Illustrators of Montmartre/Chapter 7


text: The Illustrators of Montmartre/Chapter 8


text:
Inconstancy

 * "Inconstancy", a poem by Abraham Cowley
 * "Inconstancy", a poem by Alice MacDonald Kipling
 * "Inconstancy", a poem by an unknown author

title: Inconstancy


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 three a bequest of shoes or sark to a cruel mother-in-law or foster-mother, with the wish that she may have no peace or much pain in the wearing. 'Catarina de Lió,' Briz y Candi, Cansons de la Terra,, 209, has been beaten by her mother-in-law while in a delicate state. When she is at the point of death, the mother-in-law asks what doctor she will have and what will she will make. "My will," says Catherine, "will not please you much. Send back my velvet dress to my father's; my gala dress give my sister; give my working dress to the maid, my jewels to the Virgin." "And what will you leave to me?" "What I leave you will not please you much: my husband to be hanged, my mother-in-law to be quartered, and my sister-in-law to be burned." 'Le Testament de Marion,' another version of this story from the south of France, Uchaud, Gard, Poésies pop. de la France, MS.,, fol. 283, bequeaths "my laces to my sister Marioun, my prettiest gowns to my sister Jeanneton; to my rascal of a husband three fine cords, and, if that is not enough (to hang him), the hem of his shirt." The Portuguese ballad of 'Dona Helena' rather implies than expresses the imprecation: Braga, C. P. do Archipelago Agoriano, p. 225, No 15, p. 227, No 16; Almeida-Garrett,, 56; Hartung, , 233–43, No 18. Helena leaves her husband's house when near childbirth, out of fear of his mother. Her husband, who does not know her reason, goes after her, and compels her to return on horseback, though she has just borne a son. The consequences are what might be expected, and Helena desires to make her shrift and her will. She leaves one thing to her oldest sister, another to her youngest. "And your boy?" "To your bitch of a mother, cause of my woes." "Rather to yours," says the husband, "for I shall have to kill mine" (so Braga; Garrett differs somewhat). 'Die Frau zur Weissenburg' (A), Uhland, p. 287, No 123 B, Scherer's Jungbrunnen, p. 94, No 29; 'Das Lied von der Löwenburg' (B), Simrock, p. 65, No 27; 'Hans Steutlinger' (C), Wunderhorn,, 168 (1857), all one story, have a bitterly sarcastic testament. A lady instigates her paramour to kill her husband. The betrayed man is asked to whom he will leave his children [commit, A, bequeath, B, C]. "To God Almighty, for he knows who they are." "Your property?" "To the poor, for the rich have enough." "Your wife?" "To young Count Frederic, whom she always liked more than me (A)." "Your castle? " "To the flames."

In some cases there is no trace of animosity towards the person who has caused the testator's death; as in 'El testamento de Amelia' (who has been poisoned by her mother). Milá, Observaciones, p. 103, No 5, Briz y Saltó, Cansons de la Terra,, 197 (two copies); 'Herren Bald,' Afzelius, , 76, No 16 (new ed. , 59, No 15); a Swedish form of 'Frillens Hævn,' Grundtvig, , 203; 'Reneé le Glaz' and 'Ervoanik Le Lintier,' Luzel, C. P. de la Basse Bretagne, , 405, 539, 553. There are also simple testaments where there is no occasion for an ill remembrance, as in 'Ribold og Guldborg,' Grundtvig, No 82, I, K, L, U, X, Æ, Kristensen,, No 84 B; 'Pontplancoat,' Luzel, , 383, 391. And, again, there are parodies of these wills. Thus the fox makes his will: Grundtvig, Gamle danske Minder, 1854, 'Mikkels Arvegods,' p. 24, and p. 25 a copy from a manuscript three hundred years old; Kristensen, Jyske Folkeviser,, 324, No 90; 'Reven og Bjönnen,' 'Reven og Nils fiskar', Landstad, Nos 85, 86, p. 637, 639: and the robin, 'Robin's Tesment,' Buchan, , 273, Herd's MSS, , 154, and Scottish Songs (1776), , 166, Chambers' Popular Rhymes, p. 38, "new edition."

Translated in Grundtvig's Engelske og skotske Folkeviser, No 33, p. 212, F, with use of A and G b; Aytoun's copy, with omissions, by Rosa Warrens, Schottische Volkslieder der Vorzeit, No 17, p. 80; after Allingham and others, by Knortz, Lieder und Romanzen Alt-Englands, No 5, p. 16.


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12


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Runo XXXVIII]

For your first wife you have murdered,

And my sister you have slaughtered.

You perchance would also slay me,

Murder me, as her you murdered.

Such a maiden is deserving

Of a man of greater standing,

And whose form is far more handsome,

In a finer sledge to take me,

To a larger, finer dwelling,

To a better home than thou hast,

Not unto a smith’s black coalhouse,

To a stupid husband’s homestead.”

Thereupon smith Ilmarinen,

He the great primeval craftsman,

Mouth and head both turning sideways,

And his black hair in disorder,

Seized without ado the maiden,

In his grasp he seized the maiden,

From the room he rushed like snowstorm,

Dragged her where his sledge was standing,

In the sledge he pushed the maiden,

And within the sledge he cast her,

Started quickly on his journey,

And prepared him for his journey,

With one hand the horse he guided,

On the girl’s breast laid the other.

Wept the maiden and lamented,

And she spoke the words which follow:

“Now I come where grow the cranberries,

To the swamps where grow the arums,

Now the dove approaches ruin,

And the bird is near destruction.

“Hear me now, smith Ilmarinen,

If you will not now release me,

I will smash your sledge to pieces,

And will break it into fragments,

Break it with my knees asunder,

Break it with my legs to fragments.”

Thereupon smith Ilmarinen

Answered in the words that follow:

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text: Category:Christian hymnals

title: Category:Christian hymnals


text:
Page:4SIGHT manual- a computer program for modelling degradation of underground low level waste concrete vaults (IA 4sightmanualcomp5612snyd).pdf/143

65. UPDATE PRESSURES     $$\Psi$$[k]=tmp[k]; } } while c> tol && iteration++ < 1000);    for (k=0; k<= 0; k < NUM_CELLS; k++)      v[k]=-$$\kappa$$[k]*CUB($$x$$i[k]/$$\vartheta_0$$}*$$\Psi$$[k+1]-$$\Psi$$[k])/$$\Delta X$$[k];  } 67. Copy the new porosities into the n—1 values.

⟨Update the porosities 67⟩ $$\equiv$$ for (k = FIRST.CELL; k < NUM.SURFACES; k++)$$\phi'^{n-1}$$[k]=$$\phi'^n$$[k];

This code is used in section 9.


text: The Illustrators of Montmartre/Chapter 9


text: The Illustrators of Montmartre/Chapter 10


text: The Illustrators of Montmartre/Chapter 11


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136

“Know, the sledge by smith was fashioned,

And the boards are bound with iron,

And it can withstand the pushing,

And the noble maiden’s struggles.”

Then the hapless girl lamented,

And bewailed, the copper-belted,

Struggled till she broke her fingers,

Struggled till her hands were twisted,

And she spoke the words which follow:

“If you will not now release me,

To a lake-fish I’ll transform me,

In the deepest waves a powan.”

Thereupon smith Ilmarinen

Answered in the words which follow:

“Even so you will not ’scape me,

I myself as pike will follow.”

Then the hapless girl lamented,

And bewailed, the copper-belted,

Struggled till she broke her fingers,

Struggled till her hands were twisted,

And she spoke the words which follow:

“If you will not now release me,

To the wood will I betake me,

Hiding in the rocks like ermine.”

Thereupon smith Ilmarinen

Answered in the words which follow:

“Even thus you will not ’scape me,

For as otter I’ll pursue you.”

Then the hapless girl lamented,

And bewailed, the copper-belted,

Struggled till she broke her fingers,

Struggled till her hands were twisted,

And she spoke the words which follow:

“If you will not now release me,

As a lark I’ll soar above you,

And behind the clouds will hide me.”

Thereupon smith Ilmarinen,

Answered in the words which follow:

“Even thus you will not ’scape me,

For as eagle I’ll pursue you.”

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text: The Illustrators of Montmartre/Chapter 12


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Runo XXXVIII]

But a little way they journeyed,

Short the distance they had traversed,

When the horse pricked ears to listen,

And the long-eared steed was shying.

Then her head the maiden lifted,

In the snow she saw fresh footprints,

And she thereupon inquired,

“What has passed across our pathway?“

Said the smith, said Ilmarinen,

“’Twas a hare that ran across it.”

Then the hapless girl was sighing,

Much she sobbed, and much was sighing,

And she spoke the words which follow:

“Woe to me, unhappy creature!

Better surely had I found it,

And my lot were surely better

If the hare’s track I could follow,

In the traces of the Crook-leg.

Than in sledge of such a suitor,

’Neath the rug of one so wrinkled,

For the hairs of hare are finer,

And his mouth-cleft is more handsome.”

Thereupon smith Ilmarinen,

Bit his lips, his head turned sideways,

And the sledge drove rattling onward,

And a little way they journeyed,

When the horse pricked ears to listen,

And the long-eared steed was shying.

Then her head the maiden lifted,

In the snow she saw fresh footprints,

And she thereupon inquired,

“What has passed across our pathway?”

Said the smith, said Ilmarinen,

“’Twas a fox that ran across it.”

Then the hapless girl was sighing,

Much she sobbed, and much was sighing,

And she spoke the words which follow:

“Woe to me, unhappy creature,

Better surely had I found it,

And my lot were surely better,

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Page:4SIGHT manual- a computer program for modelling degradation of underground low level waste concrete vaults (IA 4sightmanualcomp5612snyd).pdf/141

65. UPDATE PRESSURES '''65. Update Pressures.'''

The pressures are updated using the continuity equation: $$\frac{\partial{p}}{\partial{t}}=\nabla\cdot \rho\mathbf{v} $$

where $$\mathbf{v} $$ the intrinisic pore fluid velocity and $$\rho$$ is the pore fluid density. An equation for the bulk material can be obtained from a volume average over a represetative volume V

For these equations, assume $$\rho$$ is a constant since water is virtually incompressible. Rearranging and simplifying the above equation gives:

$$ \frac{\partial{}}{\partial{t}}\frac{1}{V}\int_v \frac{\partial{p}}{\partial{t}}d^3\mathbf{x} = -\frac{1}{V}\int_v \nabla\cdot\rho\mathbf{v}d^3\mathbf{x}$$

Since $$\rho$$ is zero outside the pore volume, if $$V_p$$ represents only the pore volume then the above equation simplifies to

$$ \frac{\partial{\phi}}{\partial{t}}-\nabla\cdot\frac{\phi}{V_p} \int_{V_p}\mathbf{v}d^3\mathbf{x} $$

which finally gives $$ \frac{\partial{\phi}}{\partial{t}}=-\nabla\cdot\phi \mathbf{u}=-\nabla\cdot\phi \mathbf{v}_D$$

where $$\mathbf{v}_D$$ is the Darcy velocity. Substituting for the Darcy velocity gives

$$\frac{\partial{\phi}}{\partial{t}}=-\nabla\cdot\frac{k}{\mu}\nabla p$$

⟨Function declarations 23⟩ $$+\equiv$$ void update.pressures (void);

66. update.pressures void update.pressures {   int k, iteration; real perm [NUM_CELLS], imp [NUM.SURFACES], tol = 0.0005, $$\varepsilon$$; for (k = FIRST.CELL; k < NUM.CELLS; k++) perm[k]=$$\kappa$$[k] * CUB($$\xi$$[ke]/$$\vartheta_0$$ ); $$\Phi$$[FIRST.CELL] = Pout + (NUM.CELLS - 1 + A A [FIRST.CELL]) * dP   $$\Phi$$[NUM.SURFACES-1]=0; iteration = 0; do { for (k= FIRST.CELL + 1; k < NUM.SURFACES - 1; k++) { imp[k]= perm * $$\Psi$$[k + 1]/$$\Delta X$$[k] + perm[k -1]*$$\Psi$$[k-1]/$$\Delta X$$[k-1]; /* **** tmp[k]-=0.5*(DX[k-1]_DX[k])*(PHIn[k]-PHIn[k-1])/DT; *****/ imp[k]*=1.0/(perm[k]/$$\Delta X$$[k] = perm[k-1]/$$\Delta X$$[k-1]); } $$\varepsilon$$=0.0; for (k= FIRST_CELL+1; K0.0 $$\epsilon$$=MAX($$\epsilon$$,$$\Psi$$[k] -imp[k])/$$\Psi$$[k]);


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138

Were I riding in a fox-sledge,

And in Lapland sledge were fleeing,

Than in sledge of such a suitor,

’Neath the rug of one so wrinkled,

For the hairs of fox are finer,

And his mouth-cleft is more handsome.”

Thereupon smith Ilmarinen

Bit his lips, his head turned sideways,

And the sledge drove rattling onward,

And a little way they journeyed,

When the horse pricked ears to listen,

And the long-eared steed was shying.

Then her head the maiden lifted,

In the snow she saw fresh footprints,

And she thereupon inquired,

“What has passed across our pathway?“

Said the smith, said Ilmarinen,

“’Twas a wolf that ran across it.”

Then the hapless girl was sighing,

Much she sobbed, and much was sighing,

And she spoke the words which follow:

“Woe to me, unhappy creature!

Better surely had I found it,

And my lot were surely better

If a growling wolf I followed,

Tracked the pathway of the Snouted,

Than in sledge of such a suitor,

’Neath the rug of one so wrinkled,

For the hair of wolf is finer,

And his mouth-cleft is more handsome.”

Thereupon smith Ilmarinen

Bit his lips, his head turned sideways,

And the sledge drove rattling onwards,

And at night they reached a village.

With the journey overwearied,

Slept the smith, and slept profoundly,

And another than her husband

Made the girl laugh as he slept there.

Thereupon smith Ilmarinen

In the morning when he wakened,

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Runo XXXVIII]

Mouth and head both twisted sideways,

Tossed his black hair in disorder.

After this, smith Ilmarinen

Pondered till he spoke as follows:

“Shall I now commence my singing,

Shall I sing a bride like this one,

To a creature of the forest,

Or a creature of the water?

“Not to forest beast I’ll sing her,

All the forest would be troubled;

Neither to a water-creature,

Lest the fishes all should shun her;

Better slay her with my hanger,

With my sword will I despatch her.”

But the sword perceived his object,

Understood the hero’s language,

And it spoke the words which follow:

“Not for this was I constructed,

That I should despatch the women,

And the weak I thus should slaughter.”

Thereupon smith Ilmarinen

Presently commenced his singing,

And began to speak in anger,

Sung his wife into a seamew,

Thenceforth round the cliffs to clamour,

Scream upon the rocks in water,

Moan around the jutting headlands,

Struggle with the winds against her.

After this smith Ilmarinen

In his sledge again dashed forward,

And the sledge drove rattling onward,

Head bowed down in great depression,

Back he journeyed to his country,

Till he reached the well-known regions.

Väinämöinen, old and steadfast,

Came upon the road to meet him,

And began to speak as follows:

“Ilmarinen, smith and brother,

Wherefore is your mood so gloomy,

Wherefore is your cap pushed sideways,

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 gone for ever: I feel the dreadful consequences of my guilty connexion with the unhappy man, and disgrace and ruin will seize me with merciless fangs, if you do not save me. O, Mr. Volkert! do not refuse your assistance to a poor helpless girl."

"During this woful speech I had been standing before the lovely maid, holding her by her trembling hand, and bending my ear close to her lips, as she was whispering her woes to me. When she had finished her plaintive tale, she pressed me to her heaving bosom, her burning kisses thrilled the very pulses of my heart with voluptuous rapture, her lily arms encircled my neck, her whole lovely form seemed melted into one with mine—but you may easily guess what was the consequence!"

"When the crowing of the cock announced the dawn of morning, she left me in high spirits, because I had given her the most solemn promise to procure the consent of her


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140

As from Pohjola thou comest?

How at Pohjola exist they?”

Said the smith, said Ilmarinen,

“How at Pohjola exist they?

There the Sampo grinds for ever,

And revolves the pictured cover,

And one day it grinds provisions,

Grinds for sale upon the second,

On the third what needs the household.

“Thus I speak, and tell you truly,

And again repeat it to you,

How at Pohjola exist they,

When at Pohjola’s the Sampo!

There is ploughing, there is sowing,

There is every kind of increase,

And their welfare is eternal.”

Said the aged Väinämöinen,

“Ilmarinen, smith and brother,

Where hast thou thy wife abandoned,

Where thy youthful bride so famous,

That you here return without her,

Ever driving homeward wifeless?”

Thereupon smith Ilmarinen,

Answered in the words which follow:

“Such a wife she was, I sang her

To the sea-cliffs as a seamew;

Now she screams aloud as seagull,

Shrieks aloud without cessation,

Moans about the rocks in water,

And around the cliffs she clamours.”

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text: Kalevala (Kirby 1907)/Runo 38

title: Kalevala (Kirby 1907)/Runo 38


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 father to her marriage with the secretary, might it cost whatever it would. Her gratitude knew no bounds, she almost suffocated me by her endearments, and left me with these words:"

"My happiness, my life, and my honor, are in your power; without your assistance destruction will seize me, and eternal misery will be my dreadful lot."

"As long as my blood was heated I thought no obstacle too arduous, but after more cool deliberation, I soon grew sensible that I had engaged in a very difficult undertaking: By what natural means could the father of the seduced girl be persuaded to sanction her love ? How was it possible to shake the firm resolution of a rigorous head-strong man, if a medium congenial to his manner of thinking was not to be employed, which might surprise and prompt him to come to our terms, for the sake of his own interest. This medium was no other than what he himself had sug-


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 gested to me—his belief in the supernaturalness of the apparition, and the power he supposed me to have over it."

"I could not get a wink of sleep during the remainder of the night, racking my brain and tormenting my imagination in vain:—Whenever I fancied to have hit on a feasible expedient, it soon vanished like a deluding dream, as soon as I applied the undeceiving torch of reason, and I saw but too clearly that nothing would extricate me from the maze I was bewildered in but the magic wand."

"I was engaged for three days in a most distressing conflict with my rebelling conscience, and several times on the brink of shifting quarters, and taking a house far enough removed from my then abode, but my resolution was always shaken as soon as it was formed, when the doleful situation of the poor distressed girl recurred to my mind, im-


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 ploring my assistance with a pallid ghastly look."

"It is true, the lover of the afflicted disconsolate girl did not deserve my assistance; however, I could not deny it to myself that I had greatly injured him—common justice required some atonement, and poor Helen would certainly have been lost without my assistance. These considerations conquered at last every hesitation which reason and honesty had suggested to my troubled mind."

"The forth night Helen paid me a second visit, entreating me more pressingly than at first; yet I remained firm and unpersuaded a good while; however, when she reminded me of my promise, and of, I could no longer maintain my ground, renewed my former promise, and went, without delay, the next morning to work."

"I entered at nine o'clock the apartment of my landlord, and could not but observe,


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 that Helen's cheeks were tinged with a crimson hue of inward satisfaction; her aspect and her looks supported my resolution."

"Sir," said I, "the tranquillity of your house is dear to me, and I have had the good fortune, last night, to hit upon means, the application of which will certainly secure it for ever."

"The simple superstitious man embraced me with visible marks of gratitude, exclaiming in an ecstacy of joy, "O, tell me, tell me, what must I do?"

"Then he ordered his daughter to fetch a bottle of Hungarian wine, pressing me to drink; but I declined it, resuming,

"Sir, the ghost that disturbs the peace of your house—"

"Have you seen him?" he interrupted me, with a ghastly look.


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 I will see him," replied I, "he is a malicious being, and has given me much trouble; yet I trust I shall be able to get the better of him by the assistance of the occult knowledge which I possess."

"How! how!" stammered the simpleton, "then you are indeed the man I always took you for; then you are really one of those great mortals who understand the wonderful art of necromancy. How happy I am, to meet at last, so unexpectedly, with the man I have always most ardently wished to find out. Tell me, dear friend, what must we do?"

"Nothing in the world answered I, "but conjure up in due form that turbulent spirit."

"And will you undertake to perform that difficult dangerous task?"


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 "Why not?"

"And when, dear Sir, do you intend to do me that inestimable favor?"

"The ensuing night if you will consent to it, for without your leave I can do nothing."

"O, that you have! that you have! You may do whatever you please; I will consent to any thing if I can get rid of that infernal disturber of my nocturnal rest."

"I left the credulous man with sensations which sprung from pity rather than exultation, at my easy gotten victory;. I instantly made every preparation for executing my roguish plan, being assisted by the secretary, and having won over to my purpose the servants of the house, every thing succeeded to admiration."


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 "A little before twelve o'clock all the inhabitants of the house resorted to my room, and an intimate friend of mine acted the ghost admirably well: Benumbing perfumes deprived the spectators of the proper use of their senses, and the landlord had previously been made unfit for investigation, by a powder mixed with his wine."

"The ghost appeared, or rather stepped forth, from behind a partition of paper, which I had contrived to make."

"When I asked why he had dared to disturb the tranquillity and the peace of the house, he answered, in a tremulous hollow accent, "Out of resentment against the female sex."

"On my farther inquiries, he related, in short answers, that, a century ago, the cruelty of a lady he had been in love with had driven him to despair, and hurried him into the rash


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 resolution to shut himself up within a cloister's hallowed walls; but, having prophaned his holy order, by entering into it with a worldly heart, polluted by the loose desires of sensual love, he had been condemned to purgatory until a certain condition should be fulfilled."

"All these queries and answers, previously set down in writing and got by heart, produced the desired effect on the blinded mind of the credulous father, who, at length, stammered out the question, "By what means he could be relieved from his torments?" The ghost replied, that he was doomed to suffer the agonies of purgatory, and to haunt his former abode in the midnight hour, until an unhappy couple, separated by a parent's cruel tyranny, should be united in holy wedlock."

"Having related his fictitious tale he disappeared behind the partition of paper, under the cover of a thick smoke, leaving my landlord in a state of mind, which seconded our design to the utmost of our wishes."


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Viner looked over Mr. Pawle's shoulder at the letters—there were numbers of them, all neatly folded and arranged; a faint scent of dried flowers rose from them as the old lawyer spread them out on the desk.

"Which Countess of Ellingham, and which Lord Marketstoke?" asked Viner. "There have been—must have been—several during the last century."

"The Lord Marketstoke I mean is the one who disappeared," answered Mr. Pawle. "We've no concern with any other. Look at these dates! We know that if he were living, he would now be a man of sixty-one or so; therefore, he'd be at school about forty-five years ago. Now, look here," he went on, rapidly turning the letters over. "Compare these dates—they run through two or three years; they were all of forty-three to forty-six years since. You see how they're signed—you see how they're addressed? There's no doubt about it, Viner—this is a collection of letters written by the seventh Countess of Ellingham to her elder son, Lord Marketstoke, when he was at Eton."

"How came they into Ashton's possession, I wonder!" asked Viner.

"It's all of a piece!" exclaimed Mr. Pawle. "All


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 of a piece with Ashton's visit to Marketstoke—all of a piece with the facts that Avice was a favourite name with the Cave-Gray family, and that one of the holders of the title married a Wickham. Viner, there's no doubt whatever—in my mind—that either Ashton was Lord Marketstoke or that he knew the man who was!"

"You remember what Armitstead told us," remarked Viner. "That Ashton told him, in Paris, that he, Ashton, hailed from Lancashire?"

"Then—he knew the missing man, and got these papers from him!" declared the old lawyer. "But why? Ah!—now I have an idea! It may be that Marketstoke, dying out there in Australia, handed these things to Ashton and asked him to give them to some members of the Cave-Gray family—perhaps an aunt, or a cousin, or so on—and that Ashton went down to Marketstoke to find out what relations were still in existence. That may be it—that would solve the problem!"

"No!" said Viner with sudden emphasis. He made sure that the door of the little room was closed, and then went up to the old lawyer's elbow. "Is that really all you can think of?" he asked, with a keen glance. "As for me—why, I'm thinking of something that seems absolutely—obvious!"

"What, then?" demanded Mr. Pawle. "Tell me!"

Viner pointed towards the door.

"Haven't we heard already, that a man named Wickham handed over his daughter Avice to Ashton's care and guardianship?" he asked. "Doesn't that seem to be an established fact?"

"No doubt of it!" assented Mr. Pawle. "Well?"


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 "In my opinion," said Viner, quietly, "Wickham was the missing Lord of Marketstoke!"

Mr. Pawle, who was still turning over the letters, examining their dates, let them slip out of his hands and gasped.

"By George!" he exclaimed in a wondering voice. "It may be—possibly is! Then, in that case, that girl outside there—"

"Well?" asked Viner, after a pause.

Mr. Pawle made a puzzled gesture and shook his head, as if in amazement.

"In that case, if Wickham was the missing Lord Marketstoke, and this girl is his daughter, she's—" He broke off, and became still more puzzled. "Upon my honour," he exclaimed, "I don't know who she is!"

"What do you mean?" asked Viner. "She's his daughter, of course—Wickham's. Only, in that case—I mean, if he was really Lord Marketstoke—her proper name, I suppose, is Cave-Gray."

Mr. Pawle looked his young assistant over with an amused expression.

"You haven't the old practitioner's flair, Viner, my boy!" he said. "When one's got to my age, and seen a number of queer things and happenings, one's quick to see possible cases. Look here!—if Wickham was really Lord Marketstoke, and that girl across the hall is his daughter, she's probably—I say probably, for I don't know if the succession in this case goes with the female line—Countess of Ellingham, in her own right!"

Viner looked his surprise.

"Is that really so—would it be so?" he asked.


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 "It may be—I'm not sure," replied Mr. Pawle. "As I say, I don't know how the succession runs in this particular instance. There are, as you are aware, several peeresses in their own rights—twenty-four or five, at least. Some are very ancient peerages. I know that three—Furnivale and Fauconberg and Conyers—go right back to the thirteenth century; three others—Beaumont, Darcy da Knayth, and Zorch of Haryngworth—date from the fourteenth. I'm not sure of this Ellingham peerage—but I'll find out when I get back to my office. However, granting the premises, and if the peerage does continue in the female line, it will be as I say—this girl's the rightful holder of the title!"

Viner made no immediate answer and Mr. Pawle began to put up the letters in their original wrappings.

"Regular romance, isn't it—if it is so?" he exclaimed. "Extraordinary!"

"Shall you tell her?" asked Viner.

Mr. Pawle considered the direct question while he completed his task.

"No," he said at last, "not at present. She evidently knows nothing, and she'd better be left in complete ignorance for a while. You see, Viner, as I've pointed out to you several times, there isn't a paper or a document of any description extant which refers to her. Nothing in my hands, nothing in the banker's hands, nothing here! And yet, supposing her father, Wickham, to have been Lord Marketstoke, and to have entrusted his secret to Ashton at the same time that he gave him the guardianship of his


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 daughter, he must have given Ashton papers to prove his and her identity—must! Where are they?"

"Do you know what I think?" said Viner. "I think—if I'm to put it in plain language—that Ashton carried those papers on him, and that he was murdered for the possession of them!"

Mr. Pawle nodded, and put the packet of letters in his pocket.

"I shouldn't be surprised," he answered. "It's a very probable theory, my boy. But it presupposes one thing, and makes one horribly suspicious of another."

"Yes?" inquired Viner.

"It presupposes that Ashton let somebody into the secret," replied Mr. Pawle, "and it makes one suspect that the person to whom he did reveal it had such personal interest in suppressing it that he went to the length of murdering Ashton before Ashton could tell it to any one else. How does that strike you, Viner?"

"It's this—and not the diamond!" declared Viner doggedly. "I've a sort of absolute intuition that I'm right."

"I think so too," assented the old lawyer, dryly. "The fifty-thousand-pound diamond is a side-mine. Very well, now we know a lot, you and I. And, we're going to solve matters. And we're not going to say a word to this young lady, at present—that's settled. But I want to ask her some questions—come along."

He led the way across the hall to the dining-room where a reminder of Ashton's death met his and


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 Viner's view as soon as they had crossed the threshold. The funeral was to take place next day, and Mrs. Killenhall and Miss Wickham were contemplating a massive wreath of flowers which had evidently just arrived from the florist's and been deposited on the centre-table.

"All we can do for him, you know!" murmured Mrs. Killenhall, with a glance at the two men. "He—he had so few friends here, poor man!"

"That remark, ma'am," observed Mr. Pawle, "is apropos of a subject that I want to ask Miss Wickham two or three questions about. Friends, now? Miss Wickham, you always understood that Mr. Ashton and your father were very close friends, I believe?"

"I always understood so—yes, Mr. Pawle," replied Miss Wickham.

"Did he ever tell you much about your father?"

"No, very little indeed. He never told me more than that they knew each other very well, in Australia, that my father died out there, comparatively young, and that he left me in his, Mr. Ashton's care."

"Did he ever tell you whether your father left you any money?" demanded the old lawyer.

Miss Wickham looked surprised.

"Oh, yes!" she answered. "I thought you'd know that. My father left me a good deal of money. Didn't Mr. Ashton tell you?"

"Never a word!" said Mr. Pawle. "Now—where is it, then?"

"In my bank," replied Miss Wickham promptly. "The London and Universal. When Mr. Ashton fetched me away from school and brought me here,


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 he told me that he had twelve thousand pounds of mine which my father had left me, and he handed it over to me then and there, and took me to the London and Universal Bank, where I opened an account with it."

"Spent any of it?" asked Mr. Pawle dryly.

"Only a few pounds," answered Miss Wickham.

The old solicitor glanced at Viner, who, while these private matters were being inquired into, was affecting to examine the pictures on the walls.

"Most extraordinary!" he muttered. "All this convinces me that Ashton must have had papers and documents! These must have been—however, we don't know where they are. But there would surely be, for instance, your father's will, Miss Wickham. I suppose you've never seen such a document? No, to be sure! You left all to Ashton. Well, now, do you remember your father?"

"Only just—and very faintly, Mr. Pawle," replied Miss Wickham. "You must remember I was little more than five years old."

"Can you remember what he was like?"

"I think he was a big, tall man—but it's a mere impression."

"Listen!" said Mr. Pawle. "Did you ever, at any time, hear Mr. Ashton make any reference—I'm talking now of the last few weeks—to the Ellingham family, or to the Earl of Ellingham?"

"Never!" replied Miss Wickham. "Never heard of them. He never—"

Mrs. Killenhall was showing signs of a wish to speak, and Mr. Pawle turned to her.

"Have you, ma'am?" he asked.


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 "Yes," said Mrs. Killenhall, "I have! It was one night when Miss Wickham was out—you were at Mrs. Murray-Sinclair's, my dear—and Mr. Ashton and I dined alone. He asked me if I remembered the famous Ellingham case, some years ago—something about the succession to the title—he said he'd read it in the Colonial papers. Of course, I remembered it very well."

"Well, ma'am," said Mr. Pawle, "and what then?"

"I think that was all," answered Mrs. Killenhall. "He merely remarked that it was an odd case, and said no more."

"What made him mention it?" asked Mr. Pawle.

"Oh, we'd been talking about romances of the peerage," replied Mrs. Killenhall. "I had told him of several."

"You're well up in the peerage, ma'am?" suggested the old lawyer.

"I know my Burke and my Debrett pretty thoroughly," said Mrs. Killenhall. "Very interesting, of course."

Mr. Pawle, who was sitting close to Miss Wickham, suddenly pointed to a gold locket which she wore.

"Where did you get that, my dear?" he asked. "Unusual device, isn't it?"

"Mr. Ashton gave it to me, a few weeks ago," answered Miss Wickham. "He said it had belonged to my father."

The old lawyer bent nearer, looked more closely at the locket, and got up.

"Elegant old thing!" he said. "Not made yesterday, that! Well, ladies, you will see me, for this very sad occasion"—he waved a hand at the wreath


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 of flowers—"tomorrow. In the meantime, if there is anything you want done, our young friend here is close at hand. Just now, however, I want him."

"Viner," observed Pawle when they had left the house, "it's very odd how unobservant some people are! Now, there's that woman we've just left, Mrs. Killenhall, who says that she's well up in her Debrett, and her Burke,—and there, seen by her many a time, is that locket which Miss Wickham is wearing, and she's never noticed it! Never, I mean, noticed what's on it. Why, I saw it—and its significance—instantly, just now, which was the first time I'd seen it!"

"What is it that's on it?" asked Viner.

"After we came back from Marketstoke," replied Mr. Pawle, "I looked up the Cave-Gray family and their peerage. That locket bears their device and motto. The device is a closed fist, grasping a handful of blades of wheat; the motto is Have and Hold. Viner, as sure as fate, that girl's father was the missing Lord Marketstoke, and Ashton knew the secret! I'm convinced of it—I'm positive of it. And now see the extraordinary position in which we're all placed. Ashton's dead, and there isn't one scrap of paper to show what it was that he really knew. Nothing—not one written line!"

"Because, as I said before, he was murdered for his papers," affirmed Viner. "I'm sure of that as you are of the rest."

"I dare say you're right," agreed Mr. Pawle. "But, as I've said before, that presupposes that Ashton told somebody the secret. Now—who? Was it the man he was with in Paris? And if so, who is


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 that man? But it's useless speculating. I've made up my mind to a certain course, Viner. Tomorrow, after the funeral, I'm going to call on the present Lord Ellingham—his town house is in Hertford Street, and I know he's in town—and ask him if he has heard anything of a mysterious nature relating to his long-missing uncle. We may hear something—you come with me."

Next day, toward the middle of the afternoon, Mr. Pawle and Viner got out of a taxicab in Park Lane and walked down Hertford Street, the old lawyer explaining the course he was about to take.

"This is a young man—not long come of age," he said. "He'll be quite well acquainted, however, with the family history, and if anything's happened lately, I dare say I can get him to talk. He—What is it?"

Viner had suddenly gripped his companion's arm and pulled him to a halt. He was looking ahead—at the house at which they were about to call. And there, just being shown out by a footman, was the man whom he had seen at the old-fashioned tavern in Notting Hill, and with him a tall, good-looking man whom he had never seen before.


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HE introduction of the Reformation proceeded far more slowly in Sweden than in Denmark. The first impulse was given by, who for three years had been a pupil of Luther and Melanchthon, and who after his return in 1519, supported by his brother and by , began the work of reformation. The latter, who held a prominent office in the church, made the king, Gustav Vasa, acquainted with the new doctrine, and he at once was deeply affected by it, but he also appreciated what great advantages it afforded for the firm establishment of the royal power. The people did not, however, yet feel the need of any reformation of the church, and when the new order of things was adopted at the riksdag at Vesterås in 1527, it met with considerable opposition not only from the Catholic clergy, but also from the lower strata of the population, while the upper classes of society assumed a somewhat indifferent attitude to it. When, in the reign of king Johan (1568-92), great efforts were made to restore the old faith, many deserted the Lutheran doctrine. The latter, nevertheless, gradually increased in strength, and when after the death of Johan it was expected that his son and successor, the Polish king Sigismund, was going to crush out Protestantism, the Swedish people made haste to assemble in Upsala in 1593 and solemnly adopt the Augsburg confession before the new king had landed in Sweden. Sigismund, whether he liked it or not, was compelled to accept the decision of the


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STORY II.] THE PAUPER AND THE PRISONERS. 69 That I may slay the children of my enemies.

From every one who has true faith for food,

And as bread for his provisions by the way,

I take it away by fraud or deceit,

So that they raise bitter cries of regret.

Sometimes I menace them with poverty,[1]

Sometimes I blind their eyes with tresses and moles."

In this prison the food of true faith is scarce,

And by the tricks of this dog what there is is lost.

In spite of prayers and fasts and endless pains,

Our food is altogether devoured by him.

Let us seek refuge with Allah from Satan.

Alas! we are perishing by his insolence.

The dog is one, yet he enters a thousand forms;[2]

Whatever he enters straight becomes himself.

Whatever makes you shiver, know he is in it,-

The Devil is hidden beneath its outward form.

When he finds no form at hand, he enters your thoughts,

To cause them to draw you into sin.

From your thoughts proceeds destruction,

When from time to time evil thoughts occur to you.

Sometimes thoughts of pleasure, sometimes of business,

Sometimes thoughts of science, sometimes of house and home.

Sometimes thoughts of gain and traffic,

Sometimes thoughts of merchandise and wealth.

Sometimes thoughts of money and wives and children,

Sometimes thoughts of wisdom or of sadness.

Sometimes thoughts of household goods and fine linen,

Sometimes thoughts of carpets, sometimes of sweepers.

Sometimes thoughts of mills, gardens, and villas,

Sometimes of clouds and mists and jokes and jests.

Sometimes thoughts of peace and war,

Sometimes thoughts of honour and disgrace.

Ah! cast out of your head these vain imaginations, ¹ Koran ii, 279. Cf. Gulshan i Raz, p. 86.

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Rh national assembly, and the Lutheran religion was henceforth firmly established in Sweden.

The intellectual life that had been awakened by the struggle between the old and the new faith was followed by a literary activity that soon partly abandoned the religious field in which the movement had been inaugurated, and took up other subjects of more or less general interest. Printing had been introduced in Sweden in the latter half of the fifteenth century, and the first book printed in this country was a Latin work about Katarina, a daughter of St. Bergitta (Vita sive legenda cum miraculis Catharinæ), which was published in 1474. But a thoroughly equipped printing press was not established in Stockholm before the year 1491, and in 1495 the first book printed in Swedish appeared, the translation of a Latin work on the temptations of the devil. In 1520 there were already three printing offices, and thus the reformers were in no want of means for spreading among the people attacks on the Catholic church.

The bulk of the literature produced during the period of reformation consisted, as a matter of course, in works. They were partly dogmatical, or books for edification, and partly polemical, and as it was important to awaken a popular interest in this kind of reading, they were for the most part written in Swedish, while the learned literature consisted chiefly in disputations and was written in Latin.

The work of the three reformers mentioned above was of great importance, for especially by their translations of the Bible they laid a solid foundation for the development of a written language. This is particularly true of (1499-1573), who superintended the translation of the whole Bible and did the most of the work himself. This version was published in Upsala in 1540-41, while the New Testament had already appeared in a Swedish translation by (1482-1552) in 1526. Laurentius Petri was also the author of a series of theological works, but in this field he was greatly surpassed by his brother


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 "When the credulous man had recovered a little from his astonishment, I asked him, if he could explain the meaning of the ghost's answer, and whether it was in his power to perform the condition he had hinted at: Upon which he silently nodded to me, and promised to pay me a visit early in the morning, which he did at six o'clock, confessing his cruelty towards his daughter, which he believed had provoked the resentment of the monk, and pleaded the poverty of the young man, and the cool indifference he had treated his daughter with ever since his offers had been rejected."

"Now," added he, I see every thing in its proper light; the ghost has entirely opened my eyes, blinded by avarice: God be praised that the young man has not yet left my house, as he intended to do, for it would then give much room for scandal, if he should marry my daughter, which I am very well convinced cannot be avoided,


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 in Italian. The old lady looked up, nodding her head, then bent over her beans again.

Pete finished his meal. He could still hear her shrill voice from the other room, and he lit a cigarette and strolled out. The old lady hadn’t been watching him, but as soon as he was gone, she got up and removed the plate and washed it and put it away, and then sat down again and picked up her bowl.

“Ready to go, huh?” his brother looked up from the desk. “Here’s the address. Snap it up, now: I told her I’d have it out there by noon.” The bulk of Joe’s business was outside, like this. He had a name for reliability of which he was proud. “Take the Studebaker,” he added.

“That old hack?” Pete paused, protesting. “I'll take your Chrysler.”

“Damn if you will,” his brother rejoined, heating again. “Get on, now; take that Studebaker like I told you,” he said violently. “If you don’t like it, buy one of your own.”

“Ah, shut up.” Pete turned away. Within one of the booths, beyond a partly drawn curtain, he saw her facing the mirror, renewing the paint on her mouth. Beside her stood one of the waiters in his shirtsleeves, holding a mop. She made a swift signal with her hand to his reflection in the glass. He slanted his hat again, without replying.

She was an old hack, beside the fawn-and-nickel splendor of the new Chrysler, but she would go and she’d carry six or seven cases comfortably—the four cases he now had were just peas in a matchbox. He followed the traffic to Canal street, crossed it and fell into the line waiting to turn out St. Charles. The line inched forward, stopped, inched forward again when the bell rang. The policeman at the curb held the line again and Pete sat watching the swarming darting newsboys, and the loafers and shoppers and promenaders, and little colt-

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 if the tranquillity of my house shall be restored."

"In short, the secretary was married to the girl, and the ghost appeared no more."

"This beneficial fraud, for so may I justly call it, the honor, and perhaps the life of the father and daughter, having been saved by it, and the young man, who was sober and industrious, proving a very tender and affectionate husband: This beneficial fraud was the first step, which afterwards led me to ruin and disgrace."

"Possessed of a large stock of knowledge of the human heart, of experience, and art, I was no longer satisfied with confining myself to trifling juggling tricks, but I soon began to act after a more extensive plan: In spite of all the precaution I had taken to keep the above mentioned transaction from the knowledge of the public, it soon transpired with the usual additions, and every body thought me


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 thrusting Jenny forward. “Come on, Pete. Gimme your hat,” she added, offering to take it. Pete refused to surrender it.

“Wait,” the nephew interjected, “I'll get ’em up.” He picked up the thick plate and flipping his grapefruit hull overboard he turned sideways in his chair and hammered a brisk staccato on the deck with the dish.

“Theodore!” his aunt exclaimed for the third time. “Mr. Talliaferro, will you—” Mr. Talliaferro sped toward the companionway, vanished.

“Aw, let the steward go, Aunt Pat,” the niece repeated. “Come on, let’s sit down. Let up, Josh, for God’s sake.”

“Yes, Mrs. Maurier, let’s don’t wait for them,” Mrs. Wiseman abetted, seating herself also. The others followed suit. Mrs. Maurier roved her fretted eyes. “Well,” she submitted at last. Then she remarked Pete, still clutching his hat. “I'll take your hat,” she offered, extending her hand. Pete foiled her quickly.

“Look out,” he said, “I’ve got it.” He moved beyond Jenny and put his hat behind him in his chair. At this moment the gentlemen appeared from below, talking loudly.

“Ah, wretches,” began the hostess with flaccid coquetry, shaking her finger at them. Fairchild was in the lead, burly and jovial, a shade unsteady as to gait. Mr. Talliaferro brought up the rear: he too had now a temporarily emancipated air.

“I guess you thought we’d jumped the ship,” Fairchild suggested, happily apologetic. Mrs. Maurier sought Mr. Talliaferro’s evasive eyes. “We were helping Major Ayers find his teeth,” Fairchild added.

“Tost ’em in that little rabbit hutch where we were,” explained the florid man. “Couldn’t find ’em right off. No teeth, no tiffin, y'know. If you don’t mind?” he murmured

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 to be a sort of supernatural being, and so many opportunities of preying on the credulity of mankind were thrown in my way, that I could not stand the temptations which frequently occured, to profit by the superstition of my fellow creatures."

"I hope you will spare me the distressing task to relate all the transgressions I commited afterwards: Suffice it to say, that a complete account of my frauds would swell many volumes. The few remaining hours of life allotted me, prevent me from relating all the subsequent cheating tricks which I committed, I therefore shall confine myself to the two criminal transactions, by which your friend, the brave Austrian, has been imposed upon; they will afford you ample means of forming a proper idea of those I am obliged to bury in silence."

"I had, for the space of six years, carried on my juggling tricks with so much secresy,


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 politely, seating himself next Mrs. Wiseman. “Ah, grapefruit.” He raised his voice again. “How jolly: seen no grapefruit since we left New Orleans, eh, Julius?”

“Lost his teeth?” repeated Mrs. Maurier, dazed. The niece and her brother regarded the florid man with interest.

“They fell out of his mouth,” Fairchild elaborated, taking the seat next Miss Jameson. “He was laughing at something Julius said, and they fell out of his mouth and somebody kicked ’em under the bunk, you see. What was it you said, Julius?”

Mr. Talliaferro essayed to seat himself beside the florid man. Mrs. Maurier again sought his eye, forced him and vanquished him with bright command. He rose and went to the chair next to her, and she leaned toward him, sniffing. “Ah, Mr. Talliaferro,” she murmured with playful implacability, “naughty, naughty.”

“Just a nip—they were rather insistent,” Mr. Talliaferro apologized.

“You men, you naughty men. I'll forgive you, however, this once,” she answered. “Do ring, please.”

The Semitic man’s flaccid face and dark compassionate eyes presided at the head of the table. Gordon stood for a time after the others were seated, then he came and took the seat between Mrs. Maurier and her niece, with abrupt arrogance. The niece looked up briefly. “Hello, Blackbeard.” Mrs. Maurier smiled at him automatically. She said:

“Listen, people. Mr. Talliaferro is going to make an announcement. About promptness,” she added to Mr. Talliaferro, putting her hand on his sleeve.

“Ah, yes. I say, you chaps almost missed lunch. We were not going to wait on you. The lunch hour is half after twelve, hereafter, and every one must be present promptly. Ship’s discipline, you know. Eh, Commodore?”

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 The hostess corroborated. “You must be good children,” she added with playful relief, looking about her table. Her worried expression returned. “Why, there’s an empty place. Who isn’t here?” She roved her eyes in growing alarm. “Some one isn’t here,” she repeated. She had a brief and dreadful vision of having to put back short one guest, of inquest and reporters and headlines, and of floating inert buttocks in some lonely reach of the lake, that would later wash ashore with that mute inopportune implacability of the drowned. The guests stared at one another, then at the vacant place, then at one another again. Mrs. Maurier tried to call a mental roll, staring at each in turn. Presently Miss Jameson said:

“Why, it’s Mark, isn’t it?”

It was Mark. They had forgotten him. Mrs. Maurier dispatched the steward, who found the ghostly poet still at full length on the upper deck. He appeared in his ironed serge, bathing them briefly in his pale gaze.

“You gave us rather a turn, my dear fellow,” Mr. Talliaferro informed him with reproof, taking upon himself the duties of host.

“I wondered how long it would be before some one saw fit to notify me that lunch was ready,” the poet replied with cold dignity, taking his seat.

Fairchild, watching him, said abruptly: “Say, Julius, Mark’s the very man for Major Ayers, ain’t he? Say, Major, here’s a man to take your first bottle. Tell him about your scheme.”

The florid man regarded the poet affably. “Ah, yes. It’s a salts, you see. You spoon a bit of it into your—”

“A what?” asked the poet, poising his spoon and staring at the florid man. The others all poised their tools and stared at the florid man.

“A salts,” he explained. “Like our salts at home, y’know—”

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 “A—?” repeated Mrs. Maurier. Mr. Talliaferro’s eyes popped mildly.

“All Americans are constipated,” the florid man continued blithely, “do with a bit of salts in a tumbler of water in the morning. Now, my scheme is—”

“Mr. Talliaferro!” Mrs. Maurier implored. Mr. Talliaferro girded himself anew.

“My dear sir,” he began.

“—is to put the salts up in a tweaky phial, a phial that will look well on one’s night table: a jolly design of some sort. All Americans will buy it. Now, the population of your country is several millions, I fancy; and when you take into consideration the fact that all Americans are con—”

“My dear sir,” said Mr. Talliaferro, louder.

“Eh?” said the florid man, looking at him.

“What kind of a jar will you put ’em in?” asked the nephew, his mind taking fire.

“Some tweaky sort of thing that all Americans will buy—”

“The American flag and a couple of doves holding dollar marks in their bills, and a handle that when you pull it out, it’s a corkscrew,” suggested Fairchild. The florid man glared at him with interest and calculation.

“Or,” the Semitic man suggested, “a small condensed table for calculating interest on one side and a good recipe for beer on the other.” The florid man glared at him with interest.

“That’s just for men,” Mrs. Wiseman said. “How about the women’s trade?”

“A bit of mirror would do for them, don’t you think?” the florid man offered, “surrounded by a design in colors, eh?”

Mrs. Wiseman gave him a murderous glance and the poet added:

“And a formula for preventing conception and a secret place

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 that few of my criminal deeds were known. Although I had been betrayed several times by my associates, and reprimanded by my superiors, yet I always suffered myself to be blinded by the too powerful charms of gold and false ambition, and was ever ready to lend my assistance to deeds of the blackest hue."

"One day the widow of an honest citizen sent for me, and, having bribed me by some pieces of gold, requested me to assist her in the execution of a most criminal design."

"Her husband, lately deceased, so she told me, had promised her daughter in marriage to a man, whom she could not suffer to become her son-in-law, because he had behaved very disrespectfully towards her while her husband had been living, and scorned to apply for her consent; moreover, she told me, he was a lazy drunkard and a gambler; in one word, a good-for-nothing fellow."


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 for hairpins.” The hostess moaned, Mr. Talliaferro! Mrs. Wiseman said savagely:

“I have a better idea than that, for both sexes: your photograph on one side and the golden rule on the other.” The florid man glared at her with interest. The nephew broke in once more:

“I mean, have you invented a jar yet, invented a way to get the stuff out of the jar?”

“Oh, yes. I’ve done that. You spoon it out, you know.”

“But tell ’em how you know all Americans are constipated,” Fairchild suggested. Mrs. Maurier rang the service bell furiously and at length. The steward appeared and as he removed the plates and replaced them with others, the florid man leaned nearer Mrs. Wiseman.

“What’s that chap?” he asked indicating Mr. Talliaferro.

“What is he?” Mrs. Wiseman repeated. “Why— I think he sells things downtown. Doesn’t he, Julius?” She appealed to her brother.

“I mean, what—ah—race does he belong to?”

“Oh. You’d noticed his accent, then?”

“Yes. I noticed he doesn’t talk like Americans. I thought perhaps he is one of your natives.”

“One of our—?” She stared at him.

“Your red Indians, y’know,” he explained.

Mrs. Maurier rang her little bell again, sort of chattering to herself.

Mrs. Maurier put an end to that luncheon as soon as she decently could. If I can only break them up, get them into a bridge game, she thought in an agony. It had got to where every time one of the gentlemen made the precursory sound of speech, Mrs. Maurier flinched and cringed nearer Mr. Tallia-

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xx —We go crazy from Want of Food—Proposal to eat No. 3—Land Ahoy.’ Such are two chapters out of sixteen. Are these again your javelins cutting tunes in the blue haze of the pines; do you sweat as you scale the dreadful Valley of Rolling Stones, and cleanse your hands of pirate blood by scouring them carelessly in Mother Earth? Can you still make a fire (you could do it once, Mr. Seton-Thompson taught us in, surely an odd place, the Reform Club) by rubbing those sticks together? Was it the travail of hut-building that subsequently advised Peter to find a ‘home under the ground’? The bottle and mugs in that lurid picture, ‘Last night on the Island,’ seem to suggest that you had changed from Lost Boys into pirates, which was probably also a tendency of Peter’s. Listen again to our stolen saw-mill, man’s proudest invention; when he made the saw-mill he beat the birds for music in a wood.

The illustrations (full-paged) in The Boy Castaways are all photographs taken by myself; some of them indeed of phenomena that had to be invented afterwards, for you were always off

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text: Mosquitoes (Faulkner)/Prologue

title: Mosquitoes (Faulkner)/Prologue


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Rh doing the wrong things when I pressed the button. I see that we combined instruction with amusement; perhaps we had given our kingly word to that effect. How otherwise account for such wording to the pictures as these: ‘It is undoubtedly,’ says No. 1 in a fir tree that is bearing unwonted fruit, recently tied to it, ‘the Cocos nucifera, for observe the slender columns supporting the crown of leaves which fall with a grace that no art can imitate.’ ‘Truly,’ continues No. 1 under the same tree in another forest as he leans upon his trusty gun, ‘though the perils of these happenings are great, yet would I rejoice to endure still greater privations to be thus rewarded by such wondrous studies of Nature.’ He is soon back to the practical, however, ‘recognising the Mango (Magnifera indica) by its lancet-shaped leaves and the cucumber-shaped fruit.’ No. 1 was certainly the right sort of voyager to be wrecked with, though if my memory fails me not, No. 2, to whom these strutting observations were addressed, sometimes protested because none of them was given to him. No. 3 being the

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text: Mosquitoes (Faulkner)

title: Mosquitoes (Faulkner)


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324 (1497-1552). The "Liten Postilla" written by the latter became widely circulated, and by many of his literary productions he laid the foundation of the form of worship still in use in the Swedish church.

By the side of the theological literature history occupied a prominent position during this period. Though the historians were wanting in scientific skill, still it was already at that time evident that the Swedes in an eminent degree deserved to be called a historical nation, which keenly appreciates the great deeds of the fathers, and which is upon the whole thoroughly in sympathy with the recollections of the past. This fact has contributed much toward giving a peculiar stamp to Swedish literature. The unpleasant relations between Sweden and Denmark during the whole period of the union, and the rupture which afterward took place, aided materially in arousing a national sentiment among the Swedes, which, especially during the reign of the great kings of the seventeenth century, when Sweden occupied a high position among the European nations, was greatly developed and asserted itself in a most striking manner in the national literature.

The first attempt at historical criticism was made by, the reformer mentioned above, who, like his brother Laurentius, wrote a Swedish chronicle. This criticism was mainly directed against the tendency which had already manifested itself in the way of exaggerating the antiquity of Sweden and its ancient importance, and which is rather to be ascribed to an unbridled fancy and want of critical methods than to any wilful perversion of historical truth. In a later period we shall find prominent representatives of this tendency, which owed its origin to an intense patriotism, a leading trait in the Swedish character, and which on this very account was well nigh incorrigible. The most remarkable instance of this phantastic historiography in this period


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xxii author is in surprisingly few of the pictures, but this, you may remember, was because the lady already darkly referred to used to pluck him from our midst for his siesta at 12 o’clock, which was the hour that best suited the camera. With a skill on which he has never been complimented the photographer sometimes got No. 3 nominally included in a wild-life picture when he was really in a humdrum house kicking on the sofa. Thus in a scene representing Nos. 1 and 2 sitting scowling outside the hut it is untruly written that they scowled because ‘their brother was within singing and playing on a barbaric instrument. The music,’ the unseen No. 3 is represented as saying (obviously forestalling No. 1), ‘is rude and to a cultured ear discordant, but the songs like those of the Arabs are full of poetic imagery.’ He was perhaps allowed to say this sulkily on the sofa.

Though The Boy Castaways has sixteen chapter-headings, there is no other letterpress; an absence which possible purchasers might complain of, though there are surely worse ways of writing a book than this. These headings

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Rh anticipate much of the play of Peter Pan, but there were many incidents of our Kensington Gardens days that never get into the book, such as our Antarctic exploits when we reached the Pole in advance of our friend Captain Scott and cut our initials on it for him to find, a strange foreshadowing of what was really to happen. In The Boy Castaways Captain Hook has arrived but is called Captain Swarthy, and he seems from the pictures to have been a black man. This character, as you do not need to be told, is held by those in the know to be autobiographical. You had many tussels with him (though you never, I think, got his right arm) before you reached the terrible chapter (which might be taken from the play) entitled ‘We Board the Pirate Ship at Dawn—A Rakish Craft—No. 1 Hew-them-Down and No. 2 of the Red Hatchet—A Holocaust of Pirates—Rescue of Peter.’ (Hullo, Peter rescued instead of rescuing others? I know what that means and so do you, but we are not going to give away all our secrets.) The scene of the Holocaust is the Black Lake (afterwards, when we let women in, the Mermaids’

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xxiv Lagoon). The pirate captain’s end was not in the mouth of a crocodile though we had crocodiles on the spot (‘while No. 2 was removing the crocodiles from the stream No. 1 shot a few parrots, Psittacidae, for our evening meal’). I think our captain had divers deaths owing to unseemly competition among you, each wanting to slay him single-handed. On a special occasion, such as when No. 3 pulled out the tooth himself, you gave the deed to him, but took it from him while he rested. The only pictorial representation in the book of Swarthy’s fate is in two parts. In one, called briefly ‘We string him up,’ Nos. 1 and 2, stern as Athos, are hauling him up a tree by a rope, his face snarling as if it were a grinning mask (which indeed it was), and his garments very like some of my own stuffed with bracken. The other, the same scene next day, is called ‘The Vultures had Picked him Clean,’ and tells its own tale.

The dog in The Boy Castaways seems never to have been called Nana but was evidently in training for that post. He originally belonged to Swarthy (or to Captain Marryat?), and the

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Rh first picture of him, lean, skulking, and hunched (how did I get that effect?), ‘patrolling the island’ in that monster’s interests, gives little indication of the domestic paragon he was to become. We lured him away to the better life, and there is, later, a touching picture, a clear forecast of the Darling nursery, entitled ‘We trained the dog to watch over us while we slept.’ In this he also is sleeping, in a position that is a careful copy of his charges; indeed any trouble we had with him was because, once he knew he was in a story, he thought his safest course was to imitate you in everything you did. How anxious he was to show that he understood the game, and more generous than you, he never pretended that he was the one who killed Captain Swarthy. I must not imply that he was entirely without initiative, for it was his own idea to bark warningly a minute or two before twelve o’clock as a signal to No. 3 that his keeper was probably on her way for him (Disappearance of No. 3); and he became so used to living in the world of Pretend that when we reached the hut of a morning he was often there

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 by—you cannot better testify your admiration of their beautiful form and colour than by kissing them at once. My uncle did so, and I honour him for it.

Hark!' cried the young lady, starting. The noise of wheels and horses!'

So it is,' said my uncle, listening. He had a good ear for wheels, and the trampling of hoofs; but there appeared to be so many horses and carriages rattling towards them, from a distance, that it was impossible to form a guess at their number. The sound The sound was like that of fifty breaks, with six blood cattle in each.

We are pursued!' cried the young lady, clasping her hands. We are pursued. I have no hope but in you!'

"There was such an expression of terror in her beautiful face, that my uncle made up his mind at once. He lifted her into the coach, told her not to be frightened, pressed his lips to hers once more, and then advising her to draw the window to keep the cold air out, mounted to the box.

Stay, love,' cried the young lady.

What's the matter?' said my uncle, from the coach-box.

I want to speak to you,' said the young lady; 'only a word. Only one word, dearest."

Must I get down?' inquired my uncle. The lady made no answer, but she smiled again. Such a smile, gentlemen! It beat the other one, all to nothing. My uncle descended from his perch in a twinkling.

What is it, my dear?' said my uncle, looking in at the coach window. The lady happened The lady happened to bend forward at the same time, and my uncle thought she looked more beautiful than she had done yet. He was very close to her just then, gentlemen, so he really ought to know.

What is it, my dear?' said my uncle.

Will you never love any one but me; never marry any one beside?' said the young lady.

"My uncle swore a great oath that he never would marry any body else, and the young lady drew in her head,


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 and the exertion of sticking the young Marquess of Filletoville, she sunk into my uncle's arms. My uncle caught her up, and bore her to the house-door. There stood the mail, with four long-tailed, flowing-maned, black horses, ready harnessed; but no coachman, no guard, no hostler even, at the horses' heads.

"Gentlemen, I hope I do no injustice to my uncle's memory, when I express my opinion, that although he was a bachelor, he had held some ladies in his arms, before this time; I believe indeed, that he had rather a habit of kissing barmaids; and I know, that in one or two instances, he had been seen by credible witnesses, to hug a landlady in a very perceptible manner. I mention the circumstance, to show what a very uncommon sort of person this beautiful young lady must have been, to have affected my uncle in the way she did; he used to say, that as her long dark hair trailed over his arm, and her beautiful dark eyes fixed themselves upon his face when she recovered, he felt so strange and nervous that his legs trembled beneath him. But, who can look in a sweet soft pair of dark eyes, without feeling queer? I can't, gentlemen. I am afraid to look at some eyes I know, and that's the truth of it.

You will never leave me,' murmured the young lady.

Never,' said my uncle. And he meant it too.

My dear preserver!' exclaimed the young lady. 'My dear, kind, brave preserver!'

Don't,' said my uncle, interrupting her.

Why?' inquired the young lady.

Because your mouth looks so beautiful when you speak,' rejoined my uncle, 'that I'm afraid I shall be rude enough to kiss it."

"The young lady put up her hand as if to caution my uncle not to do so, and said—no, she didn't say anything—she smiled. When you are looking at a pair of the most delicious lips in the world, and see them gently break into a roguish smile—if you are very near them, and nobody else


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 ferro. At least she could depend on him, provided But she was going to do the providing in his case. They had discussed Major Ayers' salts throughout the meal. Eva Wiseman had turned renegade and abetted them, despite the atmosphere of reproof Mrs. Maurier had tried to foster and support. And, on top of all this, the strange young man had the queerest manner of using knife and fork. Mr. Fairchild’s way was—well, uncouth; but after all, one must pay a price for Art. Jenny, on the other hand, had an undeniable style, feeding herself with her little finger at a rigid and elegant angle from her hand. And now Fairchild was saying:

“Now here’s a clean case of poetic justice for you. A hundred odd years ago Major Ayers’ grandpa wants to come to New Orleans, but our grandfathers stop him down yonder in those Chalmette swamps and lick hell out of him. And now Major Ayers comes into the city itself and conquers it with a laxative so mild that, as he says, you don’t even notice it. Hey, Julius?”

“It also confounds all the old convictions regarding the irreconcilability of science and art,” the Semitic man suggested.

“Huh?” said Fairchild. “Oh, sure. That’s right. Say, he certainly ought to make Al Jackson a present of a bottle, oughtn’t he?”

The thin poet groaned sepulchrally. Major Ayers repeated:

“Al Jackson?”

The steward removed the cloth. The table was formed of a number of card tables; by Mrs. Maurier’s direction he did not remove these. She called him to her, whispered to him: he went below.

“Why, didn’t you ever hear of Al Jackson?” asked Fairchild in unctuous surprise. “He’s a funny man, a direct descendant of Old Hickory that licked you folks in 1812, he claims. He’s quite a character in New Orleans.” The other

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xxvi waiting for us, looking, it is true, rather idiotic, but with a new bark he had invented which puzzled us until we decided that he was demanding the password. He was always willing to do any extra jobs, such as becoming the tiger in mask, and when after a fierce engagement you carried home that mask in triumph, he joined in the procession proudly and never let on that the trophy had ever been part of him. Long afterwards he saw the play from a box in the theatre, and as familiar scenes were unrolled before his eyes I have never seen a dog so bothered. At one matinee we even let him for a moment take the place of the actor who played Nana, and I don’t know that any members of the audience ever noticed the change, though he introduced some ‘business’ that was new to them but old to you and me. Heigh-ho, I suspect that in this reminiscence I am mixing him up with his successor, for such a one there had to be, the loyal Newfoundland who, perhaps in the following year, applied, so to say, for the part by bringing hedgehogs to the hut in his mouth as offerings for our evening repasts.

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 strength that was irresistible, made his adversary retreat in the same direction, and plunging the old rapier into the very centre of a large red flower in the pattern of his waistcoat, nailed him beside his friend; there they both stood, gentlemen, jerking their arms and legs about, in agony, like the toy-shop figures that are moved by a piece of packthread. My uncle always said, afterwards, that this was one of the surest means he knew of, for disposing of an enemy; but it was liable to one objection on the ground of expense, inasmuch as it involved the loss of a sword for every man disabled.

The mail, the mail!' cried the lady, running up to my uncle and throwing her beautiful arms round his neck; 'we may yet escape.

May! ' cried my uncle; 'why, my dear, there's nobody else to kill, is there?' My uncle was rather disappointed, gentlemen, for he thought a little quiet bit of love-making would be agreeable after the slaughtering, if it were only to change the subject.

We have not an instant to lose here,' said the young lady. 'He (pointing to the young gentleman in sky-blue) is the only son of the powerful Marquess of Filletoville.'

Well, then, my dear, I'm afraid he'll never come to the title,' said my uncle, looking coolly at the young gentleman as he stood fixed up against the wall, in the cockchafer fashion I have described. You have cut off the entail, my love."

I have been torn from my home and friends by these villains,' said the young lady, her features glowing with indignation. 'That wretch would have married me by violence in another hour."

Confound his impudence!' said my uncle, bestowing a very contemptuous look on the dying heir of Filletoville.

As you may guess from what you have seen,' said the young lady, 'the party were prepared to murder me if I appealed to any one for assistance. If their accomplices find us here, we are lost. Two minutes hence may be too late. The mail!' With these words, overpowered by her feelings,


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Rh The head and coat of him were copied for the Nana of the play.

They do seem to be emerging out of our island, don’t they, the little people of the play, all except that sly one, the chief figure, who draws farther and farther into the wood as we advance upon him? He so dislikes being tracked, as if there were something odd about him, that when he dies he means to get up and blow away the particle that will be his ashes.

Wendy has not yet appeared, but she has been trying to come ever since that loyal nurse cast the humorous shadow of woman upon the scene and made us feel that it might be fun to let in a disturbing element. Perhaps she would have bored her way in at last whether we wanted her or not. It may be that even Peter did not really bring her to the Never Land of his free will, but merely pretended to do so because she would not stay away. Even Tinker Bell had reached our island before we left it. It was one evening when we climbed the wood carrying No. 4 to show him what the trail was like by twilight. As our lanterns twinkled among the

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 guests all listened to Fairchild with a sort of noncommittal attention. “You can always tell him because he wears congress boots all the time—”

“Congress boots?” murmured Major Ayers, staring at him. Fairchild explained, raising his foot above the level of the table to demonstrate.

“Sure. On the street, at formal gatherings, even in evening dress he wears ’em. He even wears ’em in bathing.”

“In bathing? I say.” Major Ayers stared at the narrator with his round china-blue eyes.

“Sure. Won’t let any one see him barefoot. A family deformity, you see. Old Hickory himself had it: that’s the reason he outfought the British in those swamps. He’d never have whipped ’em otherwise. When you get to town, go down to Jackson square and look at that statue of the old fellow. He’s got on congress boots.” He turned to the Semitic man. “By the way, Julius, you remember about Old Hickory’s cavalry, don’t you?” The Semitic man was noncommittal, and Fairchild continued:

“Well, the old general bought a place in Florida. A stock farm, they told him it was, and he gathered up a bunch of mountaineers from his Tennessee place and sent ’em down there with a herd of horses. Well, sir, when they got there they found the place was pretty near all swamp. But they were hardy folks, so they lit right in to make the best of it. In the meantime—”

“Doing what?” asked the nephew.

“Huh?” said Fairchild.

“What were they going to do in Florida? That’s what we all want to know,” Mrs. Wiseman said.

“Sell real estate to the Indians,” the Semitic man suggested. Major Ayers stared at him with his little blue eyes.

“No, they were going to run a dude ranch for the big

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 threatening aspect. "Who do you suppose will ever employ a professional man, when they see his boy playing at marbles in the gutter, or flying the garter in the horse-road? Have you no feeling for your profession, you groveller? Did you leave all the medicine?"

"Yes, sir."

"The powders for the child, at the large house with the family, and the pills to be taken four times a day at the ill-tempered old gentleman's with the gouty leg?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then shut the door, and mind the shop."

"Come," said Mr. Winkle, as the boy retired, "things are not quite so bad as you would have me believe, either. There is some medicine to be sent out."

Mr. Bob Sawyer peeped into the shop to see that no stranger was within hearing, and leaning forward to Mr. Winkle, said, in a low tone:

"He leaves it all at the wrong houses."

Mr. Winkle looked perplexed, and Bob Sawyer and his friend laughed.

"Don't you see?" said Bob. "He goes up to a house, rings the area bell, pokes a packet of medicine without a direction into the servant's hand, and walks off. takes it into the dining-parlour; master opens it, and reads the label: 'Draught to be taken at bed-time—pills as before—lotion as usual—the powder. From Sawyer's, late Nockemorf's. Physicians' prescriptions carefully prepared,' and all the rest of it. Shows it to his wife—she reads the label; it goes down to the servants—they read the label. Next day, boy calls: 'Very sorry—his mistake—immense business—great many parcels to deliver—Mr. Sawyer's compliments—late Nockemorf.' The name gets known, and that's the thing, my boy, in the medical way. Bless your heart, old fellow, it's better than all the advertising in the world. We have got one four-ounce bottle that's been to half the houses in Bristol, and hasn't done yet."


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 hotels at Palm Beach,” Fairchild told them. “And in the meantime some of these horses strayed off into the swamps, and in some way the breed got crossed with alligators. And so, when Old Hickory found he was going to have to fight his battle down there in those Chalmette swamps, he sent over to his Florida place and had ’em round up as many of those half-horse half-alligators as they could, and he mounted some of his infantry on ’em and the British couldn’t stop ’em at all. The British didn’t know Florida—”

“That’s true,” the Semitic man put in. “There were no excursions then.”

“and they didn’t even know what the things were, you see.”

Major Ayers and Mrs. Maurier stared at Fairchild in quiet childlike astonishment. “Go on,” said Major Ayers at last, “you're pulling my leg.”

“No, no: ask Julius. But then, it is kind of hard for a foreigner to get us. Were a simple people, we Americans, kind of childlike and hearty. And you’ve got to be both to cross a horse on an alligator and then find some use for him, you know. That’s part of our national temperament, Major. You'll understand it better when you’ve been among us longer. Won’t he, Julius?”

“Yes, he'll be able to get us all right when he’s been in America long enough to acquire our customs. It’s the custom that makes the man, you know.”

“Ah, yes,” said Major Ayers, blinking at him. “But there’s one of your customs I’ll not be able to acquire: your habit of eating apple tarts. We don’t have apple tarts at home, y’know. No Englishman nor Welshman nor Scot will eat an apple tart.”

“You don’t?” repeated Fairchild. “Why, I seem to remember—”

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 the shop, and demonstrating the veracity of the assertion by divers hard pulls at the little gilt knobs on the counterfeit drawers. "Hardly anything real in the shop but the leeches, and they are second-hand."

"I shouldn't have thought it!" exclaimed Mr. Winkle, much surprised.

"I hope not," replied Bob Sawyer, "else where's the use of appearances, eh? But what will you take? Do as we do? That's right. Ben, my fine fellow, put your hand into the cupboard, and bring out the patent digester."

Mr. Benjamin Allen smiled his readiness, and produced from the closet at his elbow a black bottle half full of brandy.

"You don't take water, of course?" said Bob Sawyer.

"Thank you," replied Mr. Winkle. "It's rather early. I should like to qualify it, if you have no objection."

"None in the least, if you can reconcile it to your conscience," replied Bob Sawyer; tossing off, as he spoke, a glass of the liquor with great relish. "Ben, the pipkin!"

Mr. Benjamin Allen drew forth, from the same hidingplace, a small brass pipkin, which Bob Sawyer observed he prided himself upon, particularly because it looked so businesslike. The water in the professional pipkin having been made to boil, in course of time, by various little shovelsfull of coal, which Mr. Bob Sawyer took out of a practicable window-seat, labelled "Soda Water," Mr. Winkle adulterated his brandy; and the conversation was becoming general, when it was interrupted by the entrance into the shop of a boy, in a sober grey livery and a gold-laced hat, with a'sınall covered basket under his arm: whom Mr. Bob Sawyer immediately hailed with, "Tom, you vagabond, come here."

The boy presented himself accordingly.

"You've been stopping to over all the posts in Bristol, you idle young scamp!" said Mr. Bob Sawyer.

"No, sir, I haven't," replied the boy.

"You had better not!" said Mr. Bob Sawyer, with a


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 the same white paint, were traced the words "Sawyer, late Nockemorf."

"It never caught my eye," returned Mr. Winkle.

"Lord, if I had known who you were, I should have rushed out, and caught you in my arms," said Bob Sawyer; "but upon my life, I thought you were the King's-taxes."

"No!" said Mr. Winkle.

"I did, indeed," responded Bob Sawyer, "and I was just going to say that I wasn't at home, but if you'd leave a message I'd be sure to give it to myself; for he don't know me; no more does the Lighting and Paving. I think the Church-rates guesses who I am, and I know the Water-works does, because I drew a tooth of his when I first came down here. But in, come in!" Chattering in this way, Mr. Bob Sawyer pushed Mr. Winkle into the back room, where, amusing himself by boring little circular caverns in the chimney-piece with a red-hot poker, sat no less a person than Mr. Benjamin Allen.

"Well!" said Mr. Winkle. "This is indeed a pleasure I did not expect. What a very nice place you have here!"

"Pretty well, pretty well," replied Bob Sawyer. "I passed, soon after that precious party, and my friends came down with the needful for this business; so I put on a black suit of clothes, and a pair of spectacles, and came here to look as solemn as I could."

"And a very snug little business you have, no doubt?" said Mr. Winkle, knowingly.

"Very," replied Bob Sawyer. "So snug, that at the end of a few years you might put all the profits in a wine glass, and cover 'em over with a gooseberry leaf."

"You cannot surely mean that?" said Mr. Winkle. "The stock itself—"

"Dummies, my dear boy," said Bob Sawyer; "half the drawers have nothing in 'em, and the other half don't open."

"Nonsense!" said Mr. Winkle.

"Fact—honor!" returned Bob Sawyer, stepping out into