: ? i^x K . I 'v UCSS UtiHhgX ,..«*- -,^<. ^/ 'ff^ Little Classics. " A series of exquisitely printed little volumes in flexible binditig and red edges, which gather up the very choicest things in our literature in the way of short tales and sketches.'''' — Buffalo Courier. The Series includes 18 volumes, as follows : HEROISM. FORTUNE. NARRATIVE POEMS. LYRICAL POEMS. MINOR POEMS. NATURE. HUMANITY. A UTHORS. EXILE. INTELLECT. TRAGEDY. LIFE. LA UGHTER. LOVE. ROMANCE. MYSTERY. COMEDY. CHILDHOOD. i8 volumes, red edges, $i.oo each. The set in box, cloth, $18.00 ; half calf, or half morocco, $45.00. The Same : Two volumes in one, 9 vols., i6mo, in box, cloth, $13.50; half calf, $27.00; tree calf, $40.50. " No more delightful reading can be conceived than the polished and attractive papers that are selected for this series." — Boston Gazette. " Too much praise cannot be accorded the projectors of this work. It lays, for a very small sum, the cream of the best writers before the reader of average means. It usually happens that very few, except professional f)eople and scholars, care to read all that even the most amous men have written. They want his best work, — the one people talk most about, — and when they have read that they are satisfied." — N. Y. Cotn. Advertiser. *#* For sale by Booksellers. Sent, post-paid, on re- ceipt 0/ price, by the Publishers, HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO., Boston, Mass. ^eucntl) IDolume. Little Classics. EDITED BY ROSSITER JOHNSON, ROMANCE IRIS. — THE ROSICRUCIAN. THE SOUTH BREAKER. THE SNOW-STORM. THE KING OF THE PEAK. BOSTON; HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY. Copyright, 1875. By JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO. CAMDRIDGE : PRINTED AT THE RIVERSIDE PRESS ^^^^S3 CONTENTS. Iris Page Oliver Wendell Hohnes . . 7 The RosICRUCIAN . . . Dmak Maria Miilock Craik . 83 The South Breaker . . Harriei Prescott Spofford . . 115 The Sx\o\v-STCR'i . . . joim wihou 184 The King of the Peak. . Allan Cunningkum . . . 206 IRIS. FROM "the professor AT THE BREAKFAST-TABLE. BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. pjl TOLD you that I was perfectly sure, before- hand, we should find some pleasing girlish or womanly shape to fill the blank at our table and match the dark-haired youth at the upper corner. There she sits, at the very opposite corner, just as far off as accident could put her from this handsome fellow, by whose side she ought, of course, to be sitting. One of the " positive " blondes, as my friend, you may remem- ber, used to call them. Tawny-haired, amber-eyed, full- throated, skin as white as a blanched almond. Looks dreamy to me, not self-conscious, though a black ribbon round her neck sets it off as a Marie-Antoinette's dia- mond-necklace could not do. So in her dress, there is a Imrmony of tints that looks as if an artist had run his eye over her and given a hint or two like the finishing touch to a picture. I can't help being struck with her, for she is at once rounded and fine in feature, looks calm, as (5 LITTLE CLASSICS. blondes are apt to, and as if she iniglit run wild, if she were trifled with. — It is just as I knew it would be, — and anybody can see that our young Marylander will be dead in love with her in a week. Then if that little man would only turn out immensely rich and have the good-nature to die and leave them all his money, it would be as nice as a three-volume novel. The Little Gentleman is in a flurry, I suspect, with the excitement of having such a charming neighbor next him. I judge so mainly by his silence and_ by a certain rapt and serious look on his hice, as if he were thinking of something that had happened, or that might happen, or that ought to happen, — or how beautiful her young life looked, or how hardly Nature had dealt with him, or something which struck him silent, at any rate. I made several conversational openings for him, but he did not fire up as he often does. I even went so far as to in- dulge in a fling at the State House, which, as we all know, is in truth a very imposing structure, covering less ground than St. Peter's, but of similar general eff'ect- The little man looked up, but did not reply to my taunt. He said to the young lady, however, that the State House was the Parthenon of our Acropolis, which seemed to please her, for she smiled, and he reddened a little, — so I thouglit. I don't think it right to watch persons who are the subjects of special infirmity, — but we all do it. I sec that they have crowded the chairs a little at that end of the table, to make room for anollur new-comer of the lady sort. A wcll-uiounted, middle-aged preparation, wearing her hair without a cap, — pretty wide in the IRIS. 9 parting, tliougli, — contours vaguely hiuted, — features very quiet, — says little as yet, but seems to keep lier eye on the young lady, as if having some responsibility for her. II. You remember, perhaps, in some papers published awhile ago, an odd poem written by an old Latin tutor ? He brought up at the verb amo, I love, as all of us do, and by and by Nature opened her great livmg dictionary for him at the word jiUa, a daughter. The poor man was greatly perplexed in choosing a name for her. Lu- cretia and Virginia were the first that he thought of; but then came up those pictured stories of Titus Livius, which he could never read without crying, though he had read them a hundred times. Lucretia sending for her husband and her father, each to bring one friend with him, and awaiting them in her chamber. To them her wrongs briefly. Let them see to the wretch, — she will take care of herself. Then the hidden knife flashes out and sinks into her heart. She slides from her seat, and falls dying. "Her husband and her father cry aloud." — No, — not Lucretia. — Yirginius, — a brown old soldier, father of a nice girl. She engaged to a very promising young man. Decemvir Appius takes a violent fancy to her, — must have her at any rate. Hires a lawyer to present the ar- guments in favor of the view that she was another man's daughter. There used to be lawyers in Rome that Avould do such tilings. — All right. There are two sides to everything. Audi alteram partem. The legal gentleman 10 LITTLE CLASSlCSc has no opiuiou, — lie only states the evidence. — A doubt- ful case. Let the young lady be under the protection of the Honorable Decemvir until it can be looked up thor- oughly. — Father thinks it best, on the whole, to give in. Will explain the matter, if the young lady and her maid mil step this vray. That is the explanation, — a stab with a butcher's knife, snatched from a stall, meant for other lambs than this poor bleeding Virginia ! The old man thought over the story. Then he must have one look at the original. So he took down the first volume and read it over. When he came to that part where it tells how the young gentleman she was engaged to and a friend of his took up the poor girl's bloodless shape and carried it through the street, and how all the women followed, wailiug, and asking if tliat was what their daughters were coming to, — if that was what they were to get for being good girls, — he melted down into liis accustomed tears of pity and grief, and, through them all, of delight at the cliariuing Latin of the narrative. But it was impossible to call his child Virginia. He could never look at her without thinking she had a knife sticking in her bosom. Dido would be a good name, and a fresh one. She was a queen, and the founder of a great city. Her story had been immortalized by the greatest of poets, — for the old Latin tutor clove to " Virgilius Maro," as he called him, as closely as ever Dante did in his memorable jour- ney. So he took down his Virgil, — it was the smooth - leafed, open-lettered quarto of Baskerville, — and began reading the loves and mishaps of Dido. It would n't do. A lady who had not learned discretion by experience. IRIS. 11 and came to an evil end. He shook Lis Lead, as Le sadly repeated, " misera ante diem, subitoque accensa furore " ; but wLen Le came to tLe lines, " Ergo Iris croceis per ccelum roscida penais Mille trahens varios adverso Sole colores," Le jumped up witL a great exclamation, wliicL tLe par- ticular recording angel wLo Leard it pretended not to understand, or it migLt Lave gone Lard ^\'itL tLe Latin tutor some time or otLer. "■Iris sLall be Ler name ! " — Le said. So Ler name was Iris. III. The natural end of a tutor is to perisL by starvation. It is only a question of time, just as witL tLe burning of college libraries. TLese all burn up sooner or later, pro- vided tLey are not Loused in brick or stone and iron. I don't mean tLat you will see in tLe registry of deatlis tLat tLis or tLat particular tutor died of well-marked, uncompli- cated starv^ation. TLey ma}/, even, in extreme cases, be car- ried off by a thin, watery kuid of apoplexy, wLicli sounds very well in tLe returns, but means little to tLose wLo know tLat it is only debility settling on tLe Lead. Gen- erally, Lowever, tliey fade and waste away under various pretexts, — calling it dyspepsia, consumption, and so on, to put a decent appearance upon tLe case and keep up tLe credit of tLe family and tLe institution wLere tLey have passed tLrougli tlie successive stages of inanition. In some cases it takes a great many years to kill a 12 LITTLE CLASSICS. tutor by the process iu question. You see, they do get food and clotlies and fuel, in appreciable quantities, such as they are. You will even notice rows of books in their rooms, and a picture or two, — thmgs that look as if they had surplus money ; but these superfluities are the tcater of crystallization to scholars, and you can never get them away till the poor fellows effloresce into dust. Do not be deceived. The tutor breakfasts on coffee made of beans, edulcorated with milk watered to the verge of transparency ; his mutton is tough and elastic, up to the moment when it becomes tired out and tasteless ; his coal is a sullen, sulphurous anthracite, which rusts into ashes, rather than burns, in the shallo\r grate ; his flimsy broad- cloth is too thin for Avinter and too thick for summer. The greedy lungs of fifty hot-blooded boys suck the oxy- gen from the air he breatlies in his recitation -room. In short, he undergoes a process of gentle and gradual star- vation. The mother of little Iris was not called Electra, like hers of the old story, neither was her grandfather Oceanus. Her blood-name, which she gave away with her heart to the Latin tutor, was a plain old English one, and her water-name was Hannah, beautiful as recalling the mother of Samuel, and admirable as reading equally well from the initial letter forwards and from the terminal letter backwards. The poor lady, seated with her com- panion at the chess-board of matrimony, had but just pushed forward her one little white pawn u])on an empty square, when the Black Knight, that cares nolhiug for castles or kings or queens, swooped down upon her and swept lier from the larger board of life. IRIS. 13 The old Latiii tutor put a modest blue stone at tlie head of his late companion, with her name and age and Eheu ! upon it,, — a smaller one at her feet, with initials ; and left her by herself, to be rained and snowed on, — which is a hard thing to do for those whom we have cher- ished tenderly. About the time that the lichens, falling on the stone, like drops of water, had spread into fair, round rosettes, the tutor had starved into a slight cough. Then he be- gan to draw the buckle of his black pantaloons a little tighter, and took another reef in his never-ample waist- coat. His temples got a little hollow, and the contrasts of color in his cheeks more vivid than of old. After a while his walks fatigued him, and he was tired, and breathed hard after going up a flight or two of stairs. Then came on other marks of inward trouble and general waste, which he spoke of to his physician as peculiar, and doubtless owing to accidental causes ; to all which the doctor listened with deference, as if it had not been the old story that one in five or six of mankind in tem- perate climates tells, or has told for him, as if it were something new. As the doctor went out, he said to him- self, — " On the rail at last. Accommodation train. A good many stops, but will get to the station by and by." So the doctor wrote a recipe with the astrological sign of Jupiter before it (just as your own physician does, inestimable reader, as you will see, if you look at his next prescription), and departed, saying he would look in occasionally. After this, the Latin tutor began the usual course of " getting better," until he got so much better that his face was very sharp, and Arheu he smiled. 14 LITTI^ CLASSICS. three crescent lines sliowed at each side of his hps, and when he spoke, it was in a muffled whisper, and the wliite of his eye glistened as pearly as tli^ purest porce- lain, — so much better, that he hoped — by spring — he might be able — to — attend to his class again. — But he was recommended not to expose himself, and so kept his chamber, and occasionally, not having anything to do, his bed. The unmarried sister with whom he lived took care of him ; and the child, now old enough to be manageable, and even useful in trifling offices, sat in the chamber, or played about. Things could not go on so forever, of course. One morning his face was sunken and his hands were very, very cold. He was " better," he whispered, but sadly and faintly. After a while he grew restless and seemed a little wandering. His mind ran on his classics, and fell back on the Latin grannnar. " Iris ! " he said, — '' filiola mea ! " — The cliikl knew this meant my dear little daughter as well as if it had been English. — " Rainbow ! " — for he would translate her name at times, — "come to me, — veni'^ — and his lips went on automatically, and murmured, *^ vel venitof'' — The child came and sat by his bed- side and took his hand, which she could not warm, but which shot its rays of cold all through her slender frame. But there she sat, looking steadily at him. Presently he opened his lips feebly, and whispered, " Morilmndusy She did not know \\\\\\\ that meant, but she saw that there was something new and sad. So she began to cry ; but presently remembering an old book that seemed to comfort liini at times, got up and IRIS. 15 brought a Bible in the Latin version, called the Yuigate. " Open it," he said, — "I will read, — segnius irritant, — don't put the light out, — ah ! hceret lateri, — I am going, — vale, vale, vale, good by, good by, — the Lord take care of my child ! — Bomim, audi vel audito ! " His face whitened suddenly, and he lay still, with open eyes and mouth. He had taken his last degree. Little Miss L'is could not be said to begin life with a very brilliant rainbow over her, in a worldly point of view. A Hmited wardrobe of man's attire, such as poor tutors wear, — a few good books, principally classics, — a print or two, and a plaster model of the Pantheon, with some pieces of furniture which had seen service, — these, and a child's heart full of tearful recollections and strange doubts and questions, alternating with the cheap pleasures which are the anodynes of childish grief; such were the treasures she inherited. — No, — I forgot. With that kindly sentiment which all of us feel for old men's first children, — frost-flowers of the early winter season, — the old tutor's students had remembered him at a time when he was laughing and crying with his new parental emotions, and running to the side of the plain crib in which his alter ego, as he used to say, was swing- ing, to hang over the little heap of stirrmg clothes, from which looked the minute, red, downy, still, round face, with unfixed eyes and working lips, — in that unearthly gravity which has never yet been broken by a smile, and which gives to the earliest moon-year or two of an infant's life the character of a firnt old age, to counter- poise that second childhood which there is one chance in a dozen it may reach by and by. The boys had remem- 16 LITTLE CLASSICS. bered the old man and young fatlier at that tender period of his hard, dry life. There came to him a fair, silver goblet, embossed ^dth classical figures, and bear- ing on a shield the graven words, Ex dono pupillorum. The handle on its side showed what use the boys had meant it for, and a kind letter in it, written with the best of feeling, in the worst of Latin, pointed delicately to its destination. Out of this silver vessel, after a long, desperate, strangling cry, which marked her first great lesson in the realities of life, the child took the blue milk, such as poor tutors and their children get, tem- pered with water, and sweetened a little, so as to bring it nearer the standard established by the touching in- dulgence and partiality of Nature, — who has mingled an extra allowance of sugar in the blameless food of the cliild at its mother's breast, as compared with that of its infant brothers and sisters of the bovine race. But a willow will grow in baked sand wet with rain- water. An air-plant will grow by feeding on the whids. Nay, those huge forests that overspread great conthients have built themselves up mainly from the air-currents with which they are always battling. The oak is but a foliated atmospheric crystal de])ositcd from the aerial ocean that holds the future vegetable world in solution. The storm that tears its leaves has paid tribute to its strength, and it breasts the toi-nado clad in the spoils of a hundred hurricanes. Poor little Iris ! What had .»ho in coiimion with the great oak in the shadow of which we are losing sight of her ? — She lived and grew like tliat, — tliis was all. The blue milk ran into her veins and filled them with IRIS. 17 thin, pure blood. Her skin was fair, witli a faint tinge, such as the white rosebud shows before it opens. The doctor wlio had attended her father was afraid lier aunt would hardly be able to " raise " her, — " delicate child," — hoped she was not consumptive, — thought there was a fair chance she would take after her father. A very forlorn-looking person, dressed in black, with a white neckcloth, sent her a memoir of a child who died at the age of two years and eleven months, after having fidly indorsed all the doctrines of the particular persuasion to which he not only belonged himself, but thought it very shameful that everybody else did not belong. What with foreboding looks and dreary death- bed stories, it was a wonder^ the cliild made out to live through it. It saddened her early years, of course, — it distressed her tender soul with thoughts which, as they cannot be fully taken in, should be sparingly used as instruments of torture to break down the natural cheerfulness of a healthy child, or, what is infinitely worse, to cheat a dyhig one out of the kind illusions with which the Eather of All has strewed its downward path. The child would have died, no doubt, and, if properly managed, might have added another to the long cata- logue of wasting children who have been as cruelly played upon by spiritual physiologists, often with the best in- tentions, as ever the subject of a rare disease by the curious students of science. Fortunately for her, however, a wise instinct had guided the late Latin tutor in the selection of the part- ner of his life, and the future mother of liis child. The 18 LITTLE CLASSICS. deceased tutoress was a tranquil, smooth woman, easily nourished, as such people are, — a quality which is ines- timable in a tutor's wife, — and so it happened that the daughter inherited enough vitality fi-om the mother to live through childhood and infancy and fight her way towards womanhood, in spite of the tendencies she de- rived from her other parent. Two and two do not always make four, in this matter of hereditary descent of qualities. Sometimes they make three, and sometimes five. It seems as if the parental traits at one time showed separate, at another blended, — that occasionally the force of two natures is represented in the derivative one by a diagonal of greater value than either original line of living movement, — that sometimes there is a loss of vitality hardly to be accounted for, and again a forward impulse of variable intensity in some new and unforeseen direction. So it was with this child. She had glanced off from her parental probabilities at an unexpected angle. In- stead of taking to classical learning like her father, or sliding quietly into household duties like her mother, she broke out early in efforts that pointed in the direction of Art. As soon as she could hold a pencil she began to sketch outlines of objects round her with a certain air and spirit. Very extraordinary horses, but their legs looked as if they covdd move. Birds unknown to Audu- bon, yet flying, as it were, with a rusli. Men with im- possible logs, which did yet seem to have a vital connec- tion with their most improbable bodies. By and by the doctor, on his beast, — an old man with a face looking as if Time li:i(l kiiraded it like douLrli witli liis knuckles, IRIS. 19 with a rhubarb thit and flavor pervading liinisclf and his sorrel horse and all their appurtenances. A dreadful old man ! Be sure she did not forget those saddle-bags that held the detestable bottles out of which he used to shake those loathsome powders which, to virgin childish palates that find heaven in strawberries and peaches, are Well, I suppose I had better stop. Only she wished she was dead sometimes when she heard him coming. On the next leaf would figure the gentleman with the black coat and white cravat, as he looked when he came and entertained her with stories concerning the death of va- rious Uttle children about her age, to encourage her, as that wicked Mr, Arouet said about shooting Admiral Bjng. Then she would take her pencil, and with a few scratches there would be the outline of a child, in which you might notic^ how one sudden sweep gave the chubby cheek, and two dots darted at the paper looked like real eyes. By and by she went to school, and caricatured the schoolmaster on the leaves of her grammars and geog- raphies, and drew the faces of her companions, and, from time to time, heads and figures from her fancy, with large eyes, far apart, like those of Raifaelle's mothers and chil- dren, sometimes with wild floating hair, and then with wings and heads thrown back in ecstasy. This was at about twelve years old, as the dates of these drawings show, and, therefore, three or four years before she came among us. Soon after this time, the ideal figures began to take the place of portraits and caricatures, and a new feature appealed in her drawing-books in the form of fragments of verse and short poems. 20 LITTLE CLASSICS. IV. It was dull work, of course, for such a young girl to live with au old spinster and go to a village school. Her books bore testimony to this; for there was a look of sadness in the faces she drew, and a sense of weariness and longing for some imaginary conditions of blessed- ness or other, which began to be painful. She might have gone through this flowering of the soul, and, casting her petals, subsided into a sober, human berry, but for the intervention of friendly assistance and coun- sel. In the town where she lived was a lady of honorable condition, somewhat past middle age, who was possessed of pretty ample means, of cultivated tastes, of excellent principles, of exemplary character, and of* more than com- mon accomplishments. The gentleman in black broad- cloth and white neckerchief only echoed the conunon voice about her, when he called her, after enjoying, be- neath her hospitable roof, an excellent cup of tea, with certain elegances and luxuries he was unaccustomed to, " Tlie Model of all the Virtues." She deserved this title as well as almost any woman. She did really bristle with moral excellences. Mention any good thing she had not done ; I should like to see you try ! There was no handle of weakness to take hold of her by ; she w?..^ as unseizable, except in her totality, as a billiard-ball; and on the broad, green, terrestrial table, where she had been knocked about, like all of us, by tlie cue of Portune, she glanced IVom every human contact, and " caromod " from one relation to another, IRIS. 21 and rebounded from the stuffed cushion of temptation, with such exact and perfect angular movements, that the Enemy's corps of Reporters had long given up taking notes of her conduct, as there was no chance for their master. What an admirable person for the patroness and direc- tress of a slightly self-willed child, with the hghtning zig- zag line of genius running like a ghttering vein through the marble whiteness of her virgin nature ! One of the lady-patroness's peculiar virtues was calmness. She was resolute and strenuous, but still. You could depend on her for every duty ; she was as true as steel. She was kind-hearted and serviceable in all the relations of life. She had more sense, more knowledge, more conversation, as well as more goodness, than all the partners you have waltzed with this winter put together. Yet no man was known to have loved her, or even to have offered himself to her in marriage. It was a great wonder. I am very anxious to vindicate my character as a philosopher and an observer of Nature by account- ing for this apparently extraordinary fact. Yon may remember certain persons who have the mis- fortune of presenting to the friends whom they meet a cold, damp hand. There are states of mind in which a contact of this kind has a depressing effect on the vital powers that makes us insensible to all the virtues and graces of the proprietor of one of these life-absorbing or- gans. Wlien they touch us, virtue passes out of us, and we feel as if our electricity had been drained by a power- ful negative battery, carried about by an overgrown hu- man torpedo. 2a LITTLE CLASSICS. " The Model of all the Virtues " had a pair of search- ing eyes as clear as Weiiham ice ; but they were slower to melt than that fickle jewelry. Her features disordered themselves slightly at times in a surface-smile, but never broke loose from their corners and indulged in the riot- ous tumult of a laugh, — which, I take it, is the mob-law of the features, — and propriety the magistrate who reads the riot-act. She carried the brimming cup of her ines- timable virtues with a cautious, steady hand, and an eye always on them, to see that they did not spill. Then she was an admirable judge of character. Her mind was a perfect laboratory of tests and reagents ; every syllable you put into breath went into her intellectual eudiom- eter, and all your thoughts were recorded on litmus- paper. I think there has rarely been a more admirable woman. Of course, Miss Iris was immensely and pas- sionately attached to her. — ^— Well, — these are two highly oxygenated adverbs, — grateful, — suppose we say, — yes, — grateful, dutiful, obedient to her wishes for the most part, — perhaps not quite up to the concert pitch of such a perfect orchestra of the virtues. We must have a Aveak spot or two in a character be- fore we can love it much. People that do not laugh or cry, or take more of anything than is good for them, or use anything but dictionary words, are admirable sub- jects for biographies. But we don't always care most for those flat -i)af tern flowers that press best in the herba- rium. This immaculate woman, — why could n't she have a fault or two? Isn't there any old M'hisper which will tui'nisli {]u\i wearisome aureole of saintly perfection ? IRIS. 23 Does n't she carry a lump of opium in her pocket ? Is n't her cologne-bottle replenislied oftener than its legit- imate use would require ? It would be such a comfort ! V. Not for the world would a young creature like Iris have let such words escape her, or such thoughts pass through her iniud. Whether at the bottom of her soul lies any uneasy consciousness of an oppressive presence, it is hard to say, until we know more about her. Iris sits between the Httle gentleman and the " Model of all the Virtues," as the black-coated personage called her. I will watch them all. I am sure that the young girl can hide nothing from me. Her skin is so transparent that one can almost count her heart-beats by the flushes they send into her cheeks. She does not seem to be shy, either. I think she does not know enough of danger to be timid. She seems to me like one of those birds that travellers tell- of, found in remote, uninhabited islands, who, having never received any wrong at the hand of inan, show no alarm at and hardly any particular consciousness of his pres- ence. The first thing will be to see how she and our little deformed gentleman get along together. The next thing will be to keep an eye on the duenna, — the " MQdel " and so forth, as the white-neckcloth called her. The in- tention of that estimable lady is, I understand, to launch her and leave her. I suppose there is no help for it, and I don't doubt this young lady knows how to take care of 24 LITTLE CLASSICS. herself, but I do not like to see young girls turned loose in boarding-liouses. Look here now ! There ib that jewel of his race, whom I have called for convenience the Koh-i-noor (you understand it is quite out of the question for me to use the family jiames of our boarders, unless I want to get into trouble), — I say, the gentle- man with the diamond is looking v*y often and very intently, it seems to me, down toward the farther cor- ner of the table, where sits our amber-eyed blonde. The landlady's daughter does not look pleased, it seems to me, at this, nor at those other attentions which the gen- tleman referred to has, as I have learned, pressed upon tlie newly-arrived young person. The landlady made a communication to me, within a few days after the arrival of Miss Iris, which I will repeat to the best of my re- membrance. He (the person I have been speaking of), — she said, — seemed to be kinder hankerin' round after that young woman. It had hurt her daughter's feelin's a good deal, that the gentleman she was a-keepin' company with sliould be oft'eriii' tickets and tryin' to send presents to them that lie 'd never know'd till jest a little spell ago^ — and he as good as merried, so fur as solemn promises went, to as respectable a young lady, if she did say so, as any there was round, whosomever they might be. Tickets ! presents ! — said I. — What tickets, what presents, lias he had the iuipertinence to be ollcring to that young lady ? Tickets to the Museum, — said Iho landlady. — There is them that's glad enough to go to tlie Museum, when tickets is given 'cm; but some of 'em ha'u't had a IRIS. 25 ticket seiice Cendcrilla was played, — and now fie must be offerin' 'era to this ridiculous young paintress, or whatever she is, that 's come to make more mischief than her board's worth. But it a'n't her fault, — said the landlady, relenting ; — and that aunt of hers, or what- ever 'she is, served him right enough. Wliy, what dicUshe do ? Do ? Why, she took it up in the tongs and dropped it out o' winder. Dropped ? dropped what ? — I said. Why, the soap, — said the landlady. It appeared that the Koh-i-noor, to ingratiate himself, had sent an elegant j)ackage of perfumed soap, directed to Miss Iris, as a delicate expression of a lively senti- ment of admiration, and that, after having met with the unfortunate treatment refen'ed to, it was picked up by Master Benjamin Eranklin, who appropriated it, rejoic- ing, and indulged in most unheard-of and inordinate ablutions in consequence, so that his hands were a fre- quent subject of maternal congratulation, and he smelt like a civet-cat for weeks after his great acquisition. After watching daily for a time, I think I can see clearly into the relation which is growing up between the little gentleman and the young lady. She shows a ten- derness to him that I can't help being interested in. If he was her crippled child, instead of being more than old enough to be her father, she could not treat him more kindly. The landlady's daughter said, the other day, she believed that girl was sett in' her cap for the Little Gentleman. Some of them young folks is very artful, — said her VOT.. VII. 2 26 LITTLE CLASSICS. mother, — and there is them tliat would merry Lazanis, if he 'd only picked up crumbs enough. I don't think, though, this is one of that sort ; she 's kinder chikllike, — said the landlady, — and maybe never had any dolls to play with ; for they say her folks was poor before Ma'am undertook to see to her teachin' and board her and clothe her. I could not help overhearing this conversation. " Board her and clothe her ! " — * speaking of such a young crea- ture ! dear ! — Yes, — she must be fed, — just like Bridget, maid-of-all-work at this establishment. Some- body must pay for it. Somebody has a right to watch her and see how much it takes to " keep " her, and growl at her, if she has too good an appetite. Somebody lias a right to keep an eye on her and take care that she does not dress too prettily. No mother to see her own youth over again in those fresh features and rising reliefs of half-sculptured womanhood, and, seeing its loveliness, forget her lessons of neutral-tinted propriety, and open the cases that hold her own ornaments to find for her a necklace or a bracelet or a pair of ear-rings, — those golden lamps that light up the deep, shado\^7 dimples on the cheeks of young beauties, — swinging in a semibar- baric splendor that carries the wild fancy to Abyssinian queens and musky Odalisques ! I don't believe any wo- man has utterly given up the great firm of Muudus & Co., so long as she wears ear-rings. r think Iris loves to hear the Little Gentleman talk. She smiles sometimes at his vehement statements, but never laughs at him. When he speaks to her, she keeps licr eye always steadily upon liiin. This may be only iius. 27 natural gaod-breoding, so to speak, but it is wortli no- ticing. I have often observed that vulgar persons, and public audiences of inferior collective intelligence, have this in common : the least thing draws off their minds, when you are speaking to them. I love this young crea- ture's rapt attention to her diminutive neighbor while he is speaking. He is evidently pleased with it. For a day or two after she came, he was silent and seemed nervous and excited. Now he is fond of getting the talk into his own hands, and is obviously conscious that he has at least one interested listener. Once or twice I have seen marks of special attention to personal adornment, — a ruffled sliirt- bosom, one day, and a diamond pin in it, — not so very large as the Koh-i-noor's, but more lustrous. I men- tioned the death's-head ring he wears on his right hand. I was attracted by a very handsome red stone, a ruby or carbuncle or something of the sort, to notice his left hand, the other day. It is a handsome hand, and con- firms my suspicion that the cast mentioned was taken from his arm. After all, this is just what I should ex- pect. It is not very uncommon to see the upper limbs, or one of thsm, running away with the whole strength, and, therefore, with the whole beauty, which we should never have noticed, if it had been divided equally between all four extremities. If it is so, of course he is proud of his one strong and beautiful arm ; that is human nature. I am afraid he can hardly help betraying his favoritism, as l)eople wIto have any one showy point are apt to do, — especially dentists with handsome teeth, who always smile back to their last molavs. 28 LITTLE CLASSICS. Sitting, as ne does, next to the yoiing girl, and next but one to the calm lady who has her in charge, he can- not help seeing their relations to each other. That is an admirable woman, Sir, — he said to me one day, as we sat alone at the table after breakfast, — an admirable woman. Sir, — and I hate her. Of course, I begged an explanation. An admirable woman. Sir, because she does good things, and even kind things, — takes care of this — this — young lady — we have here, talks like a sensible per- son, and always looks as if she was doing her duty with all her might. I hate her because her voice sounds as if it never trembled, and her eyes look as if she never knew what it was to cry. Besides, she looks at me, Sir, stares at me, as if she wanted to get an image of me for some gallery in her brain, — and we don't love to be looked at in this way, we that have^ ^I hate her, — I hate her, — her eyes kill me, — it is like being stabbed with icicles to be looked at so, — the sooner she goes home the bet- ter. I don't want a woman to weigh me in a balance ; there are men enough for that sort of work. The judicial character is n't captivating in females. Sir. A womian fascinates a man quite as often by what she overlooks as by what she sees. Love prefers twilight to daylight ; and a man does n't think much of, nor care much for, a woman outside of his household, unless he can couple the idea of love, })ast, present, or future, with her. I don't believe tiic Devil would give half as much for the services of a sinner as he would for those of one of these folks tliat arc always doing virtuous acts in a way to make tl)('iii iiMj)leasing. — That young girl waiiis a tender na- IRIS. 29 ture to cherish her and give lier a chance to put out ber leaves, — sunshine, and not east winds. He was silent, — and sat looking at his handsome left hand with the red stone ring upon it. — Is he going to fall in love with Iris ? YI. The young man John asked me to come up one da/ and try some " old Burl)on," whicli he said was A 1- On asking him what was the number of his room, he answered, that it was forty-'leven, sky-parlor tloor, but that I should n't find it, if he did n't go ahead to show me the way. I followed him to his habitat, being very willing to see in what kind of warren he burrowed, and thinking I might pick up something about the boarders who had excited my curiosity. The young man John fell into a train of reflections which ended in his producing a Bologna sausage, a plate of " crackers," as we Boston folks call certain biscuits, and the bottle of whiskey described as being A 1. Under the influence of the crackers and sausage, he grew cordial and communicative. It was time, I thought, to sound him as to our board- ers. What do you think of our young Iris ? — I began. Eust-rate little filly ; — he said. — Pootiest and nicest little chap I 've seen since the schoolma'am left. School- ma'am was a brown-haired one, — eyes coffee-color. This one has got wine-colored eyes, — 'n' that 's the reason they turn a fellali's head, T suppose. 30 LITTLE CLASSICS. This is a spendid blonde, — 1 said, — the other was a brunette. Which style do you like best ? • Which do I like best, boiled mutton or roast mutton ? — said the young man John. Like 'em both, — it a'n't the color of 'em makes the goodness. I 've been kind of lonelj since schoolma'am went away. Used to like to look at her. I never said anything particular to her, that I remember, but^ I don't know whether it was the cracker and sausage, or that the "young fellow's feet 'were treading on the hot ashes of some longing that had not had time to cool, but his eye glistened as he stopped. I suppose she woiild n't have looked at a fellah like me, — he said, — but I come pretty near tryin'. If she had said, Yes, though, I should n't have known what to have done with her. Can't marry a woman nowa- days till you 're so deaf you have to cock your head like a parrot to hear what she says, and so long-sighted you can't see what she looks like nearer than arm's-length. Here is another chance for you, — I said. — What do you want nicer than such a young lady as Iris ? It's no use, — he answered. — I look -at them girls and feel as the fellah did when he missed catchin' the trout. — 'To'od 'a' cost more butter to cook him 'n' he 's worth, — says the fellah. — Takes a whole piece o' goods to cover a girl up nowadays. I 'd as lief undertake to keep a span of elephants, — and take an ostrich to board, too, — as to marry one of 'em. What 's the use ? Clerks and cc)unt6r-jiini|)ers a'n't anything. Sparragrass and green ])cas a'n't for Ihrm, — not Avhih' they 're young and tench-r. ll()ssl);ick ridin' a'n't for I hem, — except IRIS. :31 once a year, — on Fast-day. And marryin' a'n't for them. Sometimes a fellah feels lonely, and would like to have a nice young woman, to tell her how lonely he f^cls. And sometimes a fellah, — here the young man John looked very confidential, and, perhaps, as if a little asliamed of his weakness, — sometimes a fellah would like to have one o' them small young ones to trot on his knee and push about in a little wagon, — a kind of a little Johnny, you know; — it's odd enough, but, it seems to me, nobody can afford them httle articles, ex- cept the folks that are so rich they can buy everything, and the folks that are so poor they don't M-ant anything. It makes nice boys of us young fellahs, no doubt ! And it 's pleasant to see fine young girls sittin', like shop- keepers behind their goods, waitin', and waitiu', and waitui', 'n' no customers, — and the men hngerin' round and lookin' at the goods, like folks that want to be cus- tomers, but have n't got the money ! Do you think the deformed gentleman means to make love to Iris ? — I said. What ! Little Boston ask that girl to marry him ! Well, now, that 's comin' of it a little too strong. Yes, I guess she will many him and carry him round in a basket, like a lame bantam ! Look here ! — he said, mysteriously ; — one of the boarders swears there 's a woman comes to see him, and that he has heard her singm' and screechm'. I should like to know what he 's about in that den of his. He lays low 'n' keeps dark, — and, I tell you, there 's a good many of the boarders would like to get into his chamber, but he don't seem to want 'em. Biddv could tell ^omethin' about what ;3:Z LITTLE CLASSICS. slie 's seen when she 's been to put his room to rights. She 's a Paddy 'n' a fool, but she knows enougli to keep her tongue still. All I know is, I saw her crossin' her- self one day when she came out of that room. She looked pale enough, 'n' I heard her mutterin' somethiii' or other about the Blessed Virgin. If it had n't been for the double doors to that chamber of his, I 'd have had a squint inside before this ; but, somehow or other, it never seems to happen that they 're both open at once. What do you think he employs himself about ? — said I. The young man John winked. I waited patiently for the thought, of which this wink was the blossom, to come to fruit in words. I don't believe in witches, — said the young man John. Nor I. We were both silent for a few minutes. Did you ever see the young girl's drawmg-books, — I said, presently. All but one, — he answered ; — she keeps a lock on that, and wcm't show it. Ma'am Allen (the young rogue sticks to that name, in speaking of the gentleman with the (liamoiul), Ma'am Allen tried to peek into it one day when she left it on the sideboard. " If you please," says she, — 'n' took it from liim, 'n' gave him a look that made him curl up like a caterjjillar on a hot shovel. I only wished he had n't, and had jest given her a little stias, for I 'vc been takin' boxin'-lessous, 'n' IRIS. 33 I 've got a new way of counteriii' I want to try on to somebody. — ; — The end of all this was, that I came away from the young fellow's room, feeling that there were two principal things that I had to live for, for the next six weeks or six months, if it should take so long. These were, to get a sight of the young girl's drawing-book, which I suspected had her heart shut up in it, and to get a look into the Little Gentleman's room. I don't doubt you think it rather absurd that I should trouble myself about these matters. You tell me, with some show of reason, that all I shall find in the young girl's book will be souie outlines of angels with immense eyes, traceries of flowers, rural sketches, and caricatures, among which I shall probably have the pleasure of seeing ray own features figuring. Very likely. But I '11 tell you what / think I shall find. If this child has idealized the strang3 little bit of hunianity over -which she seems to have spread her wings like a brooding dove, — if, in one of those wild vagaries that passionate natures are so liable to, she has fairly sprung upon him with her clasp- ing nature, as the sea-flowers fold about the first stray shell-fish that brushes their outspread tentacles, depend upon it, I shall find the marks of it in tliis drawing-book of hers, — if I can ever get a look at it, — fairly, of course, for I would not play tricks to satisfy my curi- osity. Then, if I can get into this Little Gentleman's room under any fair pretext, I shall, no doubt, satisfy iTiyself in five minutes that he is just like other people, and that there is no particular mystery about him. 2* ' "^ c 34- LITTLE CLASSICS. YII. I LOTE to look at this "Rainbow/' as her father used sometimes to call her, of ours. HancTsome creature that she is in fomis and colors, fit for a sea-king's bride, it is not her beauty alone that holds my eyes upon her. Let me tell you one of my fancies, and then you will understand the strange sort of fascination she has for me. It is in the hearts of many men and women — let me add children — that there is a Great Secret waiting for them, — a secret of which they get hints now and then, per- haps oftener in early than in later years. These hints come sometimes in dreams, sometimes in sudden start- ling flashes, — second wakings, as it were, — awaking out of the waking state, which last is veiy apt to be a half-sleep. I have many times stopped short and held my breath, and felt the blood leaving my cheeks, in one of these sudden clairvoyant flashes. Of course I cannot tell what kind of a secret this is ; but 1 think of it as a dis- closure of certain relations of our personal being to time and space, to other intelligence:^ to the procession of events, and to their First Great Cause. This secret seems to be broken up, as it were, into fragments, so that we find here a word and there a sylla])lc, and then again only a letter of it ; but it never is written out for most of us as a com])lete sentence, in this life. I do not think it could be ; for I am disposed to consider our behefs about such a possible disclosure rather as a kind of ]u-emonition of an enlarge- ment of our faculties in some future state than as an ex- pectation to bo fulfilled for most of us in tliis life. Per- IRIS. 35 sons, however, have fallen hito trances, — as did the Reverend William Tennent, among many others, — and learned some things wliich they could not tell in our hu- man words. Now among tlic visible objects which hint to us frag- ments of this infinite secret for which our souls are wait- ing, the faces of women are those that carry the most legible hieroglyphics of the great mystery. There are women's faces, some real, some ideal, which contain some- thing in them that becomes a positive element in our creed, so direct and palpable a revelation is it of the infinite purity and love. I remember two faces of women with wings, such as they call angels, of Fra Angehco, — and I just now came across a print of Raphael's Santa Apol- lina, with somethmg of the same quality, — which I was sure had their prototypes in the world above ours. No wonder the Cathohcs pay their vows to the Queen of Heaven ! The unpoetical side of Protestantism is that it has no women to be worshipped. But mmd you, it is not every beautiful face that hints the Great Secret to us, nor is it only in beautiful faces that we find traces of it. Sometimes it looks out from a sweet sad eye, the only beauty of a plain counte- nance ; sometmies there is so much meaning in the Kps of a woman, not otherwise fascinating, that we know they have a message for us, and wait almost with awe to hear their accents. But this young girl has at once the beauty of feature and the unspoken mystery of ex- pression. Can she tell me anything ? Is her life a complement of mine, with the missing element in it which I have l)ccn groping after through so many y^ 36 LITTLE CLASSICS. friends;hips that I have tired of, and tlirniigh Hush ! Is the door fast ? Talking loud is a bad trick iu these curious boarding-houses. You must have sometimes noted this fact that I am going to remind you of and to use for a special illus- tration. Hiding along over a rocky road, suddenly the slow monotonous grinding of the crushing gravel changes to a deep heavy rumble. There is a great hollow under your feet, — a huge unsunned cavern.' Deep, deep beneath you, in the core of the living rock, it arches its awful vault, and far away it stretches its wuiding galleries, their roofs dripping into streams where fishes have been swimming and spawning in the dark until their scales arc white as milk and their eyes have withered out, obsolete and useless. So it is in life. We jog quietly along, meeting the same faces, grinding over the same thoughts, — the gravel of the soul's highway, — now and then jarred against an obstacle we cannot crush, but must ride over or round as we best may, sometimes bringing short up against a disappointment, but still working along with the creaking and rattling and grating and jerking that belong to the journey of hfe, even in the smoothest- rolling vehicle. Suddenly we hear the deep under- ground reverberation that reveals the unsuspected depth of some abyss of thought or passion beneatli us. I wish the girl would go. I don't like to look at her so much, and yet I cannot help it. Always that same expression of something that I ought to know, — some- thing that she was made to toll and I to hear, — lying tlierc ready to fall oil' from h(;r lips, ready to lea]) out of ( IRIS. 37 her eyes and make a saiiit of me, or a devil or a lunatic, or perhaps a pro))liet to tell the trutli and be hated of men, or a poet whose words shall flash upon the dry stubble-field of worn-out thoughts and burn over an age of lies in an hour of passion. It suddenly occurs to me that I may have put you on the wrong track. The Great Secret that I refer to has nothing to do with the Three Words. Set your mind at ease about that, — there are reasons I could give you which settle all that matter. I don't wonder, however, that you confounded the Great Secret with the Three Words. I LOVE Tou is all the secret that many, nay, most women have to tell. When that is said, they are like China-crackers on the moniing of the fifth of July. And just as that little patriotic implement is made with a slender train which leads to the magazine in its inte- rior, so a sharp eye can almost always see the train lead- ing from a young girl's eye or lip to the " I love you " in her heart. But the Three Words are not the Great Secret I mean. No, women's faces are only one of the tablets on which that is written in its partial, fragmen- taiy symbols. It lies deeper than Love, though very probably Love is a part of it. Some, I think, — Words- worth might be one of them, — spell out a portion of it from certain beautiful natural objects, landscapes, flowers, and others. I can mention several poems of his that have shadowy hints which seem to me to come near the region where I think it lies. I have known two persons who pursued it with the passion of the old alchemists, — all wrong evidently, but infatuated, and never giving 38 LITTLE CLASSICS. up the daily search for it' until they got tremulous and feeble, and their dreams chauged to visions of things that ran and crawled about their floor and ceilings, and so they died. The vulgar called them druukards. I told you that I would let you know the mystery of the effect this young girl's face produces on me. It is akin to those influences a friend of mine has described, you may remember, as coming from certain voices. I cannot translate it into words, — only into feelings ; and these 1 have attempted to shadow by showing that lier face hinted that revelation of something we are close to knowing, which all imaginative persons are looking for either in this world or on the very threshold of the next. This young girl, about whom I have talked so unin- telligibly, is the unconscious centre of attraction to the whole solar system of our breakfast-table. The Little Gentleman leans towards her, and she again seems to be swayed as by some invisible gentle force towards him. That slight inclination of two persons with a strong af- finity towards each other, throwing them a little out of plumb when they sit side by side, is a physical fact I have often noticed. Then there is a tendency in all the men's eyes to converge on her; and I do firmly believe, that, if all their chairs were examined, they would be found a little obliquely placed, so as to favor the direc- tion in which their occupants love to look. That bland, quiet old gentleman, of whom I have spoken as sitting o])posite to me, is no exception to the rule. Slie brouglit down some mignonette one mornhig, whicli she lii'.d grown in her cliainl)cr. She gave a sprig mis. 39 to licr little neighbor, and one to the landlady, and sent another by the hand of Bridget to this old gentleman. Sarvant, Ma'am ! Much obleeged, — he said, and put it gallantly in his buttonhole. After breakfast he must see some of her drawings. Very fine perform- ances, — very fine ! — truly elegant productions, — truly elegant ! — Had seen Miss Linley's needlework in Lou- don, in the year (eighteen hundred and Httle or nothing, I think he said), — patronized by the nobility and g:^n- try, and Her Majesty, — elegant, truly elegant produc- tions, very fine performances ; these drawings reminded him of them; — wonderful resemblance to Nature; an extraordinary art, painting ; Mr. Copley made some very fine pictures that he remembered seeing when he was a boy. Used to remember some lines about a portrait written by Mr. Cowpe*-, beginning, — " that those lips had language ! Life has pass'd With me but i-oughly siuce I heard thee last." And with this the old gentleman fell to thinking about a dead mother of his that he remembered ever so much younger than he now was, and looking, not as h's mother, but as his daughter should look. The dead young mother was looking at the old man, her child, as she used to look at him so many, many years ago. He stood still as if in a waking dream, his eyes fixed on the drawings till their outlines grew indisthict and they ran into each other, and a pale, sweet face shaped itself out of the glimmering light through which he saw them. How many drawing-books have you filled, — I said, — since you began to take lessons ? This was the first. 40 LITTLE CLASSICS. — she answered, — since she was here ; and it was not full, but there were many separate sheets of large size she had covered with drawings. I turned over the leaves of the book before us. Aca- demic studies, prhicipally of the human figure. Heads of sibyls, prophets, and so forth. Limbs from statues. Hands and feet from Nature. What a superb drawing of an arm ! I don't remember it among the figures from Michel Angelo, which seem to have been her patterns mainly. From Nature, I think, or after a cast from Na- ture. — Oh ! Your smaller studies are in this, I suppose, — I said, taking up the drawing-book with a lock on it. Yes, — she said. 1 should like to see her style of working on a small scale. There was nothing in it worth showing, — she said ; and presently I saw her try the lock, which proved to be fast. We arc all carica- tured in it, I have n't the least doubt. I think, though, I could tell by her way of dealing with us what her fancies were about us boarders. Some of them act as if they were bcwitclied with her, but she does not seem to notice it mncli. Her tlioughts seem to be on her little noiglibor more than on anyl)()dy else. The young fellow John ap])('ars to stand second in licr good graces. I think he lias once or twice sent her what the landlady's daughter calls bo-kays of fiowers, — somebody has, at any rate. — I saw a book she had, which must have come from the divinity-student. It had a dreary title-page, which she had enlivened with a fancy })orfrait of the au- thor, — n face IVom memory, a|)pareiitly, — one of those faces that small chihli-en loathe without knowing why, IRIS. 41 and which give them that inward disgust for licavcn so many of the little wretches betray, when they hear tliat these are " good men," and tliat heaven is full of such. — The gentleman with the diamond — the Koh-i-noor, so called by us — was not encouraged, I think, by the re- ception of his pajcket of perfumed soap. He pulls his purple mustache and looks appreciatingly at Iris, who ^ never sees him as it should seem. The young Mary- lander, who I thought would have been in love with her before tliis time, sometimes looks from his corner across the long diagonal of the table, as much as to say, I wish you were up here by me, or I were down there by you, — w^hich would, perhaps, be a more natural arrange- ment than the present one. But nothing comes of all this, — and nothing has come of my sagacious idea of finding out the girl's fancies by looking into her locked drawing book. Not to give up all the questions I was determined to solve, I made an attempt also to work into the Little Gentleman's chamber. For this pui-pose, I kept him in conversation, one morning, until he was just ready to go up stairs, and then, as if to continue the talk, followed him as he toiled back to his room. He rested on the landing and faced round toward me. There was some- thing in his eye which said, Stop there ! So we finished our conversation on the landing. The next day, I mus- tered assurance enough to knock at his door, having a pretext ready. — No answer. — Knock again. A door, as if of a cabinet, was shut softly and locked, and pres- ently I heard the . peculiar dead beat of his thick-soled, misshapen boots. The bolts and the lock of the inner 4^ LITTLE CLASSICS. door Were unfasteued, — with iimiecessary noise, 1 tliouglit, — and lie came into the passage. He pulled the inner door after him and opened the outer one at which I stood. He had on a flowered silk dressing- gown, such as " Mr. Copley " used to paint his old-fash- ioned merchant-princes in ; and a quaint -looking key in his hand. Our conversation was short, but long enough to convmce me that the Little Gentleman did not want my company in his chamber, and did not mean to have it. I have been making a great fuss about what is no mystery at all, — a school-girl's secrets and a whimsical man's habits. I mean to give up such nonsense and mind my own business. — Hark ! What the dense is that odd noise in his chamber? YIII. If Iris does not love this Little Gentleman, what does love look like when one sees it ? She follows him with her eyes, she leans over toward him when he speaks, her face changes with the changes of his speech, so that one might think it was with her as with Christabel, — That all her features were resigned To this sole image in her mind. But she never looks at him with such intensity of devo- tion as when he says anything about the soul and the soul's atmosphere, religion. Women are twice as religious as men ; — all the "^^orld knows that. Whether they arc any hotter, in the eyes IRIS. 4^3 of Absolute Justice, might be questioued ; for the addi- tional religious element supplied by sex hardly seems to be a matter of praise or blame. But in all common as- pects they are so much above us that we get most of our religion from them, — from their teachings, from their example, — above all, from their pure affections. Now this poor little Iris had been talked to strangely in her childhood. Especially she had been told that she hated all good thhigs, — which every sensible parent knows well enough is not true of a great many children, to say the least. I have sometimes questioned whether many libels on human nature had not been a natural consequence of the celibacy of the clergy, wliich was enforced for so long a period. The child had met this and some other equally en- couragmg statements as to her spiritual conditions, early in life, and fought the battle of spiritual indepen- dence prematurely, as many children do. If all she did was hateful to God, what was the meaning of the ap- proving or else the disapproving conscience, when she had done " right " or "wrong " ? No " shoulder-striker" hits out straighter than a child with its logic. Why, I can remember lying in my bed in the nursery and set- thng questions which all that I have heard since and got out of books has never been able to raise again. If a child does not assert itself in this way in good sea- son, it becomes just what its parents or teachers were, and is no better than a plaster image. — How old was I at the time? — I suppose about 5823 years old, — that is, counting from Archbisliop Usher's date of the Crea- tion, and adding the life of the race, whose accumulated 44 LITTLE CLASSICS. intelligence is a part of my inheritance, to my own. A good deal older than Plato, you see, and much more experienced than my Lord Bacon and most of the world's teachers. — Old books, as you well know, are books of the world's youth, and new books are fruits of its age. How many of all these ancient folios round me are like so many old cupels ! The gold has passed out of them long ago, but their pores are full of the dross with which it Mas mingled. And so Iris — having thrown off that first lasso, which not only fetters, but cJiokes those whom it can hold, so that they give themselves up trembling and breathless to the great soul-subduer, who has them by the windpipe — had settled a brief creed for herself, in which love of the neighbor, whom we have seen, was the first article, and love of the Creator, whom we have not seen, grew out of this as its natural development, being necessarily second in order of time to the first unselfish emotions which we feel for the fellow-creatures who surround us in our early years. The child must have some place of worship. What would a young girl be who never mingled her voice with the songs and prayers that rose all around her with every returning day of rest ? And Iris was free to choose. Sometimes one and sometimes another would ofier to carry her to this or that place of worship ; and when the doors were hospitably opened, she would often go meekly in by herself. It was a curious fact, that two clmrclios as remote from eacli oilier in doctrine as could well be divided iier afi'i'dious. The Churcli of Saint rolycaij) had very much the look IRIS. 45 of a Roman Catlu/lic chapel. I do not wisli to run tlie risk of giving names to the ecclesiastical furniture which gave it such a Romish aspect ; but there were pictures, and inscriptions in antiquated characters, and there were reading-stands, and flowers on the altar, and other ele- gant arrangements. Then there were boys to sing alternately in choirs responsive to each other, and there was much bowing, with very loud responding, and a long service and a short sermon, and a bag, such as Judas used to hold in the old pictures, was carried round to receive contributions. Ever^-thmg was done not only "decently and in order," but, perhaps one might say, with a certain air of magnifying their office on the part of the dignified clergymen, often two or three in number. The music and the free welcome were grateful to Iris, and she forgot her prejudices at the door of the chapel. For this was a church with open doors, with seats for all classes and all colors alike, — a church of zealous worshippers after their faith, of chari- table and serviceable men and women, one that took carg of its children and never forgot its poor, and whose people were much more occupied in looking out for their own souls than in attacking the faith of their neighbors. In its mode of worship there was a union of two qualities, — the taste and refinement, which the educated require just as much in their clmrchcs as elsewhere, and the air of stateliness, almost of pomp, which impresses the common worshipper, and is often not without its effect upon those who think they hold outward forms as of little value. Under the half-Ro- mish aspect of the Church of Saint Polycarp, the young 46 LITTLE CLASSICS. girl found a devout and loving and singularly cheerful religious spirit. The artistic sense, which betrayed it- self in the dramatic proprieties of its ritual, harmonized with her taste. The mingled murmur of the loud re- sponses, in those rhythmic phrases, so simple, yet so fervent, almost as if every tenth heart-beat, instead of its dull tic-tac^ articulated itself as " Good Lord, deliver us ! " — the sweet alternation of the two choirs, as their holy song floated from side to side, — the keen young voices rising like a flight of singing-birds that passes from one grove to another, carrying its music with it back and forward, — why should she not love these gracious outward signs of those inner harmonies which none could deny made beautiful the lives of many of her fellow-worshippers in the humble, yet not inelegant Chapel of Saint Polycarp ? Tlie young Marylandor, who was born and bred to that mode of worship, had introduced her to the chapel, far which he did the honors for such of our boarders as were not othei-wise provided for. I saw them looking over the same prayer-book one Sunday, and I could not iiclp thinking that two such young and handsome persons could hardly worsliip together in safety for a great Avliile. But they seemed to mind nothing but their prayer-book. By and by the silken bag was handed round. — I don't believe she will ; — so awkward, you know ; — besides, ehc only came by invitation. There she is, with her hand in her pocket, though, — and sure enough, her little bit of silver tinkled as it struck the coin beneath. God bless licr ! she has n't much to give ; but her eye glistens when she gives it, and that is all Heaven asks. — That Mas the IRIS. 47 first time I noticed tliese young people togetlicr, and I am sure they behaved with the most charming propriety, — in fact, there was one of our silent lady-boarders with them, whose eyes would have kept Cupid and Psyche to their good behavior. A day or two after tliis I noticed that the young gentleman had left his seat, which you may remember was at the corner diagonal to that of Iris, so that they have been as far removed from each other as they could be at the table. His new seat is three or four places farther down the table. Of course I made a romance out of this, at once. So stupid not to see it ! How could it be otherwise ? — Did you speak, Madam ? I beg your pardon. (To my lady-reader.) I never saw anything like the tenderness with which this young girl treats her little deformed neighbor. If he were in the way of going to church, I know she would follow bim. But his worship, if any, is not with the thi-ong of men and women and staring children. IX. These young girls that live in boarding-houses can do pretty much as they will. The female gendarmes are off guard occasionally. The sitting-room has its solitary moments, when any two boarders who wish to meet may come together accidentally {accidentally, I said. Madam, and I had not the slightest intention of italicizing the word) and discuss the social or pohtical questions of the day, or any other subject that may prove interesting. Many charming conversations take place at the foot of the stairs, or while one of the parties is holding the latch 48 LITTLE CLASSICS. of a door, — in the shadow of porticos, and especially on those outside balconies which some of our Southern neigh- bors call " stoops," the most charming places hi the world whe» the moon is just right and the roses and honey- suckles are in full blow, — as we used to think in eigh- teen hundred and never mention it. On such a balcony or " stoop," one evening, I walked with Iris. We were on pretty good terms now, and I had coaxed her arm under mine, — my left arm, of course. That leaves one's right arm free to defend the lovely crea- ture, if the rival — odious wretch ! — attempt to ravish her from your side. Likewise if one's heart should hap- pen to beat a little, its mute language Avill not be without its meaning, as you will perceive when the arm you hold begins to tremble, — a circumstance like to occur, if you happen to be a good-looking young fellow, and you two have the " stoop " to yourselves. We had it to ourselves that evening. The Koh-i-noor, as we called him, was in a corner with our landlady's daughter. The young fellow John was smoking out in the yard. The gendarme was afraid of the evening ah-, and kept inside. The young Marylander came to the door, looked out and saw us walking together, gave his hat a pull over liis forehead and stalked oiF. I felt a sliglit spasm, as it w^rc, hi the arm I held, and saw the girl's head turn over her shoulder for a second. What a kind creature this is ! She has no special interest in this youth, but she does not like to sec a young fellow going off because lie feels as if he were not wanted. She liad her locked drawhig-book under her arm. — Let me take l!, — 1 said. IRIS. 49 She gave it to mo to carry. This is full of caricatures of all of us, I am sure, — said I. She laughed, and said, — No, — not all of you. I was there, of course ? Why, no, — she had never taken so much pains with me. Then she would let me see the inside of it ? She would think of it. Just as we parted, she took a little key from her pocket and handed it to me. — Tiiis unlocks my naughty book, — she said, — you shall see it. I am not afraid of you. I don't know whetlier the last words exactly pleased me. At any rate, I took the book and hurried with it to my room. I opened it, and saw, in a few glances, that I held the heart of Iris in my hand. IRIS, HER BOOK. I pray thee by the'soul of her that bore thee. By thine own sister's spirit I implore thee, Deal gently with the leaves that lie before thee ! For Iris had no mother to infold ber. Nor ever leaned upon a sister's shoulder, Telling the twilight thoughts that Nature told her. She had not learned the mystery of awaking Those chordcd keys that soothe a sorrow's aching. Giving the dumb heart voiee, that else were breaking. Yet lived, wrought, suffered. Lo, the pictured token ! "NYhy should her fleeting day-dreams fade unspoken. Like daffodils that die with sheaths unbroken ? VOL. MI. 3 D JO LITTLE CLASSICS. Slie knew not love, yet lived in maiden fancies, — "Walked simply clad, a queen of liigh romances, And talked strange tongues with angels in her trances. Twin-souled she seemed, a twofold nature Avearing, — Sometimes a flashing falcon in her daring, Then a poor matclcss dove that droops despairing. Questioning all things : AYliy her Lord had sent her ? What were these torturing gifts, and wherefore lent her ? Scornful as spirit fallen, its own tormentor. And then all tears and anguish : Queen of Heaven, Sweet Saints, and Thou by mortal sorrows riven. Save me ! O, save me ! Shall I die forgiven ? And then All, God ! But nay, it little matters : Look at the wasted seeds that autumn scatters, The myriad germs that Nature shapes and shatters ! If she had Well ! She longed, and knew not wherefore Had the world nothing she might live to care for ? No second self to say her evening prayer for? She knew the marble shapes that set men dreaming, Yet with her shoulders bare and tresses streaming Showed not unlovely to her simple seeming. Vain ? Let it be so ! Nature was her teacher. What if a lonely and luisistcred creature Loved her own harmless gift of pleasing feature. Saying, uusaddciicd, — This shall soon be faded. And donl)li'-huid the shining tresses braided. And all the 4>nnlight of llic morning shaded? IRIS. 51 This her poor book is fuJl of saddest follies. Of tearful smiles and lautrhiiig melancholies. With summer roses twiued and wintry hollies. In the strange crossiug of uncei-tain chances, Somewhere, beneath some maiden's tear-dimmed glances May fail her little book of di'cams and fancies. Sweet sister ! Iris, who shall never name thee, Trembling for fear her open heart may shame thee, Speaks from this vision-haunted page to claim thee. Spare her, I pray tlice ! If the maid is sleeping. Peace with her ! she has had her hour of weeping. No more ! She leaves her memory in thy keeping. These verses were Tvritteii in the first leaves of the locked volume. As I turned the pages, I hesitated for a moment. Is it quite fair to take advantage of- a gen- erous, trusting impulse to read the unsunned depths of a young girl's nature, which I can look tlirougli, as the balloon-voyagers tell us they see from their hanging- baskets through the ■ translucent waters which the keen- est eye of such as sail over them in ships might strive to pierce in vain ? TThy has the child trusted me with such artless confessions, — self-revelations, which might be whispered by trembling lips, under the veil of twihglit, in sacred confessionals, but which I cannot look at in the light of day without a feeling of wronging a sacred confidence ? To all this the answer seemed plain enough after a little thought. Slie did not know how fearfully she had 52 LITTLE CLASSICS. disclosed lierself; she was too profoundly mnocent. Her soul was no more ashamed than the fair shapes that walked in Eden without a thought of over-liberal love- liness. Having nobody to tell her story to, — having, as she said in her verses, no musical instrument to laugh and cry with her, — notlmig, in short, but i^ie language of pen and pencil, — all the veiniugs of her nature were impressed on these pages, as those of a fresh leaf are transferred to the blank sheets which enclose it. It was the same thing which I remember seeing beautifully shown in a child of some four or five years we had one day at our boarding-house. This child was a deaf-mute. But its soul had the mncr sense that answers to hearuig, and the shaping capacity which through natural organs realizes itself in words. Only it had to talk with its face alone ; and such speaking eyes, such rapid alternations of feeling and shifting expressions of thought as flitted over its lace, 1 have never seen in any other human countenance. I found the soul of Iris in the book that lay open be- fore me. Sometimes it was a poem that held it, some- times a drawing, — angel, arabesque, caricature, or a mere hieroglyphic symbol of which I could nuikc noth- ing. A rag of cloud on one page, as I remember, with a streak of red zigzagging out of it across the paper as naturally as a crack runs through a china bowl. On the next page a dead bird, — some little favorite, I sup- pose ; for it was worked out with a special love, and I saw on the leaf tliat sign with which once or twice in my life I have luid a letter scaled, — a round spot where llic, paper is sliglitly cornigated, and, if there is writing IRIS. 53 there, the letters are somewhat faint and blurred. Most of the pages were surrounded with emblematic traceries. It was strange to me at first to see how often she intro- duced those homelier wild-llowers which we call weeds, — for it seemed there was none of them too humble for her to love, and none too little cared for by Nature to be without its beauty for her artist eye and pencil. By the side of the garden-flowers, — of Spring's curled darlmgs, the hyacinths, of rosebuds, dear to sketching maidens, of flower-de-luces and morning-glories, — nay, oftener than these, and more tenderly caressed by the colored brush that rendered them, — were those com- mon growths wliich fling themselves to be crushed under our feet and our wheels, making thems'elves so cheap in this perpetual martyrdom that we forget each of them is a ray of the Divine beauty. Yellow japanned buttercups and star-disked dande- lions, — just as we see them lying in the grass, like sparks that have leaped from the kindling sun of sum- mer; the profuse daisy-like flower wliich whitens the fields, to the gi-eat disgust of liberal shepherds, yet seems fair to loving eyes, with its button-like mound of gold set round with milk-white rays ; the tall-stemmed succory, setting its pale blue flowers aflame, one after another, sparingly, as the lights are kindled in the can- delabra of decayuig palaces where the heirs of dethroned monarchs are dying out ; the red and white clovers ; the broad, flat leaves of the plantain, — " the wliite man's foot," as the Indians called it, — the wiry, jointed stems of that iron creeping plant which we call " knot- grass'"' and which loves its life so dearly that it is next to 54 LITTLE CLASSICS. impossible to murder it with a hoe^ as it clings to tlie cracks of the pavement ; — all these plants, and many more, she wove into her fanciful garlands and borders. — On one of the pages were some musical notes. I touched them from curiosity on a piano belonging to one of our boarders. Strange ! There arc passages that I have heard before, plaintive, full of some hidden mean- ing, as if they were gasping for words to interpret them. She must have heard the strains that have so excited my curiosity, coming from my neighbor's chamber. The illuminated border she had traced round the page that held these notes took the place of the words they seemed to be aching for. Above, a long monotonous sweep of waves, leaden-hue'd, anxious and jaded and sullen, if you can imagine such an expression in water. On one side an Alphic needle, as it were, of black basalt, girdled with snow. On the other a threaded waterfall. The red morning-tint tliat shone in the drops had a strange look, — one would say the cliff was bleeding ; — perhaps she did not mean it. Below, a stretch of sand, and a solitary bird of prey, with his Avings spread over some unseen object. — And on the very next page a procession wound along, after the fashion of that on the title-page of Fuller's " Holy War," in which I recognized without difficulty every boarder at our table in all the glory of the most resplendent caricature, — three only excepted, — tlic Little Gentleman, myself, and, one other. I confess I did expect to see something that would re- mind nie of tlie girl's little delonncd neighbor, if not portraits of him. — There is a left arm again, though; — no, — that is from the "Fighting Gladiator," — the lEIS. 00 " Jetine Heros combaitant" of the Louvre; — tliere is the broad ring of the shield. From a cast, doubtless. [The separate casts of the "Gladiator's" arm look im- mense ; but in its place the limb looks light, almost slender, — such is the perfection of that miraculous marble. I never felt as if I touched the life of the old Greeks until I looked on that statue.] — Here is some- thmg very odd, to be sure. An Eden of all the humped and crooked creatures ! What could have been in her head when she worked out such a fantasy ? She has contrived to give them all beauty or dignity or melan- choly grace. A Bactrian camel lying under a palm. A dromedary flashing up the sands, — spray of the dry ocean sailed by the "ship of the desert." A herd of buffaloes, uncouth, shaggy -maned, heavy in the forehand, light in the hind-quarter. [The buflPalo is the lion of the ruminants.] And there is a Norman horse, with his huge, rough collar, echohig, as it were, the natural form of the other beast. And here are twisted serpents ; and stately swans, with answermg curves in their bowed necks, as if they had snake's blood under their white feathers ; and grave, high -shouldered herons, standing on one foot like cripples, and looking at life round them with the cold stare of monumental effigies. — A very odd page indeed ! Not a creature in it without a curve or a twist, and not one of them a mean figure to look at. You can make your own comment ; I am fanciful, you know. I believe she is trying to idealize what we vul- garly call deformity, which she strives to look at in the light of one of Nature's eccentric curves, balongmg to her system of beauty, as the hyperbola and parabola be- 5b LITTLE CLASSICS. long to the conic sections, though we cannot see them as symmetrical and entire figures, like the circle and elli])se. At any rate, I cannot help referring this paradise of twisted spines to some idea floating in her head con- nected with her friend whom Nature has warped in the moulding. — That is nothing to another transcendental fancy of mine. I believe her soul thinks itself in his little crooked body at times, — if it does not really get freed or half freed from her own. Did you ever see a case of catalepsy ? You know what I mean, — tran- sient loss of sense, will, and motion; body and limbs takmg any position in which they are put, as if they be- longed to a lay -figure. She had been talking with him and listening to him one day when the boarders moved from the table nearly all at once. But she sat as before, her cheek resting on her hand, her amber eyes wide open and still. I went to her, — she was breathing as usual, and her heart was beating naturally enough, — but she did not answer. I bent her arm; it was as i)lastic as softened wax, and kept the place I gave it. — This will never do, though, — and I sprinkled a few drops of Water on her forehead. She started and looked round. — I have been in a dream, — she said ; — 1 feel as if all my strength were in this arm ; — give me your hand ! — She took my right hand in her left, which looked soft and white enough, but — Good Heaven ! 1 believe she will crack my bones ! All the nervous power in her body must have flaslicd through those muscles ; as when a crazy lady snaps her iron window-ljars, — she who could liardly glove herself when in her counnon health. Iris tiinu'd pale, aiid the tears came to her eyes; — she saw IRIS. 57 slie had given pain. Then she trembled, and might have fallen hut for me ; — the poor little soul had been in one of those trances that belong to the spiritual pathology of higher natures, mostly those of women. To come back to this wondrous book of Iris. Two pages faced each other wliich I took for symbolical expressions of two states of mind. On the left hand, a bright blue sky washed over the page, specked with a single bird. No trace of earth, but still the wiuged creature seemed to be soaring upward and upward. Facing it, one of those black dungeons such as Piranesi alone of all men has pic- tured. I am sure she must have seen those awful prisons of his, out of which the Opium-Eater got his nightmare vision, described by another as " cemeteries of departed greatness, where monstrous and forbidden things are crawling and twining their sluny convolutions among mouldering bones, broken sculpture, and mutilated in- scriptions." Such a black dungeon faced the page that held the blue sky and the single bird ; at the bottom of it something was coiled, — what, and whether meant for dead or alive, my eyes could not make out. I told you the young girl's soul was in this book. As I turned over the last leaves I could not help starting. There were all sorts of faces among the arabesques which laughed and scowled in the borders that ran round the pages. They had mostly the outline of childish or wo- manly or manly beauty, without very distinct individual- ity. But at last it seemed to me that some of them were taking on a look not wholly unfamiliar to me ; there were features that did not seem new. — Can it be so ? Was there ever such innocence in a creature so full of life ? 3-s 58 LITTLE CLASSICS. She tells lier licai-t's secrets as a tliree-years-old cliild be- trays itself without need of being questioned ! This was no common miss, such as are turned out in scores from the young-lady-factories, with parchments warranting them accomplished and virtuous, — in case anybody should question the fact. I began to understand her; — and what is so charming as to read the secret of a real femme incomprise ? — for such there are, though they are not the ones who think themselves uncomprehended women. I found these stanzas in the book, among many others. I give them as characterizdjig the tone of her sadder mo- ments : UNDER THE VIOLETS. Her hands are cold ; licr face is white ; No more her pulses came and go ; Her eyes arc shut to lilc and light ; — Fold the white vesture, snow on snow. And lay her where the violets blow. But not beneath a graven stone. To plead for tears with alien eyes ; A slender cross of wood alone Shall say, that here a maiden lies In peace beneath the peaceful skies. And gray old trees of hugest limb Sliall wheel their circling shadows round To make the scorching sunlight dim That drinks Ihe greenness from the ground. And di-op their dead leaves on her mound. IRIS. 59 When o'er their boughs the squirrels run, And through their leaves the robins call, And, ripening in the autumn sun. The acorns and the chestnuts fall. Doubt not that she will heed them all. For her the morning choir shall sing Its matins from the branches high. And every minstrel-voice of spring. That trills beneath the April sky. Shall gi-cet her -with its earliest cry. "When, turning round their dial-track. Eastward the lengthening shadows pass. Her little mourners, clad in black. The crickets, sliding through the grass. Shall pipe for her an evening mass. At last the rootlets of the trees Shall find the prison where she lies. And bear the buried dust they seize In leaves and blossoms to the skies. So may the soul that warmed it rise ! If any, born of kindlier blood, Should ftsk, What maiden lies below ? Say only this : A tender bud. That tried to blossom in the snow. Lies withered where the violets blow. 1 locked the book and sighed as I laid it doMH. The world is always ready to receive talent with open arms. Very often it does not know what to do with genius. Talent is a docile creature. It bows its head 60 LITTLE CLASSICS. meekly while the world slips the collar over it. It backs into the shafts like a lamb. It di-aws its load cheerfully, and is patient of the bit and of the whip. But genius is always impatient of its harness ; its wild blood makes it hard to train. Iris has told me that the Scottish gift of second-sight runs in her family, and that she is afraid she has it. Those who are so endowed look upon a well man and see a shroud wi'apt about him. According to the degree to which it covers him, his death will be near or more re- mote. It is an awful faculty ; but science gives one too much like it. Luckily for our friends, most of us who have the scientific second-sight school ourselves not to betray our knowledge by word or look. Day by day, as the Little Gentleman comes to the ta- ble, it seems to me that the shadow of some approaching change falls darker and darker over his countenance. Na- ture is struggling with something, and I am afraid she is under in the wrestling-match. You do not care much, porliaps, for my particular conjectures as to the nature of liis dilliculty. I should say, however, from the sudden flushes to wliich he is subject, and certain other marks wliich, as an expert, I know how to interpret, that his heart was in trouble ; but then he presses his hand to the right side, as if there were the centre of his uneasiness. When I say difficulty about the heart, I do not mean any of those sentimental maladies of that organ which figure more largely in romances than on the returns wliich furnish our Bills of Mortality. 1 mean some IRIS. 61 actual change in tlie organ itself, which may carry him oif by slow and painful degrees, or strike him down with one huge pang and only time for a single shriek, — as when the shot broke through the brave Captain Nolan's breast, at the head of the Light Brigade at Balaklava, and with a loud cry he dropped dead from his saddle. I thought it only fair to say something of what I ap- prehended to some who were entitled to be warned. The landlady's face fell when I mentioned my fears. Poor man ! — she said. — And will leave the best room empty ! Has n't he got any sisters or nieces or anybody to see to his things, if he should be took away ? Such a siglit of cases, full of everything ! Never thought of his failin' so suddiu. A complication of diseases, she ex- pected. Liver-complaint one of 'em ? I must tell Iris that I think her poor friend is in a precarious state. She seems nearer to him than anybody. I did tell her. Whatever emotion it produced, she kept a still face, except, perhaps, a little trembling of the lip. — Could I be certain that there was any mortal com- plaint ? — Wliy, no, I could not be certain ; but it looked alarming to me. — He shall have some of my life, — she said. I suppose this to have been a fancy of hers, of a kind of magnetic power she could give out ; — at any rate, I cannot help thinking she wills her strength away from herself, for she has lost vigor and color from that day. I have sometimes thought he gained the force she lost ; but this may have been a whim, very probably. One day slie came suddenly to me, looking deadly pale. Her lips moved, as if she were speaking ; but I could not 62 LTTTLE CLASSICS. at first "hear a ^'ord. Her luiir looked strangely, as if lifting itself, and Ler eyes were full of wild light. She sunk upon a chair, and I thought was falling into one of her trances. Something had frozen her blood with fear ; I thought, from what she said, half audibly, that she believed she had seen a shrouded figure. That night, at about eleven o'clock, I was sent for to see the Little Gentleman, who was taken suddenly ill. Bridget, the servant, went before me with a light. The doors were both unfastened, and I found myself ushered, without hmdrance, into the dim light of the mysterious apartment I had so longed to enter The house was deadly still, and the night- wind, blowing through an open window, struck me as from a field of ice, at the moment I passed back again into the creaking cor- ridor. As I turned into the common passage, a white figure, holding a lamp, stood full before me. I thought at first it was one of those images made to stand in niches and liold a liglit in their hands. But the ilhision was momentary, and my eyes speedily recovered from the shock of the bright flame and snowy drapery to see that the figure was a breathing one. It was Iris, in one of Ijcr statue-trances. She had come down, whether sleep- ing or Avaking, I knew not at first, led by an instinct tliat told her she was wanted, — or, possibly, having overheard and interpreted the sound of our movements, — or, it may b(\ having learned from the servant that there was trouble which might ask for a Avoman's hand. I sometimes think women have a sixtli sense, which tells them tiiat otliers, whom they cannot see or liear, are in suffering. How surely we lliid them at the bedside of the tlviii'^! IIow IRIS. G3 strongly does Nature plead for them, that we should draw our first breath iu their arms, as we sigii away our last upon their faithful breasts ! With white., bare feet, her hair loosely knotted, dressed as the starUght knew her, and the morning when she rose from slumber, save that she had twisted a scarf round her long dress, she stood still as a stone before me, holding in one hand a lighted coil of wax-taper, and in the other a silver goblet. I held my own lamp close to her, as if she had been a figure of marble, and she did not stir. There was no breach of propriety then, to scare the Poor Relation with and breed scandal out of. She had been " warned in a dream," doubtless suggested by her waking knowledge and the sounds which had reached her exalted sense. There was nothing more natural than that she should have risen and girdled her waist, and lighted her taper, and found the silver goblet with "Ex dono piqnlloriim" on it, from which she had taken her milk and possets through all her childish years, and so gone blindly out to find her place at the bedside, — a Sister of Charity without the cap and rosary ; nay, unknowing whither her feet were leading her, and with wide, blank eyes seeing notliing but the vision that beckoned her along. — Well, I must wake her from her slumber or trance. — I called her name, but she did not heed my voice. The Devil put it into my bead that I would kiss one handsome young girl before I died, and now was my chance. She never would know it, and I should cany the remembrance of it with me into the grave, and a rose perhaps grow out of my dust, as a brier did out of Lord 64 LITTLE CLASSICS. Lovel's, in memory of that immortal moment ! Would it wake lier from her trance ? and would she see me in the flush of my stolen triumph, and hate and despise me ever after ? Or should I carry off my trophy undetected, and always from that time say to myself, Avlien I looked upon her in the glory of youth and the splendor of beauty, " My lips have touched those roses and made their sweet- ness mine forever " ? You think my cheek was flushed, perhaps, and my eyes were glittering with this midnight flash of opportunity. On the contrary, I beheve I was pale, very pale, and I know that I trembled. Ah, it is the pale passions that arc the fiercest, — it is the violence of the chill that gives the measure of the fever ! The fighting-boy of our school always turned white when he went out to a pitched battle with the bully of some neighboring village; but we knew what his bloodless checks meant, — the blood was all in his stout heart, — he was a slight boy, and there was not enougli to raddcn his face and fill his heart both at once. Perhaps it is making a good deal of a slight matter, to tell the internal' conflicts in the heart of a quiet person something more than juvenile and something less than senile, as to whether he should be guilty of an impro- priety, and if he were, whether he would get caught in his indiscretion. And yet the memory of the kiss that Margaret of Scotland gave to Alain Chartier has lasted four hundred years, and put it into the head of many an ill-l'avorcd poet, whell)cr Victoria or Eugenic would do as niucii by him, if she happened to ])ass liiui M'hen he was asleep. And liave we ever forgotten that the fresh clicek of the young John Milton tingled under the lijis of IRIS. 65 some liigli-bom Italian beauty, wlio, I believe, did not think to leave her card by the side of the slumbering youth, but has bequeathed the memory of her pretty deed to all coming time ? The sound of a kiss is not so loud as that of a cannon, but its echo lasts a deal longer. There is one disadvantage which the man of philo- sophical habits of mind suffers, as compared with the man of action. While he is taking an enlarged and rational view of the matter before him, he lets his chance slip through his fingers. Iris woke up, of her own ac- cord, before I had made up my mind what I was going to do about it. When I remember how charmingly she looked, I don't blame myself at all for being tempted ; but if I had been fool enough to yield to the impulse, I should certainly have been ashamed to tell of it. She did not know what to make of it, finding herself there alone, in such guise aud me staring at her. She looked down at her white •robe and bare feet, and colored, — then at the goblet she held in her hand, — then at the taper ; and at last her thoughts seemed to clear up. I know it all, — she said. — He is going to die, and I must go and sit by him. Nobody will care for him as I shall, and I have nobody else to care for. I assured her that nothing was needed for him that night but rest, and persuaded her that the excitement of her presence could only do harm. Let him sleep, and he would very probably awake better in the morning. There was nothhig to be said, for I spoke with authority ; and the young girl glided away with noiseless step and souijht her own chamber. LITTLE CLASSICS. XI. On my second visit, I found Iris sitting by the Little Gentleman's pillow. To my disappointment, the room was darkened. He did not like the light, and would have the shutters kept nearly closed. It was good enough for me ; — what busmess had I to be indulging my curiosity, when I had nothing to do but to exercise such skill as I possessed for the benefit of my patient ? There was not much to be said or done in such a case ; but I spoke as encouragingly as I could, as I think we are always bound to do. He did not seem to pay any very anxious attention, but the poor girl listened as if her own life and more than her own life were depending on the words I uttered. Slie follow^^d me out of the room, when I had got through my visit. How long ? — she said. Uncertain. Any time; to-day, — next week, — next month, — I answered. — One of those cases where the issue is not doubtful, but may be sudden or slow. The women of the house were kind, as women always are in trouble. But Iris pretended that nobody could spare the time as well as she, and kept lier place, hour after hour, until the landlady insisted that she 'd be kill- in' herself, if she begun at that rate, 'n' haf to give up, if she did n't want to be clean beat out in less 'n a week. At tlic table we were graver than coiiiniou. The higli chair was set back against the wall, and a gap left be- tween that of the young girl and her nearest neighbor's on the right. Jiut the next m.orning, to our great sur- lEis. G7 prise, that good-looking young Marylander bad very qui- etly moved his own chair to the vacant place. I thouglit he was creeping down that way, but I was not prepared for a leap spanning such a tremendous parenthesis of boarders as this change of position included. There was no denying that the youth and maiden were a handsome pair as they sat side by side. But whatever the young girl may have thought of her new neighbor, she never seemed for a moment to forget the poor little friend who had been taken from her side. There are women, and even girls, with whom it is of no use to talk. One might 'IS well reason with a bee as to the form of his cell, or with an oriole as to the construction of his swdnging nest, as try to stir these creatures from their own way of. do- ing their own work. It was not a question with Iris, whether she was entitled by any special relation or by the fitness of things to play the part of a nurse. She was a wilful creature that must have her way in this matter. And it so proved that it called for much pa- tience and long endurance to carry through the duties, say rather the kind offices, the painful pleasures, that she had ciiosen as her share in the household where accident had thrown her. She had that. genius of ministration which is the special province of certain women, marked even among their helpfid sisters by a soft, low voice, a quiet footfall, a light hand, a cheering smile, and a ready self-surrender to the objects of their care, which such trifles as their own food, sleep, or habits of any kind never presume to interfere with. Day after day, and too often through the long watches of the night, slie kept her place by the pillow. — That t>8 LITTLE CLASSICS. girl will kill herself over me, Sir, — said llie poor Lit (Ic Gentleman to me, one day, — she will kill herself, Sir, if you don't call in all the resources of your art to get me off as soon as may be. I shall wear her out. Sir, with sitting in this close chamber and watching when she ought to be sleeping, if you leave me to the care of Nature without dosing me. This was rather strange pleasantry, under the circum- stances. But there are certain persons whose existence is so out of parallel with the larger laws in the midst of which it is moving, that life becomes to them as death and death as life. XII. The apron-strings of an American mother are made of india-rubber. Her boy belongs where he is wanted ; and that young Marylander of ours spoke for all our young men, when he said that his home was wherever the stars and stripes blew over his head. And that leads me to say a few words of this young gentleman, who made that audacious movement, — jump- ing over the seats of I don't know how many boarders to put himself in the place which the Little Gentleman's absence had left vacant at the side of Iris. When a young man is found habitually at the side of any one given young lady, — when he lingers where she stays, and liastens when she leaves, — when his eyes follo\* her as she moves, and rest upon her when she is still, — wlicn he begins to grow a little timid, he who was so bold, and a little pensive, he who was so gay, whenever a(;cidciit liiids Ihciu alone, — when lie thinks veiy often IRIS. 69 of the given young lady, and names her very sel- dom, What do you say about it, my charming young expert in that sweet science in which, perhaps, a long experi- ence is not the first of qualifications ? But we don't know anything about this young man, except that he is good-looking, and somewhat high- spirited, and strong-limbed, and has a generous style of nature, — all very promising, but by no means proving that he is a proper lover for Iris, whose heart we turned inside out when we opened that sealed book of hers. Ah, my dear young friend! When your mamma — then, if you will believe it, a very slight young lady, with very pretty hair and figure — came and told ' her mamma that your papa had — had — asked No, no, no ! she could n't say it ; but her mother — O, the depth of maternal sagacity ! — guessed it all without another word ! — When your mother, I say, came and told her mother she was engaged, and your grandmother told your grandfather, how much did they know of the intimate nature of the young gentleman to whom she had pledged her existence ? I will not be so hard as to ask how much your respected mamma knew at that time of the intimate nature of your respected papa, though, if we should compare a young girl's man-as-she- thinks-him with a forty-summered matron's man-as-she- finds-hlm, I have my dcjubts as to whether the second would be a fac-simile of the first in most cases. I have been a good while coming at a secret, for wliich I wished to prepare you before- telling it. T think there 70 LITTLE CLASSICS. is a kindly feeling growing np between Iris and our young Marylander, Not that I suppose there is any distinct understanding between them, but that the atfiuity which has drawn him from tlie remote corner where he sat to the side of the young girl is quietly bringing their two natures together. Just now she is all given up to another ; but when he no longer calls upon her daily thoughts and cares, I warn you not to be surprised, if this bud of friendship open like tlie evening prinu'ose, with a sound as of a sudden stolen kiss, and lo ! the flower of full-blown love lies unfolded before you. XIII. And now the days had come for our little friend, whose whims and weaknesses had interested us, per- haps, as much as his better traits, to make ready for that long journey which is easier to the cripple than to the strong man, and on which none enters so willingly as he who has borne the life-long load of infirmity during liis earthly pilgrimage. The divinity-student was exercised in his mind about the Little Gentleman, and, in the kindness of his heart, — for he was a good young man, — and in the strength of his convictions, — for he took it for granted that lie and his crowd were right, and other folks and their crowd were wrong, — lie determined to bring the Little Gentle- man round to his faith before lie died, if he could. So lie sent word to the sick man, that he should be pleased to visit him and have some conversation with him ; and received for answer that he would be welcome. IRIS. 71 The diviiiit^'-studeiit made liiin a visit, tlicrcforc, and had a somewhat remarkable interview witli him, whieh I sliall briefly relate, without attempting to justify the positix)ns taken by the Little Gentleman. He found him weak, but calm. Iris sat feilent by his pillow. After the usual preliminaries, the divinity-student said, in a kind way, that he was sorry to find him in failing health, that he felt concerned for his soul, and was anxious to assist him in making preparations for the great change awaiting him. I thank you. Sir, — said the Little Gentleman ; — per- mit me to ask you, what makes you think I am not ready for it. Sir, and that you can do anything to help me. Sir ? I address you only as a fellow-man, — said the divin- ity-student, — and therefore a fellow-sinner. I am not a man, Sir! — said the Little Gentleman. — I was born into this world the wreck of a man, and I shall not be judged with a race to which I do not belong. Look at this ! — he said, and held up his with- ered arm. — See there ! — and he pointed to his mis- shapen extremities. — Lay your hand here ! — and he laid his own on the region of his misplaced heart. — I have known nothing of the life of your race. TVlien I first came to my consciousness, I found myself an object of pity, or a sight to show. The first strange child I ever remember hid its face and would not come near me. I was a broken-hearted as well as broken- bodied boy. I grew into the emotions of ripening youth, and all that I could have loved shrank from my presence. I became a man in years, and had nothing i'Z TJTTLE CLASSICS. in common with manhood but its longings. My life is the dying pang of a worn-out race, and I shall go down alone into the dust, out of this world of men and wo- men, without ever knowing the fellowship of the one or the love of the other. I will not die with a lie rat- tlmg in my throat. If another state of being has any- thing worse in store for me, I have had a long appren- ticeship to give me strength that I may bear it. I don't believe it, Sir ! I have too much faith for that. God has not left me wholly without comfort, even here. I love this old place where I was born ; — the heart of the world beats under the three hills of Boston, Sir ! I love this great land, with so many tall men in it, and so many good, noble women. — His eyes turned to the silent figure by his pillow. — I have learned to accept meekly what has been allotted to me, but I cannot hon- estly say that I think my sin has been greater than my suftcring. I bear the ignorance and the evil-doing of whole generations in my single person. I never drew a breath of air nor took a step that was not a punish- ment for another's fault. I may have had many wrong thoughts, but I cannot have done many wrong deeds, — for my cage has been a narrow one, and I have paced it alone. I have looked through the bars and seen the great world of men busy and happy, but I had no part in their doings. I have known wliat it was to dream of the great })assions ; but since my motlier kissed me before she died, no woman's lips have pressed my cheek, — nor ever will. The young girl's eyes glittered with a sudden film, and almost without a thought, ))iit with a warm lEis. 73 human instinct that, rushed up into her face with her heart's blood, she bent over and kissed him. It was the sacrament that washed out the memory of long years of bitterness, and I should hold it an unworthy thought to defend her. The Little Gentleman repaid her with the only tear any of us ever saw him shed. ^ The divinity-student rose from his place, and, turning away from the sick man, walked to the other side of the room, where he bowed his head and was still. All the questions he had meant to ask had faded from his mem- ory. The tests he had prepared by which to judge of his fellow-creature's fitness for heaven seemed to have lost their virtue. He could trust the crippled child of sorrow to the Infinite Parent. The kiss of the fair- haired girl had been like a sign from heaven, that an- gels watched over him whom he was presuming but a moment before to summon before the tribunal of his private judgment. Shall I pray with you ? — he said, after a pause. — A little before he would have said, Shall I pray /or you ? — The Christian religion, as taught by its Founder, is full of sentiment. So we must not blame the divinity-stu- dent, if he was overcome by those yearnings of human sympathy which predominate so much more in the ser- mons of the Master than in the writings of his succes- sors, and which have made the parable of the Prodigal Son the consolation of mankind, as it has been the stumbling-block of all exclusive doctrines. Pray ! — said the Little Gentleman. The divinity -student prayed, in low, tender tones, that VOL. VII. 4 7-1 LITTLE CLASSICS God ^'ould look on liis servant lying helpless at the feet of his mercy ; that he would remember his long years of bondage in the flesh ; that he would deal gently with the bruised reed. Thou hast visited the sins of the fathers upon this their child. 0, turn aAvay from him the penalties of his own transgressions ! Thou hast laid upon him, from infancy, ilie cross which thy stronger children are called upon to take up ; and now that he is fainting under it, be Thou his stay, and do Thou suc- cor him that is tempted ! Let his manifold infirmities come between him and Thy judgment ; in ^^Tatli remem- ber mercy ! If his eyes are not opened to all thy truth, let thy compassion lighten the darkness that rests upon him, even as it came through the word of thy Son to blind Bartimeus, who sat by the wayside, begging ! Many more petitions he uttered, but all in the same subdued tone of tenderness. In the presence of helpless suffering, and in the fast-darkening shadow of the De- stroyer, he forgot all but his Christian humanity, and cared more about consoling his fellow-man than making a proselyte of him. This was the last prayer to which the Little Gentle- man ever listened. Some change was raj)idly comhig over iiim during this last hour of which I have been speaking. The excitement of pleading his cause before his self-elected spiritual adviser, — the emotion wliieh overcame him, when the young girl obeyed the sudden impulse of her feelings and pressed her lips to his cheek, ■ — tlic thonglits that mastered liim wliile the divinity- stiident ])oiir(^d out his soul for him in prayer, might well hurry on the inevitable moment. When the divin- / IRIS. 75 ity-studcnt had uttered liis last petition, commending him to the Father through his Son's intercession, he turned to look upon him before leaving his chamber. His face was changed. — There is a language of the human countenance which we all understand without an mterpreter, though the hneaments belong to the rudest savage that ever stammered in an unknown barbaric dialect. By the stillness of the sharpened features, by the blankness of the tearless eyes, by the fixedness of the smileless mouth, by the deadening tints, by the con- tracted brow, by the dilating nostril, we know that the soul is soon to leave its mortal tenement, and is already closing up its windows and putting out its fires. — Such was the aspect of the face upon which the divinity-stu- dent looked, after the brief silence which followed his prayer. The change had been rapid, though not that abrupt one which is liable to happen at any moment in these cases. — The sick man looked towards him. — Earewell, — he said — I thank you. Leave me alone with her. When the divinity-student had gone, and the Little Gentleman found himself alone with Iris, he lifted his hand to his neck, and took from it, suspended by a slender chain, a quaint, antique-looking key, — the same key I had once seen him holding. He gave tliis to her, and pointed to a carved cabinet opposite his bed, one of those that had so attracted my curious eyes and set me wondering as to what it might con- tain. Open it, — he said, ^ and hght the lamp. — The young girl walked to the cabinet and unlocked the door. 70 LITTLE CLASSICS. A deep recess appeared, lined with black velvet, against which stood in white relief an ivory crucifix. A silver lamp hung over it. She lighted the lamp and came back to the bedside. The dying man fixed his eyes upon the figure of the dying Saviour. — Give me your haud, — he said ; and Iris placed her right hand in his left. So they remained, until presently his eyes lost their meaning, though they still remained vacantly fixed upon the white image. Yet he held the young girl's hand firmly, as if it were leading him through some deep-shadowed valley and it was all he could cling to. But presently an in- voluntary muscular contraction stole over him, and his terrible dying grasp held the poor girl as if she were wedged in an engine of torture. She pressed her lips together and sat still. The inexorable hand held her tigiiter and tighter, until she felt as if her own slender fingers would be crushed in its gripe. It was one of the tortures of the Inquisition she was sufi'ering, and she could not stir from her place. Then, in her great an- guish, she, too, cast her eyes upon that dying figure, and, looking upon its pierced hands and feet and side and lacerated forehead, she felt that slie also must suffer uncomplahiing. In the moment of her sharpest pain she did not forget the duties of her tender office, but dried the dying man's moist forehead with her handkerchief, even while the dews of agony were glistening on her own. How long this lasted she never could tell. Time and tliii'si are hvo things you and I talk about; but the victims whom holy men and righteous judges used to stretch on tlieir engines knew better wliat they meant than you or I ! — Wliat is that great bucket of water IRIS. 77 for ? said the Marchioness de Brinvilliers, before she was placed on the rack. — For you to drink, — said the tor- turer to the litt/le woman. — She could not think that it would take such a flood to quench the fire in her and so keep her alive for her confession. The torturer knew better than she. After a time not to be counted in minutes, as the clock measures, — without any warning, — there came a swift change of his features ; his face turned wliite, as the waters whiten when a sudden breath passes over their still surface ; the muscles instantly relaxed, and Iris, released at once from her care for the sufferer and from his unconscious grasp, fell senseless, with a feeble cry, — the only utterance of her long agony. ■ Iris went into mourning for the Little Gentle- man. Although he left the bulk of his property, by will, to a public institution, he added a codicil, by which he disposed of various pieces of property as tokens of kind remembrance. It was in this way I became the possessor of the wonderful instrument I have spoken -of, wliich had been purchased for him out of an Italian convent. The landlady was comforted with a small legacy. The following extract relates to Iris : " in consideration of her manifold acts of kmdness, but only in token of grateful remembrance, and by no means as a reward for services which cannot be compensated, a certain mes- suage, with all the land thereto appertaining, situate in Street, at the North End, so called, of Boston, aforesaid, the same being the house in which I was born, but now inhabited by several families, and known as 78 LITTLE CLASSICS. ' the Rookeiy.' " Iris liad also the crucifix, the por- trait, and the red-jewelled ring. The funeral or death's- head ring was buried with him. XIV. Some of the boarders were of opinion that Iris did not return tlic undisguised attentions of the handsome young Mary lander. Instead of fixing her eyes steadily on him, as she used to look upon the Little Gentleman, she would turn them away, as if to avoid his own. Tlicy often went to church together, it is true ; but nobody, of course, supposes there is any relation between religious sympathy and those wretched " sentimental " move- ments of the human heart upon which it is commonly agreed that nothing better is based than society, civiliza- tion, friendship, the relation of husband and wife, and of parent and child, and which many people must think were singularly overrated by the Teacher of Nazareth, whose whole life, as I said before, was full of sentiment, loving tills or that young man, pardonhig this or that sinner, weeping over the dead, mourning for the doomed city, blessing, and perhajjs kissing, the little children, — so that the Gospels are still cried over almost as often as the last work of fiction ! "But one fine Juno morning there rumbled up to llio door of our boarding-house a hack containing a lady inside and a trunk on the outside. It was our friend llie lady-})atroness of Miss Iris, the same Avho had been called by hor admiring pastor "The M()d<;l of all the Virtues." Unec a wcv.k slu; liad written a letter, in a IRIS. 79 rather formal hand, but full of good advice, to li(;r young charge. And uow ylie had come to carry her away, 1 hiiiking that she had learned all she was likely to learn under her present course of teacliing. The Model, how- ever, was to stay awhile, — a week, or more, — before they should leave together. Iris was obedient, as she was bound to be. She was respectful, grateful, as a child is Avith a just, but not tender parent. Yet something was ^vTong. She had one of her trances, and became statue -Uke, as before, only the day after the Model's arrival. She was wan and silent, tasted nothing at table, smiled as if by a forced effort, and often looked vaguely away from those who were looking at her, her eyes just glazed with the shining moisture of a tear that must not be allowed to gather and fall. Was it grief at parting from the place where her strange friendship had grown up with the Little Gentleman ? Yet she seemed to have become reconciled to his loss, and rather to have a deep feeling of gratitude that she had been permitted to care for him in his last weary days. The Sunday after the Model's arrival, that lady had an attack of headache, and was obliged to shut herself up in a darkened room alone. Our two young friends .took the opportunity to go together to the Church of the Galileans. They said but little §oing, — " collecting their thoughts " for the service, I devoutly hope. My kind good friend the pastor preached that day one of his sermons that make us all feel like brothers and sisters, and his text was that affectionate one from John, " My little children, let us not love in word, neither in tongue. 80 LITTLE CLASSICS. but m deed and iii tnitli." When Iris and lier friend came out of cliurcli, tliey were both pale, and walked a space without speaking. At last the young man said, — You and I are not little children, Iris ! She looked in his face an instant, as if startled, for there was something strange in the tone of his voice. She smiled faintly, but spoke never a word. In deed and in truth. Iris, What shall a poor girl say or do, when a strong man falters in his speech before lier, and can do nothing better than hold out his hand to finish his broken sen- tence ? The poor girl said nothing, but quietly laid her un- gloved hand in his, — the little soft white hand w^hich had ministered so tenderly and suffered so patiently. The blood came back to the young man's cheeks, as he lifted it to his lips, even as they walked there in the street, touched it gently with them, and said, — " It is mine ! " Iris did not contradict him. XV. The seasons pass by so rapidly, that I am startled to thuik how much has happened since these events I was describing. Those two young people would insist on having their own way about their own afftiirs, notwith- standing tlie good lady, so justly called the Model, insisted that the age of twenty-five years was as early as any discreet young lady should think of incurring the IRIS. 81 responsibilities, etc., etc. Long before Iris liad reached that age, she was the wife of a young Maryland engineer, directing some of the vast constructions of his native State, — where he was growing rich fast enough to be able to decline that famous liussiau offer which would liave made him a kind of nabob in a few years. Iris does not write verse often, nowadays, but she sometimes draws. The last sketch of hers I have seen in my Southern visits was of two children, a boy and girl, the youngest holding a silver goblet, like the one she held that evening when I — I was so struck with her statue- like beauty. If in the later summer months you find the grass marked w^ith footsteps around a grave on Copp's Hill, and flowers scattered over it, you may be sure that Iris is here on her annual visit to the home of her childhood and that excellent lady whose only fault was, that Nature had written out her list of virtues on ruled paper, and forgotten to rub out the lines. One thing more I must mention. Being on the Com- mon, last Sunday, I was attracted by the cheerfvil spec- tacle of a well-dressed and somewhat youthful papa wheeling a very elegant little carriage containing a stout baby. A buxom young lady watched them from one of the stone seats, wdth an interest which could be nothing less than maternal. I at once recognized my old friend, the young fellow whom we called John. He was de- lighted to see me, introduced me to " Madam," and would have the lusty infant out of the carriage, and hold him up for me to look at. Now, then, — he said to the two-year-old, — show the gentleman how you hit from the shoulder. — Whereupon 4* p 8:i LITTLE CLASSICS. tlie little imp piislicd his fat fist straight inio my eye, to his father's mteuse satisfaction. Fust-rate little chap, — said the papa. — Chip of the old block. Regl'r little Johnny, you know. I was so much pleased to find the young fellow settled in life, and -pushing about one of "them little articles" he had seemed to want so much, that I took my " pun- ishment " at the hands of the infant pugilist with great equanimity. — And how is the old boarding-house ? I asked. A 1, he answered. Painted and papered as good as new. Gahs in all the rooms np to the sky-parlors. Old woman's layin' up nionc}", they say. Mei.ns to send Ben Franklin to college. — Just then the first bell rang for church, and my friend, who, I understand, has be- come a most exemplary member of society, said he must be off to get ready for meet in', and told the young one to " shake dada," which he did with his closed fist, in a somewhat menacing manner. And so the young man John, as we used to call him, took the pole of the minia- ture carriage, and pushed the small pugilist before him homewards, followed, in a somewhat leisurely way, by his pleasant-looking lady-companion, and I sent a sigh and a smile after him. THE ROSICRUCIAN. BY DINAH MARIA MTJLOCK CRAIK- I. KNOW uot if men would saj that tlie face of Basil Wolgemutli was beautiful. There were no darkly gleaming eyes, no sculptured features, no clustering raven locks; all was fair, clear, and sunny as his own soul. And what a soul was that ! It lighted up his whole countenance, as the sun lights up a landscape, — making that which woidd else have been ordinary most glorious. It was mirrored in his eyes ; it shone in his every gesture ; it made music in his voice ; it accompanied him like a fair presence, giving life, love, and beauty wherever he moved. He sat in a low-roofed, half-darkened chamber, whose gloomy recesses looked almost fearful. Now and then passing sounds of humam voices rose from the street be- low, and ever and anon the great beU of Cologne Cathe- dral boomed out the hours, making the after silence deeper still. The student — for such he evidently was — leaned his slight and rather diminutive form in the 84 LITTLE CLASSICS. attitude of one wearied ; but there was no lassitude visible in his expressive face, and his eyes were fixed with a dreamy and thoughtful gaze on the blazing fagots that roared and sparkled on the hearth before him. The fire was his sole companion ; and it was good com- pany, in sooth. Not mute either ; for it seemed to talk like a human voice. How the live juices hissed out, when the damp pine-wood caught the blaze, and chat- tered and muttered like a vexed child ! How furiously it struggled and roared, as the flames grew stronger ! How it sunk into a low, complaining sound, and then into a dead stillness, being conquered at last, and breath- ing its life out in a ruddy but silent glow. Such was the voice of the fire, but the student beheld its form too. Quaint and mysterious were the long fiery alleys and red caverns which it made, mingled with black hollows, out of which mocking faces seemed to peep ; Avhile the light flames waving to and fro were like aerial shapes moving in a fantastic dance. Beautiful and mystic appeared the fire. Basil Wolgcmuth was a student and a dreamer. He liad pierced into the secrets of nature and of philoso- phy, not as an idle seeker, mechanically following the bent of a vague curiosity, but as an entliusiastic lover, who would fathom the depths of liis beloved's soul. He knew that in this world all thhigs bear two mean- ings ; one for the commcm observer, one for the liighcr mind of him who, with an earnest purpose and a stead- fast but lovhig heart, penetrates into those mines of hidden riches, — the treasures of science and of im- THE R03ICRUCIAN. 85 agination. Basil was still young ; and yet men of leani- iug and power listened with deference to liis words; wisdom, rank, and beauty liad trodden that poor cham- ber, and felt honored, — for it was the habitation of genius. And was all this sunshine of fame lavished upon a barren tree, which brought forth at best only the daz- zling fruits of mere intellect, beautiful to the eye but deceptive to the heart as the jewelled apples of Aladdm, or was it rich in all good fruits of human kindness ? Ask the mother, to whom the very footsteps of her du- tiful son brought hght and gladness ; ask the sister, whose pride in her noble kinsman was even less than her love for the gentle and forbearing brother who made the sunshine of their home. These would speak for Basil. There was one — one more ; but he knew it not then. The fire sank to a few embers, and through the small wuidow at the farther end of the apartment the young moon looked with her quiet smile. At last the door was half opened, and a girlish face peeped in. " Are you sleeping, Basil, or only musing ? " " Is that you, Margareta ? " said the student, without changing his attitude. " Yes ; it is growing late, brother ; will you not come to supper ? " " I do not need it, dear Margareta, thank you." " But we want you, Basil ; my mother is asking for you ; and Isilda, too, is here." A bright smile passed over the young man's face ; but his sister did not see it, and continued : — 86 LITTLE CLASSICS. " Come, brother ; do come ; you have studied enough for to-day." He rose cheerfully : " Well, then, tell my mother I ■will come directly." Margareta closed the door, and Basil stood thought- fully by the fire. At that moment a bright flame, spring- ing up from some stray brand yet uukindled, illumined his face, — it was radiant with the light of love. Ilis finely curved lips, the sole beautiful feature there, were trembling Avitli a happy smile, as they murmured in low tones one beloved name, — " Isilda, Isilda ! " II. Let us glance at the home of Basil Wolgemuth. It was a German habitation of the Middle Ages ; a comfort- able but not luxurious dwelling, such a one as we see in old German pictures. In homes like this was nurtured the genius of Rembrandt, of Rubens, of Vandyck ; from such a peaceful German home sprang the fiery s])irit and indomitable zeal of Luther ; and in like home-nests were cradled the early years of most of the rude but noble men, w^ho, either by the sword or the pen, have made their names famous throughout the fair land of tlie Rhine. Basil, his mother, Margareta, and another young girl sat round a ta])le, spread with the ample fare of bn-ad and frnits. The mother w^as worthy of snch a son, — a mairon of placid but noble asj)ect ; like him, too, in the deep clear eyes and open fore- licad. Margareta, a sweet bud, which only needed THE llOSICRUCIAN. 87 time to burst forth into a perfect flower, sat by her brother's side; the fourth of the group was Isilda. I hardly know how to describe Isilda. There is one face only I have seen which pictures her to ray idea ; it is a Madonna of Guido Reni's. Once beheld, that face imprints itself forever on the heart. It is the embodi- ment of a soul so pure, so angelic, that it might have been Eve's when she was still in Eden ; yet there is in the eyes that shadow of woman's mtense love, the handmaid of which is ever sorrow; and those deep blue orbs seemed thoughtfully looking into the dim future witli a vague sadness, as if conscious that the peace of the pres- ent would not endure. Womanly sweetness, feelings suppressed, not slumbering, a soul attuned to high thoughts like a well-strung lyre, and only needing a breath to awaken its harmonious chords, — all these are visible in that face which shone into the painter's heart, and has lived forever in the work of his hand. And such was Isilda. Basil sat opposite to her ; he looked into her eyes ; he drank in her smile, and was happy. All traces of the careworn student had vanished ; he was cheerful even to gayety ; laughed and jested with his sister ; bade her sing old ditties, and even joined in the strain, which made them all more mirthful stiU. Basil had little music in his voice, but much in his heart. When the songs ceased, Margareta prayed him to repeat some old ballad, he knew so many. The student looked towards Isilda ; her eyes had more persuasive eloquence than even his sis- ter's words, and he began : — 88 LITTLE CLASSICS. "THE ELLE-MAID GAY.* " Ridest by the woodland, Ludwig, Ludwig, Ridest by tbe Avoodland gray ? Who sits by the woodhuid, Ludwig, Ludwig ? It is the EUc-maid gay. " A kiss on thy lips lies, Ludwig, Ludwig, Pure as the dews of May : Think on thine own love, brown-haired Ludwig, And not on an Elle-maid gay. " She sits 'ueath a lindtn, singing, singing. Though her dropped lids nothing say ; For her beauty lures Avhether smiling or singing. For she is an Elle-maid gay. " ' Thou hast drunk of my wine-cup, Ludwig, Ludwig, Thou hast drunk of my lips this day ; I am no more false than thou, young Ludwig, Though I am an Elle-maid gay.' " ' Ride fast from the woodland, Ludwig, Ludwig,' Her laughter tracks his way ; ' Didst thou clasp a fair woman, Ludwig, Ludwig, And found her an Elle-maid gay ? ' " ' Flee, flee ! ' they cry, ' he is mad, Count Ludwig ; He i-ides through the street to-day With his beard unshorn, and his cloak brier-torn : He has met with Iho Elle-maid gay ! ' * Tlie Ellc-iiiaid, or avoo(1-\\ oiium, is a kind of siirifc, who in front npiic-ars ns a Ixiautiful dainsel, but seen licliiiul is hollow like a mask. She sits on tlic roadside, offering lier wine-cup and her kiss; but the moment a youtli lias tasted cither, lie becomtis raving mad. There are many legends of this sort current in Germany. THE ROSICRUCIAN. C " ' I fear him not, my knight, my Ludwig ' (The bride's dear lips did say), ' Though he comes from the woodland, he is my Ludwig ; He saw not the Elle-maid gay. " ' We'lcome, my lord, my love, my Ludwig ! ' But her smile grew ashen-gray, * As she knew by the glare of the mad eyes' stare, He had been with the Elle-maid gay. " ' God love thee — God pity thee, my Ludwig ! ' Nor her true arms turned she away. 'Thou art no sweet woman,' cried fiercely Ludwig, ' But a foul EUe-maid gay. " ' I kiss thee — I slay thee ; — I thy Ludwig ' : And the steel flashed bright to the day : 'Better clasp a dead bride,' laughed out Ludwig, ' Than a false Elle-maid gay. " ' I kissed thee, I slew thee ; I — thy Ludwig ; And now will we sleep alway.' Still fair blooms the woodland where rode Ludwig, The student ceased; and there was a deep silence. Basil's young sister glanced round fearfully. Isilda moved not ; but as the clear tones of Basil's voice ended, one deep-drawn sigh was heard, as it were the uncon- scious relief of a full heart. "You have chosen a gloomy story, Basil," said the mother, at last. Her voice broke the spell ; and Margareta added, — "I do not pity that false-hearted knight; his was a 90 LITTLE CLASSICS. just pnnisliment for a lieavy sin : for the poor bride to d^. thus in her Toutli and happiness, — O, it was very sad ! - " Not so," said Isilda, and she spoke in a low dreamy tone, as if half to herself. " It was not sad, even to be slain by him slie loved, since she died in his arms,* having- known l^at he loved her. It was a happy fate." There was such an expression of intense feeling in the girl's face as she spoke, that Margareta looked at her in wondering silence ; but Basil gave an involuntary start, as if a new light had broken in upon his mind. The living crimson rushed immediately over Isilda's face and neck, she seemed shrinking into the earth with shame, and said no more. Basil, too, kept silence. No marvel was it in the timid girl wlio rarely gave utterance to her thoughts, but that he whose heart was so full of poetry, whose lips were ever brimming over with eloquence, should be dumb, — it was passing strange ! The student felt as though there was a finger laid on his lips, jm mi- secn presence compelhng him to silence ; but the finger jind the presence were those of tlie Angel of Love. Tliere was a constraint visible in all but Margareta; she, too young to understand what was passing in the hearts of the two she loved so much, began to sport with her friend. " Well ! I sliould not envy Cuiint Ludwig's bride, Isilda; I would much rather hve. rarewell, you dol- orous folk. I will go spin." And she vanished with the swiftness of a young fa^^^l. Tlie mother followed lier with her eyes. " A sunny and loving heart is thine, my child," slic murmured. "God bless thee, and kec.p all care from THE llOSICRUCIAN. 91 that gay spirit ! " Aiid Madame Wolgcmutli leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes. The mother's heart seemed absorbed in the past, or else dreaming of her child's future. But, by the two thus left together, past and future were alike unregarded. With Basil and Isilda i| was ail the present, — the blissful present, full of hope and love. Tliey talked but little, and in broken sentences, flitting from subject to subject, lest each should lead to the un- veiHng of the delicious secret that was uppermost in both their hearts and which they at once feared, yet longed to utter. At last- the lamp grew dim, and the moonlight streamed in through the narrow \vindow. Isilda noticed and spoke of it, — it was a relief. " How lovely the moon looks, setting behind the cathe- dral ! " And, rising, she walked to the window ; it might be she was glad to escape from the passionate tenderness of Basil's gaze. The young student followed her, moving noiselessly^ for his aged mother had fallen asleep. And now the two stood together, silent, alone with their own hearts, look- ing up to the quiet, star-lit sky, and driukirig in love, w^iicli seemed infinite as that heaven itself. " How beautiful is this world ! " murmured the girl. " I feel it so ; and most when thus with thee, Isilda," — and with what unspeakable sweetness and tenderness the name lingered on liis lips, — " Isilda, — my Isilda ! " There was a moment of tremulous silence, and then the girl felt herself drawn closer, until her head rested ou his bosom, and she heard his voice whispering in her 9^ LITTLE CLASSICS. " May I call thee my Isilda — all mine — mine only -^ mine forever ? " She raised her head, and looked timidly bnt searchingly in his countenance. " Is it indeed true ? dost thou then love me ? " " As my own soul ! " passionately answered the stu- dent. Isilda hid her face again in his bosom, and burst into a shower of tears. The girl and her lover went home together that night, through the cold, clear starlight, to Isilda's abode. Many and many a time had they trod the same path, but now everything was changed. They had become all in all to each other ; an infinity of love was around them ; all was hght, hope, and trembling gladness. The crisp snow crackled under Isilda's feet, and the sharp frosty air made her shiver ; but she felt it not. She only clung the closer to Basil's arm; he was all her own now; he, her life's joy, her pride, the idol of her dreams, the de- light of her soul. Such happiness was almost too much to bear; and, therefore, when she first knew that he loved her, had Isilda wept, — nay, even when she had parted from Basil and was alone, her full heart poured itself forth in tears. That he, — the noble, the gifted, so rich in the greatest of all wealth, — the wealth of genius ; honored among men, Avith a glorious harvest of fame yet unreapcd before him, — that he should love her, who had nothing to give but a heart that worshipjjcd him ! The girl, in her humility, felt unworthy of such deep haj)j)in('ss; all that her lips would utter were the blessed, joyful words, " He loves me, — he loves mc ! my THE liOSlCRUCIAN. 9^3 Basil, niine own ! " Aiid even iu her sleep she murmured the same. Man's love is not like woman's, yet Basil was very happy, — liappier than he had ever been in his life. The student, the philosopher, felt that all his wisdom was as nothing compared to the wondrous alchemy of love. So far from being weakened, his lofty mind seemed to grow richer beneath the light of beloved eyes ; it was like the sunshine to the ripening corn. Basil now knew how long Isilda had filled his thoughts, and been mingled with all his hopes. He did not even then fathom the depths of her spirit, but he felt it was one with his ; and man, proud man, ever rejoices to see his soul's image reflected in a woman's heart. III. A YEAE, had passed over the head of the student of Cologne. It had been a year full of changes. Death liad entered the house and taken the tender mother ; the strong-hearted but gentle matron, who had filled the place of both parents toward Basil and Margareta in their fatherless youth. The student had now only his sister to cheer his desolate home; and little joy was there in the young girl's heart, or brightness on her face, for she was still in the shadow of past sorrow, her first grief, too ; and heaviiy it weighed upon sweet Margareta. Have we forgotten Isilda, the beautiful, the beloved ? No change had taken place in her. She was now the betrothed of Basil Wolgemuth, loving him with a depth and steadfastness far beyond the first fresh love of girl- 94} LITTLE CLASSICS. hood and romance. And Basil liiinself, was he still the same ? Let us see. The student was sitting-, as we first beheld him, in the room more peculiarly liis own ; it looked the same as in former days ; and the fire, the brilliant and beautiful fire, which Basil loved to have as a comimnion for his solitary hours, burned brightly as ever. He kept continually feed- ing it with new brands, and often looked up from his book to gaze at it. If the blaze grew dim for a moment, it seemed as if his powers of intellect and comprehension grew dim with it. Basil was dull and cheerless without ]iis beloved fire ; he needed its genial warmth, its inspir- ing brightness ; even in the summer-time he could not study without it ; and so it had been from his childliood. There was a change in the young man, more tlian tlie one short year added to his age could have effected. He looked like a man who had thouglit much, suffered much. An expression of pain constantly hovered over his fea- tures, and the lines of his bccnutiful moutb were con- tracted. He read intently; but at intervals laid down the book, and fixed his eyes vacantly on the fire, absorbed in thought. A light knock at the door broke in upon tlie student's meditations, and a stranger entered. He was a man of middle age, tall, spare, and meagre. His face was calm, and his bearing dignified ; while on his noble forehead, whicli bore not a single wrinkle, uamistakablc intellect sat cntlironed; but at times there was a wildness in his eyes, and a sudden kindling of liis features, which almost belied his serene deportment. He advanccul towards the young man, who arose and groctc'd hiiu Nvilh dec]) respect. THE EOSICIIUCIAN. 95 " Michael Meyer need not stay to ask admittance of Basil Wolgeinutli, I trust ? " said the stranger, in tones of mingled gentleness and conscious dignity. "My master," answered Basil, meekly, "thou art ever most welcome ; all that is mine is thine also." "I thank thee, gentle scholar," returned the other, simply, with a shght inclination of the head, as he suf- fered the young man to take from him his outer garment, and sat down on the chair which Basil offered. The student himself continued standing until his guest pointed to a low stool, where Basil placed himself at a little dis- tance from his master. "And now let us talk," said Michael Meyer; "for it is long since I have seen thee. What hast thou learned meanwhile ? " " Much, O master ! I have been studying thy book." And he pointed to the open page. A gleam of pleasure illuminated Michael's sallow fea- tures. " And dost thou ever regret that thou hast become one of us, one of the brethren of the Bosie Cross ? " " Never, honored master mine," cried the student ; " but I have yet so much to learn, before I am worthy even to kiss the hem of thy garment ; and I am so young." " It may be that a young heart is purer than one which has longer mingled with the world. Thou hast not yet travelled out of sight of the home which thy spirit left at birth ; the memory of that pristine existence dimly re- mains with thee still. Therefore it is well with thee, BasU." 90 LITTLE CLASSICS. " IMaster, if I could only tliiiik so, — if I could only revive within me that higher life, — but I fear it is hard." "It is hard, my son ; for it is a struggle of matter against spirit. O, didst thou but know the joys that are opened unto us who mortify the body for the sake of the soul ; the glorious and beautiful world that is revealed to us, — a life within life, a double existence, our mor- tal eyes being strengthened to behold the Invisible, — our mortal frames endowed with the powers of an- gels ! " "It is glorious — glorious ! " murmured the student as he gazed on his master, whose whole countenance gleamed with enthusiasm. " It is indeed glorious," continued Michael Meyer. "To be as a god to mankind; to bear in this liunian body the gift of healing; to know that the riches for which men toil, and })ine, and slay one another, are at our will in such abundance that they seem to us like dust. And more than all, to have the power of holding communion with tliosc good spirits which God created as he created man, more beautiful and yet less perfect, for they must remain as first made, while man may rise througli various stages of existence, higher and higher, until he reach tlie footstool of divinity itself." " Ilast tliou ever seen those glorious behigs ? " asked Basil, glancing doubtfully round, his voice sinking into a low Avliisper. " 1 have ! " answered Michael Meyer. " But no more of this. To attain this state of perfection, thou must needs deaden thyself to all human pleasures; thou must THE ROSICRUCIAX. 97 forsake tlie grossiiess of an appetite pampered vrith tlie ilesli of beasts and the fruit of the poison-vine. As tliou readest in my book, the soul must retire within itself, — must shut out all human feelings, all human love." A dark shadow came over the young student's face. " Must one attain all this, O father, to be a follower of Christian Rosencreutz ? " * " All this, and more. Does thy heart fail thee ? " said Michael, sternly. Basil cast down liis eyes. " No, my noble master, no ! but human will is feeble, and the steep is hard to climb." " Then lie down, and perish at its foot, Basil TTolge- muth," said the Rosicrucian ; and then added, with a re- gretful tone, "After thou hadst journeyed half-way, I had not thought thy heart would have failed thee, my son." " It has not failed me," cried the student, earnestly. " I have followed implicitly all thy precepts. No food, save what nature rigorously requires, has passed these lips ; I have kept myself pure as a little child, yet still I seem further than ever from that blessed state when the soul is free from all mortal longings, and the eyes are purged to behold the Invisible." * After the death of Christian Rosencreutz, their founder, the sect of the Rosicrucians kept their doctrines secret for a hundred and twenty years. Michael Meyer, an alchemist and physician, was the first to reveal their secrets, by a book en- titled " Themis Aurea, hoc est de legibus Fraternitatis Rosse Crucis," which he published at Cologne in 1615. VOL. VII. 5 G OS LITTLE CLASSICS. " Wait, my son ; wait and faiut not ! tlie time will surely come at last ; and when it does, oh, what joy for thee ! Thou wilt count as nothing the pleasures of taste, when thou mayst banquet on celestial food; thou wilt scorn all earthly loveliness, to bask in tlie smile of im- mortal beauty. This, indeed, is an aim worthy of man's aspiring." " It is — it is ! O master, I follow thee ! — teach me, guide me as thou wilt." And he knelt at the feet of the Rosicrucian, kissing his hands and his garments with deep emotion. " Thou art worthy to become one of us, my son, — nay, my brother, — for thou wilt erelong equal the wisest of us," answered Michael Meyer, as he raised Basil from the earth. " Go on in that noble path ; thou hast little need of me, for thine own soul is thy best teacher. Now farewell, for this night I leave Cologne; my work is ac- complished, and I have added one more to the brethren of the Rosie Cross." " And hast thou no word, no parting admonition, for me, O my father? " ' "None, save this: Strive ever after the highest; content thyself with nothing below perfection ; be humble in thine otvti eyes ; and more than all, keep thy heart and hand from evil : sin clouds the soul's aspirations; and the highest life is a life of perfect holiness. With thy noble intellect and ardent mind, keep an unspotted heart ! — and so fare thee well, my .soil." Tims ^lichacl Meyer the liosicrucian parted from Ba. sil Wolgemutli. THE ROSICRUCIAN. 99 IV. Passionately wringing his hands, or pressing them upon liis hot brow, knelt the student alone in his cham- ber. He muttered wild tones. He had yearned after the tree of . knowledge ; he had penetrated within its shadow, and it had darkened his soul, yet lie had not tasted of its dehcious fruit for which he so longed. "It is vain, — it is vain!" cried Basil; "I strive, but I cannot attaui. I have cast all human bliss to the winds ; I have poisoned my youth, — and thine, too, Isilda, joy of my life ! — and all in vain. No immortal gifts are mine, — I would fain pierce into Nature's depths, but she hides her face from me. O my master ! thou didst tell me of the world of spirits which would surely be revealed unto me. I look up into the air, but no sylphs breathe soft zephyrs upon my hot cheek ; I wander by the streams, but no sweet eyes, looking out from the depths of the fomitains, meet my own ; I am poor, bat the gnomes of the earth answer not my bidding with treasures of silver and gold. And thou, Fire, glorious element ! art thou indeed peopled with tbese wonderful beings ; or are they deaf to my voice, and in- visible to my eyes alone, of all my brethren ? " And lo ! as the student spoke, a bright pyramid of flame darted upward, and a voice, like that of the fire when it answers the soft breathing of the winds, re- pUed, — " I hear thee, — what wouldst thou with me ? " A paleness came over the young man's cheek, and he drew back involuntarily. 100 LITTLE CLASSICS. " Dost thou then fear me, O mortal ! " said the voice again, saclly. "Look again." Suddenly the pyramidal flame was cloven asunder, and there appeared in its centre a form, smaller than that of humanity, but perfect in feminine lo\enness. Wavy wreaths of golden flame fell around her like a woman's beautiful hair, and about her semi-transparent form twined an amber vesture, resembling in hue and airy substance the fire from which she sprung. Her hands were folded submissively on her breast, and her eyes were fixed earnestly on the young student's face as she again repeated, — " Dost thou fear me now ? " "How should I fear thee, beautiful vision?" cried Basil in ecstasy ; " and what am I, that thou shouldst deign to visit me thus ? " "Thinkest thou that this is the first time I have vis- ited thee ? " said the Form. " I have been with thee, unseen, from thy childhood. When, in thy boyish days, thou wouldot sit gazing on the beautiful element which I rule, and from which I proceed, it was I who made it assume in thy fancy strange and lovely shapes. It was my voice thou heardest in the musical breathing of the flames, until thou didst love the beautiful fire ; and it be- came to thee the source of inspiration. All this was my doing." "And now at last I behold thee, glorious creature ! " exclaimed the student with rapture. "How shall I thank thee for thus watching over me invisibly, and at last revealing Ihysclf to me ! " "We do but tlie will of our Creator," answered THE ROSICRUCIAN. 101 the Salamaiidrine* "I and my kindred are His off- spring, even as man ; but our being differs from thine ; superior and yet how inferior ! We tend thee, we in- fluence thee, we guide thee, — m this doing alike His command who made us, and our own pleasure ; for our natures are purer and better than thine." "I feel it," said Basil. "I cannot look upon thy all-perfect loveliness without knowing that such a form must be the visible reflection of a soul equally pure and beautiful." "A soul!"" sighed the fire -spirit ; "alas! this bless- ing is not ours. We see generation after generation of men perish from the face of earth ; we watch them from their cradles into their graves, and still we are the same, our beauty uufaded, our power unchanged. Yet we know there must come a time when the elements from which we draw our being must vanish away, and then we perish with them, for we have no immortal souls : for us there is no after-life ! " As the Salamandrine ceased, the vapors of the fire encircled her as with a mist, and a wailing came from the red caverns of flame, as of spirits in grief, the burden of which was ever, — "Alas for us ! — we have no after-life." "Is it even so?" said the student. "Then are ye unhappy in the midst of your divine existence." The mist which veiled the Salamandrine floated aside, and she stood once more revealed in her superhuman beauty. "Not unhappy," she answered, with a radiant and celestial smile, — " not unhappy, since we are the ser- 102 LITTLE CLASSICS. vants of our beneficent Creator; we» perform His will, and in that consists our happiness. We suffer no pain, no care ; doing no sin, we have no sorrow ; our life is a life of love to each other and to man, whose ministers we are. Are we not then happy ? " "It may be so," said Basil, thoughtfully. "Ye are the creatures of Him who never made aught but good." And he bowed his head in deep meditation, while there arose from the mystic fire an ethereal chorus; melo- diously it pealed upon the opened ears of the enrap- tured student. The spirits sang of praise; of the universal hymn which nature lifts up to the Origin of all good ; of the perfect harmony of all His works, from the mighty planets that roll through illimitable space, down to the fresh green moss that springs up at the foot of the way- faring child ; of the world of spirits, — those essences which people the earth and float in the air like motes in the sunbeam, invisible, but yet poAverful ; how the good spirits strive with the fallen ones for dominion over man, and how the struggle must continue until evil is permitted to be overcome of good, and the earth be- comes all holy, worthy to be the habitation of glorified beings. "Happy art thou, O man!" tlioy sang. "Even in thy infirmity, what is like unto thee? And earthly life is thine, half the sorrow of wliicli tl)ou mayst remove by patience and love ; an earthly death is thine, which i.s tlu; cut ranee to immortality. It is ours to guide thee to tliat gate of heaven which we ourselves may never enter/' THE llOSICRUCIAN. 103 And all the spirits sang in a strain that died away as the fire sunk smouldering down, "Blessed art thou, O .nan ! — strong in thy weakness, happy in thy sufferings. Thrice blessed art thou ! " The student was roused from his trance by a light footstep. A hand was laid on his shoulder, and a soft woman's voice whispered, — " Art thou then here all alone, and in darkness, my Basil ? " " All was light with me, — the darkness came with thee," answered the student, harshly, like one roused from delicious slumbers by an unwelcome hand ; — and yet the hand was none other than Isilda's. " Once thou used to call me thy light of life, Basil," murmured the girl. " I would not come to anger thee." It was too dark to discern faces ; but as Isilda turned to depart, Basil thought she was weeping, and his heart melted. What would he not have given, at the moment, for the days of old, — the feelings of old, when he would have drawn'her to his bosom, and soothed her there with the assurances of never-ending love. But now he dared not ; the link between him and earth was broken. He thought of the immortal gift just acquired, and he would not renounce its ecstatic joys, — no, not even for Isdda. He took her hand kindly, but coldly, saying, — " Forgive me ; I have been studying, — dreaming ; I did not mean to say thou wert unwelcome." " Bless thee for that, my Basil, my beloved ! " cried the girl, weeping, as she pressed his hand passionately to her heart and her lips. " Thou couldst not be unkind to me, — to thy betrothed wife." 104 LITTLE CLASSICS. Basil turned away ; he could not tell her that the tie was now only a name ; and Isilda went on, — " Thou hast not looked the same of late ; thou art too anxious ; or thou hast some hidden sorrow upon thee. Tell it to me, my Basil," she continued, caressingly. " Who should share and Ughten it but I, who love thee so ? " " Dost thou indeed love me so well, Isilda ? " "Thou art my all, — my life, — my soul! It were death itself to part from thee," cried the girl, in a burst of impassioned feeling, as she knelt beside the bending form of her lover, and strove to wind her arms round his neck. She liardly dared to do so now to him who had once wooed that fondness with so many prayers. " Woe is me, alas ! " muttered the student. " Must thou also be sacrificed, Isilda ? " She did not hear his words, but she felt him unclasp her arms from his neck ; and Isilda sank insensible at Basil's feet. The die was cast. Slowly the student laid her down, — her, the once beloved, — on the cold floor. He called " Margarcta ! " and before his sister entered, went out into the open air. . V. Basil Wolgemutii had now gained the summit of his wishes. He had panted for the river of knowledge, — liad found it, and allayed his burnhig thirst in its waters, which wore to him a Lethe, bringing oblivion of all else. He walked as one in a dream, or like the false prophet of old, falling into a trance, but having his eyes open. THE ROSICRUCIAN. 105 He was gentle to liis sister, and to the patient, sorrowful Isilda ; but he shrank from their society, as he did from that of every living soul. He would disappear for days together, wandermg in the woods and mountains, far from his home. There the student was alone, with his newly acquired sense, — there he penetrated into the marvels of the invisible world. He saw the Sylphs of the air floating over him, and fanning his slumbers with their ambrosial wings. The beautiful Undines spread their cool, wavy arms around him, and through the riven earth he beheld the Gnomes and Cobolds at work in their treasure-caves. Borne by the Salamandrines, he viewed the caves of the volcanoes; their lurid re- cesses were exposed to his gaze, and he saw the central fires smouldering beneath the surface of the globe, — the cradles of the earthquake. Then, when the student returned, he would shut him- self up in his chamber, and invoke the being who had first appeared to him, — the Salamandrine. He imbibed from her hps wisdom beyond that of man; he sunned himself in the light of her glorious beauty, and became insensible to all earthly things. "O my master," Basil woidd often murmur, "thou wert right ! Wliat count I now the cup of mortal pleas- ure while that of heaven is at my lips ? I could torture, almost destroy this poor frail body for the sake of my soul." And while the student revelled in these ecstasies, his slight form grew more shadowy, his dreamy eyes became of a more fatliomless depth, and his whole appearance was that of a ?;vvit which had for a season assumed this 5* 106 LITTLE CLASSICS. mortal coil. No thought of Isilda, no yearnmg for her forsaken love, crossed his memory ; the lesser feeling was all absorbed in the greater, for the one reigning passion of Basil Wolgemuth's soul was a thirst after knowledge. And Isilda, the devoted one, how fared it with her ? She knew that no other maiden had stolen her lover's heart, and yet it was changed toward her. She saw it to be so. Some overpowering passion had extinguislicd that of love ; and her life's hope was gone. She did not pine nor weep ; she felt no anger towards Basil, for in her eyes he could do no wrong. Isilda had worshipped him from her girlhood, with a love mixed with idolatry, for it long seemed like " the desire of the moth for tlie star." None other had ever won a thought from the maiden, though many had wooed her; but having once loved him, none else could have filled her heart forever. Even Basil, when he came to measure her love by his own, dreamed not of its intensity. So absorbing was this one passionate love, that even the sad change in him who was its object could not weaken it. She desired no more but to be near her betrothed ; to see him ; to hover round him as silently as his shadow, — only to have the blessed privilege of loving him, and the memory, sweet though mournful, that he had once loved her. VI. Basil Wolgemuth lay asleep on liis couch. He had outwatchcd midnight, and was very weary. The fol- lower of llosencreutz, the philosoplier, the man of genius, li;;d not ]);issod tlio limits of mortality; his oarth-vrsture THE ROSICIIUCIAN. 107 clung about hiin still. Fatigue liacl overtaken liini iu the midst of his vigils ; lie had thrown himself down on the liard pallet, and fallen ^asleep, as sound as if the rude couch of the Rosicrucian were the monarch's bed of down. The morning stars looked in at his casement, and the dim light of a single lamp fell on the counte- nance of the student. He lay calm as a little child. With folded hands, as if his mother had lulled him to sleep with songs. O, if that mother could have beheld him now, how would she have wept over the child of so maiiy prayers ! I have said before that there was httle beauty in Basil's face, at least that mere beauty of form, W'liich is so dazzling, — and it is good that it should be so, for a lovely face seems fresh from the impress of God's hand ; we naturally love it, cling to it, and worship it as such. But Basil's sole charm had been the genius so plainly visible in his face, and a sunny, youthful, happy look, which made it pleasant to behold. Now, all this was long gone. But while he slept, a little of his olden self returned ; a smile wandered over his lips, and his sunny hair fell carelessly, as in the days when Isilda's fingers used to part it, and kiss his white, beautiful forehead. Suddenly a red glare lighted up the still shadow of the chamber, — it flashed on the eyes of the sleeper. " Art thou here, O spirit ? " murmured Basil, half roused, and dazzled by the brilliant light, w^hlch seemed a continuation of his dream. But it was no celestial presence that shone into the student's room. He awoke fully, rose up, and looked out into the night. The city lay hushed beneath the 108 LITTLE CLASSICS. starlight like a palace of tlie dead; it seemed as Uiougli no mortal turmoil Mould ever more ruffle its serene re- pose. But far doAvn the dark street, in a direction where Basil's eyes had in former times been fondly turned waiting for the one solitary lamp which was to him like a star, lurid flames and white smoke burst forth, and contended with the gloom around. There was in the city the fearful presence of fire, and the burning house was Isilda's. . With a sudden impulse, Basil leaped at once through the low window, and fled rather than ran to the scene. This time human love had the pre-eminence ; he forgot all but Isilda, — Isilda perishing in the flames ! Wildly raged the fierce element, as if kindled by a hundred demons, who fanned it with their fiery breath, and leaped, and howled, and shouted, as it spread on with mad swiftness. Now it writhed in serpent-coils, now it darted upwards in forked tongues, and now it made itself a veil of dusky vapors, and beneath that sliade went on in its devastathig way. Its glare jmt out the dim stars overhead, and hung on the skirts of the clouds that were driven past, until the sky itself seemed in flames. House after house caught the blaze, and cries of despair, mingled with shrieks of frantic terror, rose up tiirough the horrible stillness of night. The beautiful element which Basil had so loved — the cheer- ing, inspiring fire — was turned into a fearful scourge. The student reached the spot, and looked wildly up to the window he had so often watched. A passing gust blew the flames aside, and he distinguished tiierc a while figure, — it was Isilda. Her hands were crossed on her THE ROSICUUCIAN. 109 bosom, and her head was bowed meekly, as if she knew tliere was no hope, and was content to die. • Basil saw, and in a moment he had rushed into the burning dwelling. He gained the room, and with a wild cry of joy, Isilda sprung into his arms. Without a word, he bore her, insensible as she was, through the smoke and flame, to a spot where the fire had not reached. Farther he could not go, for his strength failed him. He laid his burden down, and leaned against the wall. " I might not live for thee, Isilda," cried the student, "but I can die for thee. Yet is there no help, — no hope? Where are the spirits that were once subject unto me ? And thou, my guardian, — spirit of lire ! — is this thy work? Where art thou?" " I am here ! " answered a voice ; and the Salamau- drine appeared. The flames drew nearer, and Basil saw myriads of aerial shapes flitting among them in mazy wreaths. They came nigh, — they hovered over his mor- tal love, — their robes of seeming flame swept her form. "Touch her not! " shrieked the student, as he bent over Isilda, his human fear overpowering him. " The good and pure like her are ever safe," replied the Salaniandrine. "We harm her not." And she breathed over the maiden, who awoke. " O my Basil ! " murmured the girl, " is death then past ? Thou didst come to save me, — thou lovest me, — thou art mine again ! " And she stretched out to him her loving arms ; but Basil turned away. " Hush ! " he said, " dost thou not see them, — the spirits ? " 110 LITTLE CLASSICS. Isilda looked round fearfully. " I see nothing, — only thee." The student's eyes flashed Tvith msanity. " See ! " he cried, " they fill the air, they gather round us, they come between thee and me. Now, — now their forms grow fainter, — they are vanishing, — it is thou, woman ! who art driving them from my sight forever. Stay, glorious beings, stay! I give up all, — even her." " Nothing shall part me from thee ! " shrieked the girl, as she clung to her lover, and wound her arms round him. " No power in heaven or earth shall tear us asunder, — thou art mine, Basil, — let me live for thee, — die for thee." " Thou shalt have thy desire ! " the student cried, as he struggled in her frantic clasp. There was the gleam of steel, — one faint, bubbling sigh, — the arms relaxed their hold, and Basil was alone, — with the dead ! The fire stayed in its dire path, and a wailing sound rose as the spirits fled away. Heaven and earth had alike forsaken the murderer. He knelt beside his victim ; he wept, he laughed, he screamed ; for madness was in his brain. "I may clasp thee now, Isilda," he shouted, "thou art all my own ! " And he strained the cold, still form to his breast, kissing the hps and cheeks witli passionate vehemence. " I will make thee a pyre, — a noble funereal pyre," he continued ; " I will purify this mortal clay, and thou shalt become a spirit, Isilda, — a beautiful, immortal spirit." THE llOSICELXIAX. Ill He bore the dead to wlicre the fire raged fiercest ; he laid his beloved on a coucli ; composed the frigid limbs, folded the hands, and, kissing the cold lips once more, retired to a distance, while the flames played round the still beautiful form that was once Isilda. Lovingly they inwreatlied and enshrouded it, until at last they con- cealed it from the student's gaze. He turned and fled. The fire hid in its mysterious bosom the ashes of that noble and devoted heart. Isilda had found the death she once thought so blest, — death by the hand of the beloved. Yll. Fearfully did morning dawn on the eyes of the mur- derer. He had regamed his chamber unobserved, and there he crouched in its most gloomy nook. His frenzy had passed away, and left the freezing coldness of de- spair. The darkness was terrible to him, and yet when the light of morning came, he shrank from it in horror, and buried his face in his garments to shut out the fear- ful glare. All day he remained .motionless. Margareta's loud weeping came to him from within. From her brother's bolted door, she thought he had departed on one of his usual rambles, and Basil heard his name re- peated often, mingled with Isilda's, — whom all sup- posed to have perished in the flames. Basil heard his sister's sobs ; but they fell idly on his stony ears. Many sounds rose from the street, — the widow's cry, the orphan's moan, and the despairing lament of the houseless and homeless, — but all were nothing to him. He kept the same immovable attitude ll'Z LITTLE CLASSICS. until daylight waned, and tlien he rose and lit the lire on liis heart li. Brighter and brighter grew the blaze, and wilder gleamed the eyes of the student. He swayed bis body to and fro with a low murmurmg, and then be passion- ately invoked the Salamandrine. " The sacrifice is complete — I have no bond to earth — my desire is free. Why delayest thou, spirit? Come, teach me ; let me know the past. Give me wis- dom, — I thirst ! — I thirst ! Let me become as a god in knowledge ! " But the vision came not ; there was no voice. " Spirit of Fire ! art thou deaf to me still ? I have done all, — I liave broken every human tie, — I have become what men would loathe. Hear me, — answer me, or I die ! " Wreaths of dusky vapor overshadowed the fire, and from them proceeded a melancholy voice : — " mortal, sin has entered thine lieart ; blood is on thy hand, and tlie polluted can have no fellowship with the pure. Thine eyes may behold us no more forever ! " A fearful shudder passed through the student's frame. " It is false ! Cursed spirits, yc have deceived me ! " " It is not we wlio have deceived thee, bat thine own soul," answered the Salamandrine. "We are not evil; unseen, we would have watched over thee thy whole life tlirough. It was thou who didst long after what is permitted but to few, — to hold connnunc with the invisil)le. To do this with safety, man must keep a heart pure as fearless, and sucli was not thine. Thou THE ROSICllUCIAN. 113 didst seek us, — we allured not thee. Blame not us, therefore, but thy own weakness. Thou hast smneu, and henceforth we are invisible to thee ! " " Woe ! woe ! " cried Basil, in agony ; " have I then lost all ? Adorable spirit, guide of my life, have mercy ! — forsake me not ! " " I do not forsake thee, O poor mortal ! " answered the voice, sadly. " I am here, beautiful and tender as before ; but thou art no longer able to behold me. Sin has darkened thine eyes, and thou wilt see me no more — forever." " No more ? " echoed the student in tones of thrilling misery. " No more," replied the mournful accents of the Salamandriue ; and a faint chorus, like the sighing of the wind, echoed plaintively, — " Na more, O, poor mortal, no more ! " The vapor swept away from the fire, and the student was left to his despair. VIII. Two days after the temble fire, some who loved and pitied the desolate Margareta forcibly entered her brother's room. They found Basil dead. lie lay on the floor, his marble face upturned to their horror- stricken view. There might have been agony in his last moments, for the hands were tightly pressed upon the heart; but all was calmness now. The features had settled into their eternal repose. How or when the spirit parted none knew, save Him who gave it. and who had now reclaimed his mft. The book of lU. LITTLE CLASSICS. Michael Meyer lay beside the student ; aud firmly clasped in the stiffened fingers was a long tress of woman's hair. More than tliis, all was mystery. Many years after, when the memory of the student of Cologne had long been forgotten, an aged nun died in a convent not far from the city. It was Margareta, the only sister of Basil Wolgemuth the Rosicrucian. THE SOUTH BREAKER. BY HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD. UST a capful of wind, and Dan shook loose the linen, and a straight shining streak with _ specks of foam shot after us. The mast bent like eel-grass, and our keel was half out of the water. Faith belied her name, and clung to the sides with her ten finger-nailf) ; but as for me, I liked it. "Take the stick, Georgie," said Dan, suddenly, his cheeks white. " Head her up the wind. Steady. Sight the figure-head on Pearson's loft. Here 's too much sail for a frigate." But before the words were well uttered, the mast doubled up and coiled like a whip-lash, there was a report like the crack of doom, and half of the thing crashed short over the bows, dragging the heavy sail in the waves. Then there came a great laugh of thunder close above, and the black cloud, dropped like a curtain round us : the squall had broken. *' Cut it off, Dan ! quick ! " I cried. " Let it alone," said he, snapping together his jack- 116 LITTLE CLASSICS. knife ; " it 's as good as a best bower-anchor. Now I '11 take the tiller, Georgie. Strong little hand/' said he, bending so that I didn't see his face. "And lucky it 's good as strong. It 's saved us all. My God, Georgie ! where 's Faith ? " I turned. There was no Faith in the boat. We both sprang to our feet, and so the tiller swung round and threw us broadside to the wind, and between the drag- ging mast and the centre-board drowning seemed too good for us. " You '11 have to cut it off," I cried again ; .but he had already ripped half through the canvas, and was casting it loose. At length he gave his arm a toss. With the next mo- ment, I never shall forget the look of horror that froze Dan's face. " 1 've thrown her off ! " he exclaimed, — "1 've thrown her off!" He reached his whole length over the boat, I ran to liis side, and perhaps our motion impelled it, or perliaps some unseen hand ; for he caught at an end of rope, drew it in a second, let go and clutched at a handful of the sail, and then 1 saw how it liad twisted round and swept poor little Faith over, and she had swung there in it, like a dead butterfly in a chrysalis. The lightnings were slipping down into the water like blades of fii-e everywhere around us, with sliort, sliarp volleys of thunder, and the waves were more than I ever rode this side of the bar before or since, and we took in water every time our hearts beat; but we never once thought of our own danger while we *bent to poll dear THE SOUTH BREAXEll. 117 little Faith out of hers ; and that done, Dan broke into a great hearty fit of crying that I 'm sure he 'd no need to be ashamed of. But it did n't last long; he just up and dashed off the tears and set himself at work again, while I was down on the floor rubbing Faith. There she lay like a broken lily, with no hfe in her little white face, and no breath, and maybe a pulse and maybe not. I could n't hear a word Dan said, for the wind ; and the rain was pouring through us. I saw him take out the oars, but I knew they 'd do no good in such a chop, even if they did n't break ; and pretty soon he found it so, for he drew them in and began to untie the anchor- rope and wind it round his waist. I sprang to him. " What are you doing, Dan ? " I exclaimed. "I can swim, at least," he answered. " And tow us ? — a mile ? You know you can't ! It 's madness ! " " I must try. Little Faith will die, if we don't get ashore." » " She's dead now, Dan." " AVhat ! No, no, she is n't. Faith is n't dead. But we must get ashore." "Dan," I cried, clinging to his arm, "Faith's only one. But if you die so, — and you will ! — I shall die too." "You?" " Yes ; because, if it had n't been for me, you would n't have been here at all." "And is that all the reason ? " he asked, still at work. " Reason enough," said I. " Not quite," said he. 118 LITTLE CLASSICS. " Dan, — for my sake — " " I can't, Georgie. Don't ask me. I must n't — " And here lie stopped short, with the coil of rope in his hand, and fixed me with his eye, and his look was terri- ble, — "ice must n't let Faith die." " Well," I said, " try it, if you dare ; and as true as there 's a Lord in heaven, I '11 cut the rope ! " He hesitated, for he saw I was resolute ; and I would, I declare I would have done it ; for, do you know, at the moment, I hated the little dead thing in the bottom of the boat there. Just then there came a streak of sunshine through the gloom where we 'd been plunging between wind and wa- ter, and then a patch of blue sky, and the great cloud went blowing down river. Dan threw a^A-ay the rope and took out the oars again. " Give me one, Dan," said I ; but he shook his head. " Dan, because I 'm so sorry ! " " See to her, then, — fetcli Eaith to," he replied, not looking at me, and making up with great sturdy pulls. So I busied myself, tliough I could n't do a bit of good. The instant we touched bottom, Dan snatched her, sprang througli the water and up tlie landing. I stayed behind ; as the boat recoiled, pushed in a little, fastened the anchor and threw it over, and then fol- lowed. Our house was next the landing, and there Dan had carried Eaith ; and when I reached it, a great fire was roaring up the chimney, and the teakclllc hung over it, and he was rubbing Faith's feet hard enough to strike sparks. I could n't understand exactly what made Dan THE SOUTH BREAKER. 119 SO fiercely earnest, for I tliouglit I knew just how he felt about Faith ; but suddenly, when nothing seemed to an- swer, and he stood up and our eyes met, I saw such a haggard, conscience-stricken face that it all rushed over me. But now we had done what we could, and then I felt all at once as if every moment that I effected nothing was drawing out murder. Something flashed by the window, I tore out of the house and threw up my arms, I don't know whether I screamed or not, but I caught the doctor's eye, and he jumped from his gig and followed me m. We had a siege of it. But at length, M'ith hot blankets, and hot water, and hot brandy dribbled down her throat, a little pulse began to play upon Eaith's tem- ple, and a Httle pink to beat up and down her cheek, and she opened her pretty dark eyes and hfted herself and wrung the water out of her braids ; then she sank back. " Faith ! Faith ! speak to me ! " said Dan, close in her ear. " Don't you know me ? " " Go away," she said hoarsely, pushing his face with her flat wet palm. " You let the sail take me over and drown me, while you kissed Georgie's hand." I flung my hand before her eyes. *' Is there a kiss on those fingers ? " I cried, in a blaze. " He never kissed my hands or my lips. Dan is your husband. Faith ! " For all answer Faith hid her head and gave a little moan. Somehow I could n't stand that ; so I ran and put my arms round her neck and lifted her face and kissed it, and then we cried together. And Dan, walking the floor, took up his hat and went out, while she never cast a look after him. To think of such a great strong nature 1^0 LITTLE CLASSICS. and sucli a powerful depth of feeling being wasted on sucli a little limp rag ! I cried as much for that as anything. Then I helped Faith into my bedroom, and, running borne, I got her some dry clothes, — after rum- maging enough, dear knows ! for you 'd be more like to find her nightcap in the tea-caddy than elsewhere, — and I made her a corner on the settle, for she was afraid to stay in the bedroom, and when she was comfortably covered there she fell asleep. Dan came in soon and sat down beside her, his eyes on the floor, never glancing aside nor smiling, but gloomier than the grave. As for me, I felt at ease now, so I went and laid my hand on the back of his chair and made him look up. I wanted he should know the same rest that I had, and perhaps he did ; for, still looking up, the quiet smile came floating round his lips, and his eyes grew steady and sweet as they used to be before he married Faith. Tlicn I went bustling lightly about the kitchen again. "Dan," I said, "if you'd just bring me in a couple of those chickens stalking out there like two gentlemen from Spain." "VYliilc he was gone I flew round and got a cake into the bakc-kettle, and a pan of biscuit down before the fire; and I set the tea to steep on the coals, because father always likes his tea strong enough to bear up an egg, after a hard day's work, and he 'd had that to-day ; and I put on the coffee to boil, for I knew Dan never liad it at home, because Faith liked it and it didn't agree witli her. And llien he brought me in the chickens all r(;ady for the pot, and so at last I sat down, Init at tlie opposite side of the chimney. Then he rose, aud, wilii- THE SOLTH BREAKER. 121 out exactly touching me, swept me back to the other side, where lay the great net I was making for father ; and I took the httle stool by the settle, and not far from him, and went to work. " Georgie," said Dan, at length, after he 'd watched me a considerable time, " if any word I may have said to-day disturbed you a moment, I want you to know that it hurt me first, and just as much." " Yes, Dan," said I. I 've always thought there was something real noble between Dan and me then. There was I, — well, I don't mind telhng you. And he, — yes, I 'm sure he loved me perfectly, — you must n't be startled, I '11 tell you how it was, — and always had, only maybe he had n't known it ; but it was deep down in his heart just the same, and by and by it stirred. There we were, both of us thoroughly conscious, yet neither of us expressing it by a word, and trying not to by a look, — both of us content to wait for the next hfe, when we could belong to one another. In those days I contrived to have it al- ways pleasure enough for me just to know that Dan was in the room ; and though that was n't often, I never grudged Faith her right in Imn, perhaps because I knew she did n't care anything about it. You see, this is how it was. When Dan was a lad of sixteen, and took care of his mother, a ship went to pieces down there on the island. It was one of the worst storms that ever wliistled, and though crowds were on the shore, it was impossible to reach her. They coidd see the poor \vretches hanging in the rigging, and dropping one by one, and they could VOL. VII. 6 l'Z'2 LITTLE CLASSICS. only stay and sicken, for the surf stove the boats, and they did n't know then how to send out ropes on rockets or on cannon-balls, and so the night fell, and the people wrung their hands and left the sea to its prey, and felt as if blue sky could never come again. And with the bright, keen morning not a vestige of the ship, but here a spar and there a door, and on the side of a sand-hill a great dog watching over a little child that he 'd kept Avarm all night. Dan, he 'd got up at turn of tide, and walked down, — the sea running over the road knee- deep, — for there was too much swell for boats; and when day broke, he found the little girl, and carried her up to town. He did n't take her home, for he saw that what clothes she had were the very finest, — made as delicately, — with seams like the hair-strokes on that lieart's-ease there ; and he concluded that he could n't bring her up as she ought to be. So he took her round \.) the rich men, and represented that she was the child of a lady, and that a poor fellow like himself — for Dan uas older than his years, you see — couldn't do her justice : she was a sHght little thing, and needed dainty training and fancy food, maybe a matter of seven years old, and she spoke some foreign Janguage, and perhaps she didn't speak it plain, for nobody knew what it was. However, everybody was very much interested, and everybody was willing to give and to lu^lp, but nobody wanted to take her, and the upshot of it was that Dan refused all their offers and took her liimself. His mollier'd been in to our house all tbe afternoon before, and she 'd kept taking her pi])c out of her mouth, — she had the asthma, and smoked, — and kept sigliing. THE SOU I'll BREAKER. 123 "Tliis storm's going to bring me something," says she, in a mighty miserable tone. " I 'm sure of it I " "No harm, I hope, Miss Devereux," said mother. "Well, llhody," — mother's father, he was a queer kind, called his girls all after the thirteen States, and there being none left for Uncle Mat, he called him after the state of matrimony, — " well, Rhody," she replied, rather dismally, and knocking the ashes out of the bowl, "I don't know; but I'll have faith to believe that the Lord won't send me no ill without distincter warning. And that it 's good I have faith to believe." And so when the child appeared, and had no name, and couldn't answer for herself, Mrs. Devereux called her Faith. "We 're a people of presentiments down here on the Flats, and well we may be. You 'd own up yourself, maybe, if in the dark of the night, you locked in sleep, there 's a knock on the door enough to wake the dead, and you start up and listen and nothing follows ; and falling back, you 're just dozing off, and there it is once more, so that the lad m the next room cries out, " "Ulio 's that, mother ? " No one answering, you 're half lost again, when rap comes the hand agam, the loudest of the three, and you spring to the door and open it, and there 's naught there but a wind from the graves blowing in your face ; and after a while you learn that in that hour of that same night your husband was lost at sea. Well, that happened to Mrs. Devereux. And I have n't time to tell you the warnings I 've known of. As for Faith, I mind that she said herself, as we were in the boat for that clear midniorht sail, that the 124 LITTLE CLASSICS. sea had a spite against lier, but third time was trying time. So Faith grew up, and Dan sent her to school wliat he could, for he set store by her. She was always ailing, — a little wilful, pettish thing, but pretty as a flower; and folks put things into her head, and she began to think she was some great shakes; and she may have been a matter of seventeen years old when Mrs. Dev- ereux died. Dan, as simple at twenty-six as he had been ten years before, thought to go on just in the old way, but the neighbors were one too many for him ; and they all represented that it would never do, and so on, till the poor fellow got perplexed and vexed and half beside himself. There was n't the first thing she could do for herself, and he could n't aiTord to board lier out, for Dan was only a laboring-man, mackereUing all sum- mer and shoemaking all winter, less the dreadful times when he stayed out on the Georges; and then he coukl n't afford, cither, to keep her there and ruin the poor girl's re})utation ; — and what did Dan do but come to me with it all? Now for a number of years I 'd been up in the other part of the town with Aunt Netty, who kept a shop that I tended between schools and before and after, and I 'd almost forgotten tlicre was such a soul on earth as Dan Devereux, — though he'd not forgotten me. I'd got through the Grammar and had a year in tlic High, and suppose I sliould have finished witli an education and gone off teacliing somewhere, instead of l)eing here now, clieerful as heart could wisli, with a littU^ black-haired hussy filtering on the back of my chair. liolly, got THE SOUTH BREAKER. 125 down ! Her name 's Laura, — for liis mother. I mean I might have done all this, if at that time mother had n't been thrown on her back, and been bedridden ever since. I have n't said much about mother yet, but there all the time she was, just as she is to-day, in her little tidy bed in one corner of the great kitchen, sweet as a saint, and as patient ; — and I had to come and keep house for father. He never meant that I should lose by it, father did n't ; begged, borrowed, or stolen, bought or liired, I should have my books, lie said : he 's mighty proud of my learning, though between you and me it 's little enough to be proud of; but the neighbors think I know 'most as much as the minister, — and I let 'em think. Well, while Mrs. Devereux was sick I was over there a good deal, — for if Faith had one talent, it was total incapacity, — and there had a chance of knowing the stuff that Dan was made of; and I declare to man 't would have touched a heart of stone to see the love between the two. She thought Dan held up the sky, and Dan thought she teas the sky. It's no wonder, — the risks our men lead can't make common-sized women out of their wives and mothers. But I had n't been coming in and out, busying about where Dan was, all that time, without making any mark; though he was so lost in grief about his mother that lie did n't take notice of his other feelings, or think of himself at all. And who could care the less about him for that? It always brings down a woman to see a man wrapt in some sor- row that 's lawful and tender as it is large. And when he came and told me what the neighbors said he must do with Paith, the blood stood still in my heart. 126 LITTLE CLASSICS. " Ask mother, Dan," says I ; for I could n'l Lave advised liini. '• She knows best about everytliing." So he asked her. " I think — I 'm sorry to think, for I fear she '11 not make you a good wife," said mother, "but that perhaps her love for you will teach her to be — -you 'd best marry Faith." " But I can't marry her ! " said Dan, half choking ; " I don't want to marry her, — it — it makes me uncomforta- ble-like to think of such a thing.. I care for the child plenty — Besides," said Dan, catching at a bright hope, " I 'ra not sure that she 'd have me." " Have you, poor boy ! What else can she do ? " Dan groaned. " Poor little Faith ! " said mother. " She 's so pretty, Dan, and she 's so young, and she 's pliant. And then how can we tell what may turn up about her some day ? She may be a duke's daughter yet, — who knows ? Think of the stroke of good-fortune she may give you ! " " But I don't love her," said Dan, as a finality. " Perhaps — It is n't — You don't love any one else ? " " No," said Dan, as a matter of course, and not at all with reflection. Aiul tlien, as his eyes went "wandering, there came over them a misty look, just as the haze creeps between you and some object away out at sea, and lie seemed to be sifting his very soul. Suddenly the look swept off them, and his eyes struck mine, and he turned, not having meant to, and faced me entirely, and there came such a light into his countenance, such a smile round his lips, such a rod stuin])od his check, and THE SOUTH BREAKER. 127 he bent a little, — and it was just as if the angel of the Lord had shaken his wings over us in passing, and we both of us knew that here was a man and here was a woman, each for the other, in life and death; and I just hid my head in my apron, and mother turned on her pillow with a little moan. How long that lasted I can't say, but by and by I heard mother's voice, clear and sweet as a tolling bell far away on some fair Sunday morning, — " The Lord is in his holy temple, the Lord's throne is in heaven : his eyes behold, his eyelids try the children of men." And nobody spoke, " Thou art my Father, my God, and the rock of my salvation. Thou wilt light my candle : the Lord ray God will enlighten my darkness. For with thee is the fountain of life : in thy hglit shall we see light." Then came the hush again, and Dan started to liis feet, and began to walk up and down the room as if sometliing drove him ; but, wearying, he stood and leaned his head on the chimney there. And mother's voice broke the stillness anew, and she said, — " Hath God forgotten to be gracious ? His mercy endureth forever. And none of them that trust in him shall be desolate." There was something in mother's tone that made me forget myself and my sorrow, and look ; and there she was, as she had n't been before for six months, half risen from the bed, one hand up, and her whole face white and shining with confident faith. Well, when I see all that such trust has buoyed mother over, I wish to goodness 128 LITTLE CLASSICS. I had it : I take more after Martha. But never mind, do well here and you '11 do well there, say I. Perhaps you think it was n't much, the quiet and the few texts breathed through it ; but sometimes when one's soul 's at a white heat, it may be moulded like wax with a fin- ger. As for' me, maybe God hardened Pharaoh's heart, — thougli how that was Pharaoh's fault I never could see ; — but Dan, — he felt what it was to have a refuge in trouble, to have a great love always extending over him like a wing ; he longed for it ; he could n't believe it was his now, he was so suddenly convicted of all sin and wickedness ; and somethhig sprang up in his heart, a kind of holy passion that he felt to be possible for this great and tender Divine Being ; and lie came and fell on his knees by the side of the bed, crying out for mother to show him the way ; and mother, she put her hand on his head and prayed, — prayed, oh ! so beautifully, that it nuikes the water stand in my eyes now to remember what she said. But I did n't feel so then, my heart and my soul were rebellious, and love for Dan alone kept me under, not love for God. And in fact, if ever I 'd got to heaven then, love for Dan 'd have been my only saving grace ; for I was mighty high-spirited, as a girl. Well, Dan he never made open profession ; but when he left the liouse, he went and asked Paith to marry him. ♦ Now Faith did n't care anything about Dan, — except the quiet attachment that she could n't lielp, from living in the house with him, and he 'd always petted and made mu(-h of licr, and dressed her like a doll, — he was n't the kind of man to take her fancy ; she 'd have maybe liked SOUK! slender, smooth-laced chap ; but Dan was a black. THE SOUTH BREAKER. 129 « shaggy fellow, witli shoulders like the cross-tree, and a length of limb like Saul's, and eyes set deep, like lamps in caverns. And he had a great, powerful heart, — and, oh! how it was lost! for she might have won it, she might have made him love her, since I would have stood wide away and aside for the sake of seeing him happy. But Faith was one of those that, if they can't get what they want, have n't any idea of putting up with what they have, — God forgive me, if I am hard on the child I And she could n't give Dan an answer right off, but was loath to think of it, and went flirting about among the other boys ; and Dan, wheij he saw she was n't so easily gotten, perhaps set more value on her. For Faith, she grew prettier every day ; her great brown eyes were so soft and clear, and had a wide, sorrowful way of looking at you ; and her cheeks, that were usually pale, blossomed to roses when you spoke to her, her hair drooping over them dark and silky; and though she was slack and untidy and at loose ends about her di'ess, she somehow always seemed like a princess in disguise ; and when she had on anything new, — a sprigged caUco and her little straw bonnet with the pink ribbons and Mrs. Devereux's black scarf, for instance, — you 'd have allowed that she might have been daughter to the Queen of Sheba. I don't know, but I rather think Dan would n't have said any more to Faith, from various motives, you see, not- withstanding the neighbors were still remonstrating with him, if it had n't been that Miss Brown — she that hved round the comer there ; the town 's well quit of her now, poor thing ! — went to saying the same stuff to Faith, and telling her all that other folks said. And Faith went 6* I I'ii) LITTLE CLASSICS. home in a passion, — some of your timid kind nothing evei' abashes, and nobody gets to the windward of them, — and, being perfectly furious, fell to accusing Dan of having brought her to this, so that Dan actually believed he had, and was cut to the quick with contrition, and told her that all the reparation he could make he was waiting and wishing to make, and then there came floods of tears. Some women seem to have set out with the idea that life 's a desert for them to cross, and they 've laid in a supply of water-bags accordingly, but it 's the meanest weapon ! And then, again, there 's men that are iron, and not to be bent under calamities, that these tears can tAvist round your little finger. Well, I suppose Faith concluded 't was no use to go hungry because her l)read was n't buttered on both sides, but she always acted as if she 'd condescended ninety degrees in marrying Dan, and Dan always seemed to feci that he 'd done her a great injury; and there it was. I kept in the house for a time ; mother was worse, — and I thought the less Dan saw of me the better ; I kind of hoped he 'd forget, and find his happiness where it ought to be. But tlie first time I' saAV him, when Faith had been his wife all the spring, there was the look in his eyes that told of i he ache in his heart. Faith wasn't very liappy herself, of course, though she was careless ; and she gave him trouble, — keeping company with the young men just as before; aiul she got into a way of flying straight to me, if Dan ventured to reprove her ever so lightly; and stormy nights, when he was gone, and in his loug trips, she always locked up her do(jrs and came over and got into my bod ; and she was THE SOUTH BREAKER. 1:31 one of those that never hstened to reason, and it was none so easy for mc, you may "Suppose. Things had gone on now for some three years, and I 'd about lived in my books, — I 'd tried to teach Faith some, but she would n't go any further than newspaper stories, — when one day Dan took her and me to sail, and we were to have liad a clam-chowder on the Point, if the squall had n't come. As it was, we 'd got to put up with chicken-broth, and it could n't have been better, considoring who made it. It was getting on toward the cool of the May evening, the sunset was round on the other side of the house, but all the east looked as if the sky had been stirred up with currant-juice, till it grew purple and dark, and then the two lighthouses flared out and showed us the lip of froth lapping the shadowy shore beyond, and I heard father's voice, and he came in. There was nothing but the G relight in the room, and it threw about great shadows, so that at first entering all was indistinct ; but I heard a foot behind father's, and then a form appeared, and something, I never could tell what, made a great shiver rush down my back, just as when a creature is frightened in the dark at what you don't see ; and so, though my soul was unconscious, my body felt that there was danger in the air. Dan had risen and lighted the lamp that swings in the chimney, and father first of all had gone up and kissed mother, and left the stranger standing; then he turned round, saying, — " A tough day, — it 's been a tough day ; and here 's some un to prove it. Georgie, hope that pot's steam lo'Z LITTLE CLASSICS. don't belie it, for Mr. Gabriel Verelay and I want a good supper and a good bed." At this, the stranger, still standing, bowed. " Here 's the one, father," said I. " But about the bed, — Paith 'II have to stay here, — and I don't see, — unless Dan takes him over — " " That I '11 do," said Dan. " All right," said the stranger, in a voice that you did n't seem to notice while he was speaking, but that you remembered afterwards like the ring of any silver tiling that has been thrown down ; and he dropped his hat on the floor and drew near the fireplace, warming hands that were slender and brown, but shapely as a woman's. I was taking up the supper ; so I only gave him a glance or two, and saw him standing there, his left hand ex- tended to the blaze, and his eye resting lightly and then earnestly on Faith in her pretty sleep, and turning away much as one turns from a picture. At length I came to ask him to sit by, and at that moment Faith's eyes opened. Faith always woke up just as a baby does, wide and bewildered, and the fire had flushed her cheeks, and her hair was disordered, and she fixed her gaze on him as if he had stepped out of her dream, her lii)s half parted and then curling in a smile ; but hi a second he moved off with me, and Faith slipped down and into the little bed- room. Well, we did n't waste many words until father 'd lost the edge of his appetite, and then I told about Faith. " 'F that don't beat the Dutch ! " said father. " Here 's Mr. — Mr. — " THE SOUTH BREAKER. 133 " Gabriel," said the stranger. "Yes, — Mr. Gabriel Verelay been sei-ved the same trick by the same squall, only worse and more of it, — knocked off the yacht — What 's that you call her ? " " La belle Louise." " And left for drowned, — if they see liim go at all. But he could n't 'a' sinked in that sea, if he'd tried. He kep' afloat ; we blundered into him ; and here he is." Dan and I looked round in considerable surprise, for he was dry as an August leaf. " 0," said the stranger, coloring, and with the least little turn of his words, as if he didn't always speak English, " the good capitain reached shore, and, finding sticks, he kindled a fire, and we did dry our clothes un- til it made fine weather once more." "Yes," said father; "but 't wouldn't been quite such fine weather, I reckon, if this 'd gone to the fishes ! " And he pushed something across the table. It was a pouch with steel snaps, and well stuffed. The stranger colored again, and held his hand for it, and the snap burst, and great gold pieces, English coin and very old French ones, rolled about the table, and father shut his eyes tight ; and just then Eaith came back and slipped into her chair. I saw her eyes sparkle as we all reached, laughing and joking, to gather them ; and Mr. Gabriel — we got into the way of calling him so, — he liked it best — hurried to get them out of sight as if he 'd committed some act of ostentation. And then, to make amends, he threw off what constraint he had worn in this new atmosphere of ours, and was so gay, so full of questions and quips and conceits, all spoken in his 134 LITTLE CLASSICS. strange "vray, his voice was so sweet, and he laughed so much and so like a boy, and his words had so much point and brightness, that I could think of nothing but the showers of colored stars in fireworks. Dan felt it like a play, sat quiet, but enjoying, and I saw he liked it ; — the fellow had a way of attaching every one. Father was uproarious, and kept calling out, " Mother, do you hear ? — d' you hear that, mother ? " And Faith, she was near, taking it all in as a flower does sun- shine, only smiling a little, and looking utterly happy. Then I hurried to clear up, and Faith sat in the great arm-chair, and father got out the pipes, and you could hardly see across the room for the wide tobacco-wreaths ; and then it was father's turn, and he told story after story of the hardships and the dangers and the charms of our way of living. And I could see Mr. Gabriel's cheek blanch, and he would bend forward, forgetting to smoke, and his breath coming short, and then right him- self like a boat after lurching, — he had such natural ways, and except that he 'd maybe been a spoiled child, he would have had a good heart, as hearts go. And nothing would do at last but he must stay and live the same scenes for a little ; and father told him 't wouldn't pay, — they were n't so much to go through with as to tell of, — there was too much prose in tlic daily life, and too much dirt, and 't wa' n't fit for gentlemen. O, he said, he 'd been used to roughing it, — woodshig, camp- ing and gunning and yachting, ever since he 'd been a free man. lie was a Canadian, ami had been cruising from the St. Lawrence to Florida; and now, as his coni})aiiions would go on without him, ho liad a mind to THE SOUTH BREAKER. l.*35 try a bit of coast -life. Aud could he board here ? or was there auv handy place ? And father said, there was Dau, — Dan Devereux, a man that hadn't his match at oar or helm. And ^Ir. Gabriel turned his keen eye and bowed again, — and could n't Dan take Mr. Gabriel 'r* And before Dan could answer, for he 'd referred it to Faith, Mr. Gabriel had forgotten all about it, and was humming a little French song and stirring the coals with the tongs. And that put father off in a fresh remem- brance ; and as the hours lengthened, the stories grew fearful, aud he told them deep into the midnight, till at last Mr. Gabriel stood up. " Xo more, good friend,'' said he. " But I will have a taste of this life perilous. And now where is it that I go ? " Dau also stood up. " My little woman," said he, glancing at Faith, "• thinks there 's a corner for you, sir." "I beg your pardon — " And Mr. Gabriel paused, with a shadow skimming over his clear dark face. Dan wondered what he was begging pardon for, but thought perhaps he had n't heard him, so he re- peated, — "My wife," — nodding over his shoulder at Faith, " she 's my wife, — thinks there 's a — " " She 's your wife ? " said Mr. Gabriel, his eyes open- ing aud brightenmg the way an aurora runs up the sky, and looking first at one aud then at the other, as if he could n't understand how so delicate a flower grew on so thorny a stem. The red flushed up Dan's face, — aud up miue, too. 186 LITTLE CLASSICS. for the matter of tliat, — but iu a miuiite the stranger had dropped his glance. "And Avhy did you not tell me," he said, "that 1 might have found her less beautiful ? " Then he raised his shoulders, gave her a saucy bow, with his hand on Dan's arm, — Dan, who was now too well pleased at having Faith made happy by a compli- ment to sift it, — and they went out. But I was angry enough ; and you may imagine I was n't much soothed by seeing Faith, who 'd been so die-away all the evening, sitting up before my scrap of looking-glass, trying in my old coral ear-rings, bowing up my ribbons, and plaiting and prinking till the clock frightened her into bed. The next morning, mother, who was n't used to such disturbance, was ill, and I was kept pretty busy tending on her for two or three days. Faith had insisted on goijig home the first thing after breakfast, and in that time I heard no more of anybody, — for father was out with the night-tides, and, except to ask how mother did, and if I 'd seen tlie stray from tlie Loliblelyese again, was too tired for talking when he came back. That had been — let me see — on a Monday, I tliink, — yes, on a Monday ; and Thursday evening, as in-doors had be- gun to tell on me, and mother was so much imjjroved, I thouglit I 'd run outj for a walk along the sea-wall. The sunset was creeping round everything, and lying in great sheets on the broad, still river, tlie children were frolick- ing in the water, and all was so gay, and the air was so sweet, tliat I went lingering along farther than I'd meant, and by and by who should 1 see but a couple THE SOUTH BREAKER. 137 sauntering toward me at my own gait, and one of tlicm was Faith. She liad on a muslin with little roses blush- ing all over it, and she floated along in it as if she were in a pink cloud, and she 'd snatched a vine of the tender young woodbine as she went, and, throwing it round her shoulders, held the two ends in one hand like a ribbon, while with the other she swung her white sun- bonnet. She laughed, and shook her head at me, and there, large as Ufe, under the dark braids dangled my coral ear-rings, that she 'd adopted without leave or license. She 'd been down to the lower landing to meet Dan, — a thing she 'd done before — I don't know when, — and was walking up with Mr. Gabriel while Dan stayed behind to see to things. I kept them talk- ing, and Mr. Gabriel was sparkling with fun, for he 'd got to feeling acquainted, and it had put him in high spirits to get ashore at this hour, though he liked the sea, and we were all laughing, when Dan came up. Now I must confess I had n't fancied Mr. Gabriel over and above ; I suppose my first impression had hardened into a prejudice ; and after I 'd fathomed the meaning of Faith's fine feathers I liked him less than ever. But when Dan came up, he joined right in, gay and hearty, and liking his new acquaintance so much, that, thinks I, he must know best, and I '11 let him look out for his interests himself. It would 'a' been no use, though, for Dan to pretend to beat the Frenchman at his own weapons, — and I don't know that I should have cared to have him. The older I grow, the less I think of your mere intellect; throw learning out of the scales, and give me a great, warm heart, — like Dan's. 138 LITTLE CLASSICS. Well, it was getting on in the evening, ^A•lleu tlie latch lifted, and in ran Faith. She twisted my ear-ruigs out of her hair, exclaiming, — " Georgie, are you busy ? Can't you perse my ears now?" " Pierce them yourself, Taith." "Well, pierce, then. But I can't, — you know I can't. Won't you now, Georgie ? " And she tossed the ear-rings into my lap. "Why, Faith," said I, "how'd3'ou contrive to wear these, if your ears are n't — " " O, I tied them on. Come now, Georgie ! " So I got the ball of yarn and the darning-needle. " 0, not such a big one ! " cried she. " Perhaps you 'd like a cambric needle," said I. " I don't want a which," she pouted. "Well, here 's a smaller one. Now kneel down." "Yes, but you wait a moment, till I screw up my courage." " No need. You can talk, and I '11 take you at una- wares." So Faith knelt down, and I got all ready.' "And what shall I talk about?" said she. "About Aunt Eliody, or Mr. Gabriel, or — I '11 tell you the queerest thing, Georgie ! Going to now ? " " Do be quiet. Faith, and not keep your head flirting about so ! " — for she 'd started up to speak. Then she composed herself once more, " What was I saying ? O, about that ! Yes, Georgie, the queerest thing! You sec this evening, when Dan was out, I was sitting talkin' with Mr. Gabriel, and he THE SOUTH BREAKER. 139 was wondering how I came to be dropped down here, so I told him all about it. And he was so interested that I went and showed him the things I had on when Dan found me, — you know they 've been kept real nice. And he took them, and looked them over close, admiring them, and — and — admiring me, — and finally he started, and then held the frock to the light, and then lifted a lit- tle plait, and in the under side of the belt lining there was a name very finely wrought, — Virginie des Violets ; and he looked at all the others, and in some hidden cor- ner of every one was the initials of the same name, — V. des V. " ' That should be your name, Mrs. Devereux,' says he. " ' 0, jio ! ' says I. ' My name 's Faith.' " Well, and on that he asked, was there no more ; and so I took off the little chain that I 've always worn and showed him that, and he asked if there was a face in it, in what we tliought was a coin, you know ; and I said, O, it did n't open ; and he turned it over and over, and finally something snapped, and there teas a face, — here, you shall see it, Georgie." And Faith drew it from her bosom, and opened and held it before me ; for I 'd sat with my needle poised, and forgetting to strike. And there was the face indeed, a sad, serious face, dark and sweet, yet the image of Paith, and with the same mouth, — that so lovely in a woman becomes weak in a man, — and on the other side there were a few threads of hair, with the same darkness and fineness as Faith's hair, and under them a little pic- ture chased in the gold and enamelled, which from what 140 LITTLE CLASSICS. I 've read since I suppose must have been the crest of the Des Violets. ''• And what did Mr. Gabriel say then ? " I asked, giv- ing it back to Taith, who put her head into the old posi- tion again. " 0, he acted real queer ! Talked French, too, — O, so fast ! ' The very rnau ! ' then he cried out. ' The man himself ! His portrait, — I have seen it a hundred times ! ' And then he told me that about a dozen years ago or more, a ship sailed from — from — I forget the place exactly, somewhere up there where he came from, — Mr. Gabriel, I mean, — and among the passengers was this man and his wife, and his little daughter, whose name was Virginie des Violets, and the ship was never heard from again. But he says that without a doubt I 'm the little daughter and my name is Virginie, though I suppose every one '11 call me Faith. O, and that isn't the queerest ! Tlie queerest is, this gentleman," and Faith lifted her head, " was very rich. I can't tell you how much he owned. Lands that you can walk on a whole day and not come to the end, and ships, and gold. And the whole of it 's lying idle and waiting for an heir, — and I, Georgie, am the heir." And Faith told it with cheeks burning and eyes shin- ing, but yet quite as if she 'd been born and brought up in the knowledge. " It don't seem to move you much, Faith," said I, per- fectly amazed, although I'd frequently expected some- tiiing of the kind. " Well, I may never get it, and so on. If 1 do, 1 'U give you a silk dress and set you up in a bookstore. But I THE SOUTH diiEx\k::r. Ill here 's a queerer thing yet. Des Violets is the way Mr. Gabriel's own name is spelt, and his father and mine — his mother and — Well, some way or other we 're sort of cousins. Only think, Georgie ! is n't that — I thought, to be sure, when he quartered at our house, Dan'd begin to take me to do, if I looked at him sideways, — make the same fuss that he does if I nod to jtiiy of the other young men." " I don't think Dan speaks before he should, Faith." *' Why don't you say Virginie ? " says she, laughing. " Because Faith you 've always been, and Faith you '11 have to remain, with us, to the end of the chapter." " Well, that 's as it may be. But Dan can't object now to my going where I 'm a mind to with my own cousin ! " And here Faith laid her ear on the ball of yam again. "Hasten, headsman!" said she, out of a novel, ''or they '11 wonder where I am." "Well," I answered, "just let me run the needle through the emery." " Yes, Georgie," said Faith, going back with her mem- ories while I sharpened my steel, "Mr. Gabriel and I are kin. And he said that the moment he laid eyes on me he knew I was of different blood from the rest of the people — " " What people ? " asked I. " Why, you, and Dan, and all these. And he said he Avas struck to stone when he heard I was married to Dan, — I must have been entrapped, — the courts would annul it, — any one could see the difference between 142 LITTLE CLASSICS. Here was my moment, and I didn't spare it, but jabbed the needle into the ball of yani, if licr ear did lie between them. " Yes ! " says I, " anybody witli half an eye can see the difference between you, and that 's a fact ! Nobody 'd ever imai^ine for a breath that you were deserving of Dan, — Ban, who 's so noble he 'd die for wliat he thought was right ; you, who are so selfish and idle and tickle and — "^ And at that Taith burst out crying. " 0, I never expected you 'd talk about me so, Gcor- gie ! " said she between her sobs. " How could / tell you were such a mighty friend of Dan's ? And besides, if ever I was Yirginie des Violets, I 'm Taith Devereux now, and Dan '11 resent anT/ one's speaking so about his wife!" And she stood up, the tears sparkling like diamonds in her liashhig dark eyes, her checks red, and her little list clinched. " That 's the right spirit, Taith," says I, " and I 'm glad to see you show it. And as for this young Cana- dian, the best thing to do yn\\\ him is to send him pack- ing. I don't believe a word he says; it's more than likely nothing but to get into your good graces." " But there 's the names," said she, so astonished that she did n't remember she was angry. " Happened so." " O, yes ! ' Happened so ' ! A likely story ! It 's nothing but your envy, and tliat's all! " "Paith!" says I, for I forgot she didn't know liow close she btnick. THE SOUTH BREAKER. 143 " Well, — I mean — There, don't let 's talk about it any more ! How under the sun am I gomg to get these ends tied ? " " Come here. There ! Now for the other one." " No, I sha' n't let you do that ; you hurt me dread- fully, and you got angry, and took the big needle." " I thought you expected to be hurt." " I did n't expect to be stabbed." " Well, just as you please. I suppose you '11 go round with one ear-ring." " Like a little pig with his ear cropped ? No, I shall do it myself. See there, Georgie ! " And she threw a bit of a box into my hands. I opened it, and there lay inside, on their velvet cush- ion, a pair of the prettiest things you ever saw, — a tiny bunch of white grapes, and every grape a round pearl, and all hung so that they would tinkle together on their golden stems every time Paith shook her head, — and she had a cunning little way of shaking it often enough. " These must have, cost a peimy, Faith," said I. " Where 'd you get them ? " "Mr. Gabriel gave them to me just now. He went up town and bought them. And I don't want him to know that my ears were n't bored." " Mr. Gabriel ? And you took them ? " " Of course I took them, and mighty glad to get them." " Faith dear," said I, " don't you know that you should n't accept presents from gentlemen, and espe- cially now you 're a married woman, and especially from those of higher station ? " 14^ LITTLE CLASSICS. " But he is n't liiglicr." " You know what I mean. Aud then, too, he is ; for one ahvays takes rank from one's husband." Eaith looked rather downcast at this. " Yes," said I ; " and pearls and calico — " " Just because you have n't got a pair yourself ! There, be still ! I don't want any of your instructions in duty ! " " You ought to put up with a word from a friend, Faith," said I. "You always come to me with your , grievances. And I '11 tell you what I '11 do. You used to like these coral branches of mine ; and if you '11 give those back to Mr. Gabriel, you shall have tlie coral." Well, Faith, she hesitated, standing there trying to muster her mind to the needle, and it ended by her taking the coral, though I don't believe she returned the pearls ; but we none of us ever saw them afterwards. We 'd been talking in a pretty low tone, because mother was asleep; and just as she'd finished the other ear, and a httle drop of blood stood up on -it like a live ruby, the door opened and Dan and Mr. Gabriel came in. There never was a prettier picture tiian Faith at that moment, and so the young stranger thought, for he stared at her, smiling and at ease, just as if she 'd been hung in a gal- lery and he 'd bought a ticket. So then he sat down and repeated to Dan aud mother what she 'd told me, and he promised to send for the papers to prove it all. But he never did send for them, — delaying and delaying, till the summer wore away ; and perhaps there were such pa])ers and perhaps there were n't. I 've always tliought lie didn't want liis own friends to know where he was. 1 THE SOUm BllEAKEll. 145 Dan m'i^lit ba a rich man to-day, if he cliose to kjok thero np ; but he 'd scorch at a slow fire before he 'd touch a copper of it. Father never believed a word about it, when wo recited it again to him. " So Eaith 's come into her fortune, has she ? " said he. " Pretty child ! She 'a'n't had so much before sence she f-^ll heir to old Miss Devereux's best chany, her six silver spoons, and her surname." So the days passed, and tlie greater part of every one Mr. Gabriel was dabbling in the water somewhere. There was u't a brook within ten miles that he did n't empty of trout, for Dan knew the woods as well as the shores, and he knew the clear nights when the insects can keep free from the water so that next day the fish rise hungry to the surface ; and so sometimes in the brightest of May noons they 'd bring home a string of those beau- ties, speckled with little tongues of fiame ; and Mr. Gabriel would have them cooked, and make ns all taste them, — for we don't care much for that sort, down here on the Flats ; we should thmk we were famished if we had to eat fish. And then they 'd lie in wait all day for the darting pickerel in the little Stream of Shadows above ; and when it came June, up the river he went trolling for bass, and he used a difi'erent sort of bait from the rest, — bass won't bite much at clams, — and he hauled in great forty-pounders. And sometimes, m the afternoons, he took out Faith and me, — for, as Faith would go, whether or no, I always made it a point to put by everything and go too ; and I used to try and get some of the other girls in, but Mr. Gabriel never vrould take them, though he w^s liail-fellow-wpU-met VOL. VII. 7 T 11-6 LITTLE CLASSICS. with everybody, and was everybody's favorite, and it was known all round how he found out Faith, and that alone made him so popular, that I do beUeve, if he 'd only taken out naturalization papers, we 'd have sent him to General Court. And then it grew time for the river mack- erel, and they used to bring in at sunset two or three hundred in a shining heap, together with great lobsters, that looked as if they 'd been carved out of heliotrope- stone, and so old that they were barnacled. And it was so novel to Mr. Gabriel, that he used to act as if he 'd fallen in ftiiry-land. After all, I don't know what we should have done without him that summer ; he always paid Dan or father a dollar a day and the hire of the boat ; and the times were so hard, and there was so little doing, that, but for this, and packing the barrels of clam-bait, they 'd have been idle and fared sorely. But we 'd rather have starved : though, as for that, I 've heard father say there never was a time when he could n't go out and catch some sort of fish and sell it for enough to get us some- thing to eat. And then this Mr. Gabriel, he had such a winning way with him, he was as quick at wit as a bird on the wing, he had a story or a song for every point, he seemed to take to our simple life as if he 'd been born to it, and -he was as much interested in all our trifles as wc \vere ourselves. Then, he was so sympathetic, he felt everybody's troubles, he went to the city and brought down a wonderful doctor to see mother, and he got her queer things that helped her more than you 'd have thought anything could, and he went himself and set honevsuf'kles out all round Dan's house, so that THE SOUTH IJREAKER. 117 before summer Avas over it was a boMcr of great sweet blows, and he had au ahns for every beggar, a*id a kind word for every urchin, and he folloAved Dan about as a child would follow some big shaggy dog. He intro- duced, too, a lot of new-fangled games; he was wliat they called a gymnast, and in feats of. rassling there was n't a man among them all but he could stretch as flat as a flounder. And then he always treated. Every- body had a place for him soon, — even / did ; and as for Dan, he 'd have cut his own heart out of his body, if Mr. Gabriel 'd had occasion to use it. He was a difl'er- ent man from any Dan 'd ever met before, something finer, and he might have been better, and Dan's loyal soul was glad to acknowledge him master, and I de- clare I beUeve he felt just as the Jacobites in the old songs used to feel for royal Charlie. There are some men bom to rule with a haughty, careless sweetness, and others born to die for them with stern and dogged devotion. Well, and all this while Faith was n't standing still ; she was changing steadily, as much as ever the moon changed in the sky. I noticed it first one day when Mr. Gabriel'd caught every child in the region and given them a picnic in the woods of the Stack- Yard-Gate, and Faith was nowhere to be seen tiptoeing round every one as she used to do, but I found her at last standing at the head of the table, — Mr. Gabriel dancing here and there, seeing to it that all should be as gay as he seemed to be, — quiet and dignified as you please, and feeling every one of her inches. But it was n't dignity really that was the matter with Faith, — it was just gloom. She 'd brighten 148 LITTLE CLASSICS. up for a momeut or two, and then down would fall the cloud again; she took to long fits of dreaming, and sometimes she 'd burst out crying at any careless word, so that my heart fairly bled for the poor child, — for one could n't help seeing that she 'd some secret unhappi- ness or other, — and I was as gentle and soothing to her as it 's in my nature to be. She was in to our house a good deal; she kept it pretty well out of Dan's way, and I hoped she 'd get over it sooner or later, and make up her mind to circumstances. And I talked to her a sight about Dan, praising him constantly before her, thongli I couldn't bear to do it; and finally, one very confidential evenhig, I told her that I 'd been in love with Dan myself once a Httle, but 1 'd seen that he would marry her, and so had left off thinking about it ; for, do you know, I thought it might make her set more price on him now, if she knew somebody else had ever cared for him. Well, that did answer awhile : whether she thought she ought to make it up to Dan, or whether he really did grow more in her eyes, Faith got to bciiig very neat and domestic and praiseworthy. But still there was the change, and it didn't make her any the less lovely. Indeed, if I 'd been a man, I should have cared for her more than ever : it was like turning a child into a ■woman : and I really think, as Dan saw her going aliout with such a pleasant gravity, her pretty figure moving so quietly, her pretty face so still and fair, as if she had thoughts and feelings now, he began to wonder what had come over Taith, and, if she were really as charming as this, why he had n't felt it before ; and then, you kiioAV, whether vou love a woman or not, the mere fact that THE SOUTH BREAKEIl. 149 slic 's your wife, that her life is sunk in yours, tliat she 's soinetliing for you to protect, and that your honor Hes in doing so, gives you a certain kindly feeling that might ripen into love any day under sunshine and a south wall. Blue-fish were about done with, when one day Dan brought in some mackerel from Boon Island : they hadn't been in the harbor for some time, though now there was a probability of their return. So they were going out when the tide served — the two boys — at midnight for mackerel, and Dan had heard me wish for the experience so often, a long while ago, that he said. Why should n't they take the girls ? and Faith snatched at the idea, and with that Mr. Gabriel agreed to fetch me at the hour, and so w^e parted. I was kind of sorry, but there was no help for it. When we started, it was in that clear crystal dark that looks as if you could see through it forever till you reached infinite things, and we seemed to be in a great hollow sphere, and the stars were like living beings who had the night to themselves. Always, when I 'm up late, I feel as if it were something unlawful, as if affairs were in progress which I had no right to witness, a kind of grand freemasonry. I 've felt it nights when I 've been watching with mother, and there has come up across t\m heavens the great caravan of constellations, and a star that I 'd pulled away the curtain on the east side to see came by and by and looked in at the south window ; but I never felt it as I did this night. The tide was near the full, and so we went slipping down the dark w^ater by the starlight ; and as we saw them shining above us, and 150 LITTLE CLASSICS. then looked down and saw them sparkling np from beneath, — the stars, — it really seemed as if Dan's oars must be two long wings, as if we swam on them through a mo- tionless air. By and by we were in the island creek, and far ahead, in a streak of wind that did n't reach us, we could see a pointed sail skimming along between the banks, as if some ghost went before to show us the way ; and when the first hush and mystery wore off, Mr. Ga- briel was singing httle French songs in tunes like the rise and fall of the tide. While he sang he rowed, and Dan was gangcing the hooks. At length Dan took the oars again, and every now and then he paused to let us float along with the tide as it slacked, and take the sense of the night. And all the tall grass that edged the side began to wave in a strange light, and there blew on a little breeze, and over the rim of the world tipped up a waning moon. If there 'd been anything needed to make us feel as if we were going to find the Witcli of Endor, it was this. It was such a strange moon, pointing such a strange way, with such a strange color, so remote, and so glassy, — it was like a dead moon, or the spirit of one, and was perfectly awful. "She has come to look at Faith," said Mr. Gabriel; for Faith, who once would have been nodding here and xirfiere all about the boat, was sitting up pale and sad, like anotlier spirit, to confront it. But Dan and I both felt a diflerence. Mr. Galiricl, lie stepped across and went and sat down behind Faith, and laid his hand lightly on her arm. Per- ha[)s he didn't mind that he touched her, — he had a kind of absent air ; but if any one had looked at the THE SOUTH BREAKER. 151 nervous pressure of the clender fingers, they would have seen as much meaning in that touch as in many an em- brace ; and Faith lifted her face to his, and they forgot that I was looking at them, and into the eyes of bjth there stole a strange, deep smile, — and my soul groaned withm me. It made no odds to me then that the air blew warm off the land from scented hay-ricks, that the moon hung Hke some exhumed jewel in the sky, that all the perfect night was widening into dawn. I saw and felt nothing but the wretchedness that must break one day on Dan's head. Should I warn him ? I could n't do that. And what then ? The sail was up, we had left the headland and the hills, and when they furled it and cast anchor we were swing- ing far out on the back of the great monster that was frolicking to itself and thinking no more of us than we do of a mote in the air. Elder Snow, he says that it 's singular we regard day as illumination and night as dark- ness, — day that really hems us in with narrow light and shuts us upon ourselves, night that sets us free and re- veals to us all the secrets of the sky. I thought of that when one by one the stars melted and the moon became a breath, and up over the wide grayness crept color and radiance and the sun himself, — the sky soaring higher and higher, like a great thin bubble of flaky hues, — and, all about, nothing but the everlasting wash of waters broke the sacred hush. And it seemed as if God had been with us, and withdrawing we saw the trail of his splendid garments ; and I remembered the words mother had spoken to Dan once before, and why could n't I leave him in heavenly hands ? And then it came into my heart 15^ LITTLE CLASSICS. to pray. I knew I had n't any right to pray expectmg to be heard ; but yet mine "would be the prayer of the humble, and \vas n't Faith of as much consequence as a sparrow ? By and by, as we all sat leaning over the gunwale, the words of a hymn that I'd heard at camp- meetings came into my mind, and I sang them out, loud and clear. I always had a good voice, though Dan 'd never heard me do anything with it except hum little low things, putting mother to sleep ; but here I had a whole sky to sing in, and the hymns were tnmipet-calls. And one after another they kept thronging u]), and there was a rush of feeling in them that made you shiver, and as I sang them they thrilled me through and through. Wide as the way before us was, it seemed to widen ; I felt myself journeying with some vast host towards the city of God, and its light poured over us, and there was nothing but joy and love and praise and exulting expectancy in my heart. And when the hymn died on my lips because the words were too faint and the tune was too weak for the ecstasy, and when the silence had soothed me back again, I turned and saw Dan's lips bitten, and his check white, and his eyes like stars, and Mr. Gabriel's face fallen for- ward in his hands, and he shaking with quick sobs ; and as for Faith, — Faith, she had dropped asleep, and one arm was thrown above her head, and the other lay where it had slipped from Mr. Gabriel's loosened grasp. There 's a contagion, you know, in such things, but Failli was never of the catching kind. "Well, this was n't what we 'd come for, — turning all out-doors into a church, — though what 's a church but a place of God 's presence ? and for my part, I never see THE SOUTH BREAKER. 153 high blue sky and siinsliiue ^Yithollt feeling that. And all of a sudden there came a school of mackerel splashing and darkening and curling round the boat, after the bait we 'd thrown out on anchoring. 'T would have done you good to see Dan just at that moment ; you 'd have realized what it was to have a calling. He started up, forgetting everything else, his face all flushed, his eyes like coals, his mouth tight and his tongue silent; and how many hooks he had out I 'm sure I don't know, but lie kept jerking them in by twos and threes, and finally tliey bit at the bare barb and were taken without any bait at all, just as if they 'd come and asked to be caught. Mr. Gabriel, he did n't pay any attention at first, but Dan called to him to stir himself, and so gradually4ie worked back into his old mood ; but he was more still and something sad all the rest of the morning. Well, when we 'd gotten about enough, and they were dying in the boat there, as they cast their scales, like the iris, we put in-shore ; and building a fire, we cooked our own dinner and boiled our own cofi'ee. Many 's the icy win- ter night I 've wrapped up Dan's bottle of hot coffee in rolls on rolls of flannel, that he might drink it hot and strong far out at sea in a wherry at daybreak ! But as I was saying, — all this time, Mr. Gabriel, he scarcely looked at Faith. At first she didn't compre- hend, and then something swam aU over her face as if the very blood in her veins had grown darker, and there was such danger in her eye that before we stepped into the boat again I wished to goodness I had a life-pre- server. But in the beginning the reUgious impression lasted and gave him great resolutions ; and then strolling 7*, 154 LITTLE CLASSICS. off and along tlie bcacli, he fell in -u-itli some men there and did as he always did, scraped acquaintance. I yerily believe that these men were total strangers/ that he 'd never laid eyes on them before, and after a few words he wheeled about. As he did so, liis glance fell on Faith standing there alone against the pale sky, for the weath- er 'd thickened, and watching the surf break at her feet. He was motionless, gazing at her long, and then, when he had turned once or twice irresolutely, he ground his lieel into the sand and went back. The men rose and wandered on with him, and they talked together for a while, and I saw money pass ; and pretty soon Mr. Gabriel returned, his face vividly pallid, but smiling, and lie had in his hand some little bright shells that you don't often find on these Northern beaches, and he said he had bought them of those men. And all this time he *d not spoken with Faith, and there was the danger yet in her rye. But nothing came of it, and I had accused myself of nearly every crime in the Decalogue, and on the way ];ack we had put up the lines, and Mr. Gabriel had hauled in tlic lobster-net for the last time. He liked that branch of the business ; he said it had all the excitement of gambling, — the slow settling downwards, the fading of tlie last ripple, the impenetrable depth and shade and the iny.stery of the work below, five minutes of expectation, and it might bring uj) a scale of the soa-soi-}ient, or the king of the crabs might have crept in for a nap in the folds, or it might come up as if you 'd dredgrdi for pearls, or it might hold the great backward-crawling lobsters, or a tangle of sea-weed, or the long yellow locks of some drowned girl, — or nothing at all. So he always drew THE SOUTH BREAKEli. 155 in that net, and it needed muscle, and his was like steel, — not good for much in the long pull, but just for a breathing could handle the biggest boatman in the har- bor. Well, — and we 'd hoisted the sail and were in the creek once more, for the creek was only to be used at high-water, and I 'd told Dan I could n't be away from mother over another tide and so we must n't get aground, and he 'd told me not to fret, there was nothing too shallow for us on the coast. "This boat," said Dan, " she '11 float in a heavy dew." And he began singing a song he liked : — " I cast my line in Largo Bay, And fishes I caught nine: There 's three to boil, and three to fry. And three to bait the Une." And Mr. Gabriel 'd never heard it before, and he made him sing it again and again. " The boatie rows, the boatie rows, The boatie rows indeed," repeated Mr. Gabriel, and he said it was the only song he knew that held the click of the oar in the rowlock. The little birds went skimming by us, as we sailed, their breasts upon the water, and we could see the gun- ners creeping through the marshes beside them. " The wind changes," said Mr. Gabriel. " The equi- nox treads close behind us. Sst ! Is it that you do not feel its breath ? And you hear nothing ? " " It 's the Soul of the Bar," said Dan ; and he fell to tell- ing us one of the wild stories that fishermen can tell each other by the lantern, rocking outside at night in tjie dory. 150 LITTLE CLASSICS. The wind was dead east, and now we flew before it, and now we tacked in it, up and up the winding stream, and always a little pointed sail came skimming on in suit. " What sail is that, Dan ? " asked I. " It looks like the one that flitted ahead this morning." " It is the one," said Dan, — for he 'd brought up a whole horde of superstitious memories, and a gloom that had been hovering off and on his face settled there for good. " As much of a one as that was. It 's no sail at all. It 's a death-sign. And I 've never been down here and seen it but trouble was on its heels. Georgie ! there 's two of them ! " We all looked, but it was hidden hi a curve, and when it stole in sight again there toere two of them, filmy and faint as spirits' wings ; and while we gazed they van- ished, whether supernaturally or in the mist that was rising mast-high I never thought, for my blood was frozen as it ran. " You have fear ? " asked Mr. Gabriel, — his face per- fectly pale, and his eye almost lost in darkness. "If it is a phantom, it can do you no harm." Faith's teeth chattered, — I saw them. He turned to her, and as their look met,, a spot of carnation burned into his cheek almost as a brand would have burned. He seemed to be balancing some 'point, to be searching her and sifting her; and Faith half rose, proudly, and pale, as if his look pierced her with pain. The look was long, — but before it fell, a glow and sparkle filled the eyes, and over his face there curled the deep, strange smile of the morning, till the long lids and heavy lashes dropped and made it sad. And raith, — she started in THE SOUTH BREAKER. 157 a new surprise, the darkness gathered and crept off her face as cream wrinkles from milk, and spleen or venom or what-not became absorbed again and lost, and there was nothing in her glance but passionate forgetfulness. Some souls are like the white river-lilies, — fixed, yet floating; but Mr. Gabriel had no firm root anywhere, and was blown about with every breeze, like a leaf on the flood. His piirposes melted and made with his moods. The wind got round more to the north, the mist fell upon the waters or blew away over the meadows, and it was cold. Mr. Gabriel wrapped the cloak about Faith and fastened it, and tied her bomiet. Just now Dan was so busy handling the boat, — and it 's ratlier risky, you have to vn-iggle up the creek so, — that he took little notice of us. Then Mr. Gabriel stood up, as if to change his position; and taking off his hat, he held it aloft, while he passed the other hand across his forehead. And leaning against the mast, he stood so, many minutes. " Dan," I said, " did your spiritual craft ever hang out a purple pennant ? " '' No," said Dan. "Well," says I. And we all saw a little purple rib- bon running up the rope and streaming on the air behind us. " And why do we not hoist our own ? " said Mr. Gabriel, putting on his hat. And suiting the action to the word, a little green signal curled up and flaunted above us like a bunch of the weed floating there in the water beneath and dyeing all the shallows so that they looked like caves of cool emerald, and wide off and over 158 LITTLE CLASSICS. tliem the west burned smoulderingly red like a furnace. Many a time since, I 've felt tlie magical color between tliose banks and along those meadows, but then I felt none of it ; every wit I had w' as too awake and alert and fast-fixed in watching. " Is it that the phantoYns can bo flesh and blood ? " said ]Mr. Gabriel, laughingly ; and, lifting Ms arm again, he hailed the ibremost. " Boat ahoy ! What names ? " said he. The answer came back on the wind full and round. " Speed, and Follow." "Where from ?" asked Dan, with just a glint in his eye : for usually be knew every boat on the river, but he did n't know these. " From the schooner Flyaway, taking in sand over at Black Rocks." Then Mr. Gabriel spoke again, as they drew near ; but whether he spoke so fast that I could n't understand, or whether he spoke Trench, I never knew ; and Dan, with some kind of feeling that it was Mr. Gabriel's ac- quaintance, suffered the one we spoke to pass us. Once or twice Mr. Gabriel had begun some question to Dan about the approaching weather, but had turned it off again before anybody could answer. You see he had some little nobility left, and didn't want the very man he was going to injure to show him how to do it. Now, however, lie asked him that was steering the Speed by, if it was going to storm. The man tliouglit it was. " How is it, then, that your schooner prc])arcs to sail ? " THE SOUTH BREAKER. 159 " 0, wind 's backed in ; wc '11 be on blue water before tlie gale breaks, I reckon, and then beat oil" where there 's plenty of sea-room." "But she shall make sliip wreck ! " " ' Not if the court know herself, and he think she do,' " was the reply from another, as they passed. Somehow I began to hate myself, I was so full of poisonous suspicions. How did Mr. Gabriel know the schooner prepared to sail ? And this man, could he tell boom from bowsprit ? I did n't believe it ; he had the hang of the up-river folks. But there stood Mr. Gabriel, so quiet and easy, his eyelids down, and he humming an underbreath of song ; and there sat Faith, so pale and so pretty, a trifle sad, a trifle that her conscience would brew for her, whether or no. Yet, after all, there was an odd expression in Mr. Gabriel's face, an eager, rest- less expectation ; and if his lids were lowered, it was only to hide the spark that flushed and quenched in his eye like a beating pulse. We had reached the draw, it was lifted for the Speed, she had passed, and the wind was in her sail once more. Yet, somehow, she hung back. And then I saw that the men in her were of those with whom Mr. Gabriel had spoken at noon. Dan's sail fell slack, and we drifted slowly through, while he poled us along with an oar: " Look out, Georgie ! " said Dan, for he thought I was going to graze my shoulder upon the side there. I looked ; and when I turned again, Mr. Gabriel was ris- ing up from some earnest and hurried sentence to Faith. And Faith, too, was standing, standing and swaying with indecision, and gazing away out before her, — ■ 160 LITTLE CLASSICS. SO flushed and so beautiful, — so loatli and so willing. Poor tiling ! poor tiling ! as if her rising in itself were not the whole ! Mr. Gabriel stepped across the boat, stooped a min- ute, and then also took an oar. How perfect he was, as he stood there that moment ! — perfect like a statue, I mean, — so slender, so clean-limbed, his dark face pale to transparency in the green light that filtered through the draw ! and then a ray from the sunset came creeping over the edge of the high fields and smote his ey-es side- long so that they glowed like jewels, and he with his oar planted firmly hung there bending far back with it, completely full of strength and grace. " It is not the bateaux in the rapids," said he. " What are you about ? " asked Dan, with sudden hoarseness. " You are pulling the wrong way ! " Mr. Gabriel laughed, and threw down his oar, and stepped back again; gave his hand to Faith, and half led, half lifted her, over the side, and into the Speed, followed, and never looked behind him. They let go something they had held, the Speed put her nose in tlie Avater and sprinkled us with spray, plunged, and dashed olF like an arrow. It was like him, — daring and insolent coolness ! Just like liim ! Always the soul of defiance ! None but one so reckless and impetuous as he would have dreamed of flying into the teeth of the tempest in that shell of a schooner. But he was mad with love, and they — there was n't a man among them but was tlie worse for liquor. For a moment Dan took it, as Mr. Gabriel had ex- pected him to do, as a joke, and went to trim tlie boat THE SOUTH BREAKELl. IGl for racing, not meaning they should reach town first. Bat I — I saw it all. " Dan ! " I sung out, " save her ! She 's not coming back ! They '11 make for the schooner at Bhick Rocks ! Dan, he 's taken her off ! " Now one whose intelligence has never been trained, who shells his five wits and gets rid of the pods as best he can, may n't be so quick as another, but like an ani- mal, he feels long before he sees ; and a vague sense of this had been upon Dan all day. Yet now he stood thunderstruck; and the thing went on before his very eyes. It was more than he could beheve at once, — and perhaps his first feeling was. Why should he hinder? And then the flood fell. No thought of his loss, — though loss it wa'n't, — only of his friend, — of such stunning treachery, that, if the sun fell hissing into tlie sea at noon, it would have mattered less, — only of thai loss that tore his heart out with it. " Gabriel ! " he shouted, — " Gabriel ! " And his voice was heart-rending. I know that Mr. Gabriel felt it, for he never turned nor stirred. Then I don't know what came over Dan .- a blind rage swelling in his heart seemed to make him larger in every limb ; he towered like a flame. He sprang to the tiller, but, as he did so, saw with one flash of his eye that Mr. Gabriel had unshipped the rudder and thrown it away. He seized an oar to steer with in its place ; he saw that they, in their ignorance fast edging on the flats, would shortly be aground ; more fisherman than sailor, he knew a thousand tricks of boat-craft that they had never heard of. We flew, we flew tlirouR'h cloven rida'es, we 102 LITTLE CLASSICS. became a wind ourselves, aud M-hile I tell it Le "was be- side tlieni, bad gathered himself as if to leap the chasm between time and eteriiit}^, and had landed among them in the Speed. The wherry careened with the shock and the water poured into her, aud she flung headlong and away as his foot spurned her. Heaven knows why she did n't upset, for I thought of nothing but the scene be- fore me as I drifted off from it. I shut the eyes in my soul now, that I may n't see that horrid scuffle twice. Mr. Gabriel, he rose, he turned. If Dan was the giant beside him, he liimself was so well-knit, so supple, so adroit, that his power was hke the blade in the hand. Dan's strength was lying round loose, but Mr. Gabriel's was trained, it hid like springs of steel between brain and wrist, and from him the clap fell with the bolt. And then, besides, Dan did not love Faith, and he did love Gabriel. Any one could see how it would go. I screamed. I 'cried, "Faith! Faith !" And some natu- ral instinct stirred in Faith's heart, for she clung to Mr. Gabriel's arm to pull him off from Dan, But he shook her away like rain. Then such a mortal weakness took possession of^e that 1 saw everything black,' and when it was clean gone, I looked, and they Averc locked in each other's arms, fierce, fierce and fell, a death-grij). Tliey M'erc staggering to the boat's edge : only this I saw, that Mr. Gabriel was inside : suddenly the helms- man interposed with an oar, and broke their grasps. Mr. Ga])riel reeled away, free, for a second; then, the ])assi()u, tlie fury, the hate in his heart feeding his strength as youth fed tlie locks of Samson, he darted, and lifted Dan in liis two arms and threw him like a THE SOUTH BREAKER. IG^i stone into the water. Stiffened to ice, I waited for Dan to rise; the other craft, the Follow, skimmed, between us, and one man managing her that she should n't heel, the rest drew Dan in, — it 's not the depth of two foot there, — tacked about, and after a minute came along- side, seized our painter, and dropped him gently into his own boat. Then — for the Speed had got afloat again — the thing stretched her two sails wing and wing, and went plougliing up a great furrow of foam before her. I sprang to Dan. He was not senseless, but in a kind of stupor : his head had struck the fluke of a half-sunk anchor and it had stunned him, but as the wound bled he recovered slowly and opened his eyes. Ah, what misery was in them ! I turned to the fugitives. They were yet in sight, Mr. Gabriel sitting and seeming to adjure Faith, whose skirts he held ; but she stood, and her arms were outstretched, and, pale as a foam-wreath her face, and piercing 'as a night-wind her voice, I heard her cry, " O Georgie ! Georgie ! " It was too late for her to cry or to wring her hands now. She should have thought of that before. But Mr. Gabriel rose and drew her down, and hid her face in his arms and .^nt over it ; and so they fled up the basin and round the long line of sand, and out into the gloom and the curdHng mists. I bound up Dan's head. I could n't steer with an oar, — that was out of the question, — but, as luck would have it, could row tolerably; so I got down the little mast, and at length reached the wharves. The town-lights flickered up in the darkness and flickered back from the black rushing river, and then out blazed the great mills ; and as I felt along, I remembered times 164 LITTLE CLASSICS. when Tve 'd put in by the tender sunset, as the rose faded out of the water and the orange ebbed down the west, and one by one the sweet evening-bells chmied forth, so clear and high, and each \\dth a different tone, that it seemed as if the stars must flock, tinkling, into the sky. And here were the bells ringing out again, ringing out of the gray and the gloom, dull and brazen, as if they rang from some cavern of shadows, or from the mouth of hell, — but no, that was down river ! Well, I made my way, and the men on the landing took up Dan, and helped him in and got him on my httle bed, and no sooner there than the heavy sleep with which he had struggled fell on him like lead. The story flew from mouth to mouth, the region rang with it ; nobody had any need to add to it, or to make it out a griffin or a dragon that had gripped Faith and car- ried her ofi" in his talons. But everybody declared that those boats could be no ship's yawls at all, but must belong to parties from up river camping out on the beach, and that a parcel of such must have gone saiUng with some of the hands of a sand-droger : there was one in the stream now, that had got off with the tide, said the Jerdan boys who 'd been down there- that afternoon, though there was no such name as "Flyaway" on her stern, and they were waiting for the master of her, who 'd gone off on a spree, — a dare-devil fellow, that used to run a smuggler between Bordeaux and Bristol, as they 'd heard say : and all agreed tliat Mr. Gabriel could never have had to do with them before that day, or he 'd have known what a place a sand-droger would be for a woman ; and evervbody made excuses for I THE SOUTH BREAKER. 1G5 Gabriel, and everybody was down on Faith. So there things lay. It was raw and chill when the last neighbor left us, the sky was black as a cloak, not a star to be seen, the wind had edged back to the east again and came in wet and wild from the sea and fringed with its thunder. O, poor little Faith, what a night ! what a night for her ! I went back and sat down by Dan, and tried to keep his head cool. Father was up walking the kitchen floor 1 ill late, but at length he lay down across the foot of mother's bed, as if expecting to be called. The lights were put out, there was no noise in the town, every one slept, — every one, except they watched like me, on that terrible night. No noise in the town, did I say ? Ah, hut there was ! It came creeping round the corners, it poured rushing up the street, it rose from everywhere, — a voice, a voice of woe, the heavy booming rote of the sea. I looked out, but it was pitch-dark, light had for- saken the world, we were beleaguered by blackness. It grew colder, as if one felt a fog fall, and the wind, mount- ing slowly, now blew a gale. It eddied in clouds of dead and whirling leaves, and sent big torn branches flying aloft ; it took the house by the four corners and shook it to loosening the rafters, and I felt the chair rock under me ; it rumbled down the cliimney as if it would tear the life out of us. And with every fresh gust of the gale the rain slapped against the wall, the rain that fell in rivers, and went before the wind in sheets ; and sheltered as I was, the torrents seemed to pour over me like cataracts, and every drop pierced me like a needle, and I put my fingers in my ears to shut out the howl of the wind and 1G6 LITTLE CLASSICS. the waves. I could n't keep my thoughts away from Faith. O, poor girl, this was n't what she 'd expected ! As plainly as if I were aboard-ship I felt the scene, the hurrying feet, the slippery deck, the hoarse cries, the creak- ing cordage, the heaving and plunging and straining, and the wide Mdld night. And I was beating off those dreadful lines with them, two dreadful hues of white froth through the blackness, two lines where the horns of breakers guard the harbor, — all night long beating off the lee with them, my life in my teeth, and chill, blank, sliivering horror before me. My whole soul, my whole being, was fixed in that one spot, that little vessel driving on the rocks : it seemed as if a madness took possession of me, I reeled as I walked, I forefelt the shivering shock,. I waited till she should strike. And then I thought I lieard cries, and I ran out in the storm, and down upon the causey, but nothing met me but the liollow night and the roaring sea and the wind. I came back, and hurried up and down and wnmg my hands in an agony. Pictures of summer nights flashed upon me and faded, — where out of deep blue vaults the stars hung like lamps, great and golden, ■ — or where soft films just hazing heaven caught the rays till all above gleamed like gauze faintly powdered and spangled with , silver, — or heavy with heat, slipping over silent waters, through scented airs, under purple skies. And then storms rolled in and rose before my eyes, distinct for a moment, and breaking, — such as I 'd seen tliem from the Slioals in broad dayliglit, when tempestuous columns scooped themselves up from the green gulfs and shattered in foam on the shuddering rock, — ah ! but that was day, aud this was midnlglit and I THE SOUTH BUEAKEK. 1C7 murk ! — storms as I 'd heard tell of them off Cape Race, when great steamers went down with but one cry, and the waters crowded them out of sight, — storms where, out of the wilderness of waves that far and wide wasted white around, a single one came ploughing on straight to the mark, gathering its grinding masses mast-high, pois- ing, plunging, and swamping and crashing them into bottomless pits of destruction, — storms where waves toss and breakers gore, where, hanging on crests that slip from under, reefs impale the hull, and drowning wretches cling to the crags with stiffening hands, and the sleet ices them, and the spray, and the sea lashes and beats them with great strokes and sucks them down to death; and right in the midst of it all there burst a gun, — one, another, and no more. " Faith ! Faith ! " I cried again, and I ran and hid my head in the bed. How long did I stay so ? An hour, or maybe two. Dan was stiU dead with sleep, but mother had no more closed an eye than I. There was no rain now, the wind had fallen, the dark had lifted ; I looked out once more, and could just see dimly the great waters swinging in the river from bank to bank. I drew the bucket fresh, and bound the cloths cold on Dan's head again. I had n't a thought in my bram, and I feU to countmg the meshes in the net that hung from the wall, but in my ears there was the everlasting rustle of the sea and shore. It grew clearer, — it got to being a universal gray ; there 'd been no sunrise, but it was day. Dan stirred, — he turned over heavily ; then he opened his eyes wide and looked about him. 1C8 LITTLE CLASSICS. " I 've had such a fright I " he said. " Georgie ! is that you?" With that it 'Swept over him afresh, and he fell back. In a moment or two he tried to rise, but he was weak as a child. He contrived to keep on his elbow a moment, though, and to give a look out of the window. " It came on to blow, did n't it ? " he asked ; but there he sank down again. " I can't stay so ! " he murmured soon. " I can't stay so ! Here, — I must tell you. Georgie, get out the spy -glass, and go up on the roof and look over. I 've had a dream, I tell you ! I 've had a dream. Not that either, — but it 's just stamped on me ! It was like a storm, — and I dreamed that that schooner — the Fly- away — had parted. And the half of her 's crashed down just as she broke, and Faith and that man are high up on the bows in the middle of the South Breaker ! Mnke haste, Georgie ! Christ ! make haste ! " I flew to the drawers and opened them, and began to put the spy-glass together. Suddenly he cried out again, — "0, liere's where the fault was! What right had I ever to nuirry the child, not loving iier ? I bound her ! I crushed her ! I stifled her ! If she lives, it is my sin ; if she dies, I murder her ! " He hid his face, as he spoke, so tliat his voice came tliick, and great choking groans rent their way u}) from ]iis heart. All at once, as I looked up, there stood mother, in her long white gown, beside the bed, and bending over and taking Dan's hot head in her two hands. THE SOUTH BREAKER. 169 " Behold, He cometli with clouds ! " she wliispered. It always did seem to me as if mother had the imposi- tion of hands, — perhaps every oiie feels just so about their mother, — but only her touch always lightens an ache for me, whether it 's in the heart or the head. " Aunt Rhody," said Dan, looking up in her face with his distracted eyes, " can't you help me ? " " I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills, from whence Cometh my help," said mother. " There 's no help there ! " called Dan. " There 's no God there ! He would n't have let a little child run into her damnation ! " " Hush, hush, Dan ! " murmured mother. " Faith never can have been at sea in such a night as tliis, and not have felt God's hand snatching her out of sin. If she Kves, she 's a changed woman ; and if she dies, her soul is whitened and fit to walk with saints. Through much tribulation." "Yes, yes," muttered father, in the room beyond, spitting on his hands, as if he were going to take hold of the truth by the handle, — " it 's best to clean up a thing with the first spot, and not wait for it to get all rusty with crime." "And he!" said Dan, — "and he, — that man, — Gabriel ! " " Between the saddle and the ground If mercy 's asked, mercy 's found," said I. " Are you there yet, Georgie ? " he cried, turning to me. " Here ! I '11 go myself ! " But he only stumbled and fell on the bed ajjain. 170 LITTLE CLASSICS. " In all the teiTor and the tempest of these long hours, — for there 's been a fearful stonn, though you have n't felt it/' said mother, — " in all that, Mr. Ga- briel can't have slept. But at first it must have been that great dread appalled him, and he may have been beset with sorrow. He 'd brought her to this. But at last, for he 's no coward, he has looked death in the face and not flinched; and the danger, and the grandeur there is in despair, have lifted his spirit to great heiglits, — heights found now in an hour, but which in a whole life long he never would have gained, — heights from which he has seen the light of God's face and been trans- figured in it, — heiglits where the soul dilates to a stature it can never lose. O Dan, there 's a moment, a moment wlien the dross strikes off, and the impurities, and the grain sets, and there comes out the great white diamond ! For by gi-ace are ye saved, through faith, and that not of yourselves, it is the gift of God, — of Him that maketh tlie seven stars and Orion, and turnetli the shadow of death into the morning. 0, I icill believe that Mr. Gabriel hadn't any need to grope as we do, but that sud- denly he saw the Heavenly Arm and clung to it, and the grasp closed round him, and death and hell can have no power over him now ! Dan, poor boy, is it better to lie in tlie earth with the ore than to be forged in the furnace and beaten to a bhide fit for the hands of archangels ? " And mother stopped, trembling like a leaf. I 'd been wiping and screwing the glass, and I 'd waited a breath, for mother always talked so like a j)rcacl»er ; but when she 'd finished, after a second or two Dan looked up, and said, as if he 'd just come in, —^ THE SOUTH BREAKER. 17 i "Aunt Rliody, how come you out of bed ? " And then mother, she got upon the bed, and she took Dan's head on her breast and fell to stroking his brows, laying her cool palms on his temples and on his eyehds, as once I 'd have given my ears to do, — and I slipped out of the room. O, I hated to go up those stairs, to mount that ladder, to open the scuttle ! And once there, I waited and waited before I dared to look. The night had unnerved me. At length I fixed the glass. I swept the broad swollen stream, to the yellowing woods, and over the meadows, where a pale transient beam crept under and pried up the haycocks, — the smoke that began to curl from the chimneys and fall as soon, — the mists blowing off from Indian Hill, but brooding blue and dense down the turnpike, and burying the red «park of the moon, that smot hered like a half-dead coal in her ashes, — any- where, anywhere but that spot ! I don't know why it was, but I could n't level the glass there, — my arm would fall, my eye haze. Finally I brought it round nearer and tried again. Everywhere, as far as your eye could reach, the sea was yeasty and wliite with froth, and great streaks of it were setting up the iuky river, and against it there were the twin hghthouses quivering their little yellow rays as if to mock the dawn, and far out on the edge of day the great light at the Isles of Shoals blinked and blinked, crimson and gold, fainter and fainter, and lost at last. It was no use, I didn't dare point it, my hand trembled so I could see nothing plain, when suddenly an enguie went thundering over the bridge and startled me into stiJlneGs. The tube 17'^ LITTLE CLASSICS. sliiiig in my hold and steadied against the chimney, and there — AVTiat was it in the field ? what ghastly pic- ture? The glass crashed from my hand, and I staggered shrieking down the ladder. The sound was n't well through my lips, when the door slammed, and Dan had darted out of the house and to the shore. I after him. There was a knot sitting and standing round there in the gray, -shivering, with their hands in their pockets and their pipes set in their teeth ; but the gloom was on them as well, and the pipes went out betw^eeu the pufTs. " Where 's Dennis's boat ? " Dan demanded, as he .strode. " The six-oar 's all the one not — " " The six-oar I want. Who goes with me ? " There was n't a soul in the ward but would have fol- lowed Dan's lead to the end of the world and jumped off ; and before I could tell their names there were three men on the thwart, six oars in the air, Dan stood in the bows, a word from him, and they shot away. I watched while I could see, and then in and up to the attic, forgetting to put mother in her bed, forgetting all tilings but the one. And there lay the glass broken. I sat awhile with the pieces in my hand, as if I 'd lost a kiugdom ; then down, and mechanically put things to rights, and made mother comfortable, — and she 's never stood on her feet from that day to this. At last I seated myself before the fire, and stared into it to blinding. " Won't some one lend you a glass, Gcorgie F " said mother. THE SOUTH BREAKER. 17-3 "Of course they will!" I cried, — for, you see, I hadn't a wit of my own, — and I ran out. There 's a glass beliind every door in the street, you should know, and there 's no day in the year that you '11 go by and not see one stretching from some roof where tlie heart of the house is out on the sea. O, sometimes I tliink all the romance of the town is clustered down here on the Elats and written in pale cheeks and starting eyes! But what 's the use? After one winter, one, I gave mine away, and never got another. It 's just an emblem of despair. Look, and look again, and look till your soul sinks, and the thing you want never crosses it ; but you 're down in the kitchen stirring a porridge, or you 're off at a neighbor's asking the news, and some- body shouts at you round the comer, and there, black and dirty and dearer than gold, she Ees between the piers. All the world was up on their house-tops spymg, that morning, but there was nobody would keep their glass while I had none ; so I went back armed, and part of it all I saw, and part of it father told me. I waited till I thought they were 'most across, and then I rubbed the lens. At first I saw nothing, and I began to quake with a greater fear than any that had yet taken root in me. But with the next moment there they were, pulling close up. I shut my eyes for a flash with some kind of a prayer that was most Hke an imprecation, and when I looked again they had dashed over and dashed over, taking the rise of the long roll, and were in the midst of the South Breaker. O God ! that terrible South Breaker ! The oars bent lithe as willow-switches. 174 LITTLE CLASSICS. a moment they skimmed on the caps, a moment were hid in the snow of the spray. Dan, red-shirted, still stood there, his whole soul*on the aim before him, like that of some leaper flyuig through the air; he swayed to the stroke, he bowed, he rose, perfectly balanced, and flexile as the wave. The boat behaved beneath their hands like a hve creature : she bounded so that you almost saw the light under her ; her whole stem Ufted itself slowly out of the water, caught the back of a roller and rode over upon the next; the very things that came rushing in with their white rage to devour her bent their necks and bore her up like a bubble. Constantly she drew nearer that dark and shattered heap up to which the fierce surf raced, and over which it leaped. And there all the time, all the time, they had been clinging, far out on the bow- sprit, those two figures, her arms close-knit about him, he clasping her with one, the other twisted in the hawser whose harsh thrilling must have filled their ears like an organ-note as it swung them to and fro, — clinging to life, — clinging to each otlier more than to life. The wreck scarcely heaved with the stoutest blow of the tremendous surge; here and there, only, a plank shivered off and was bowled on and thrown high upon the beach beside fragments of beams broken and bruised to a powder; it seemed to be as firmly planted there as the breaker itself. Great feathers of foam flew across it, great waves shook themselves thin around it and veiled it in slirouds, and with tlieir every })reath the smothering sheets daslied over them, — the two. And constantly the boat drew nearer, as I said; they were almost witliiii liail ; Dan saw her hair streaming on tlu- ^iiid; ho waited only for THE SOUTH BREAKER. 175 tlie long wave. On it came, that long wave, — oli ! I can see it now ! — plunging and rearing and swelling, a monstrous billow, sweeping and swooping and rocking in. Its hollows gaped with slippery darkness, it towered and sent the scuds before its trembling crest, breaking with a mighty rainbow as the sun burst forth, it fell in a white blindness everywhere, rushed seethuig up the sand, — and the bowsprit was bare ! — When father came home, the rack had driven down the harbor and left clear sky; it was near nightfall; they 'd been searcliing the shore all day, — to no purpose. But that rainbow, — I always took it for a sign. Father was worn out, yet he sat in the chimney-side, cutting off great quids and chewing and thinking and sigliing. At last he went and wound iip the clock, — it was the stroke of twelve, — and then he turned to me and said, — " Dan sent you tliis, Georgie. He hailed a pilot-boat, and 's gone to the Cape to join the fall fleet to the fish- 'ries. And he sent you this." It was just a great hand-grip to make your nails pur- ple, but there was heart's-blood in it. See, there 's the mark to-day. So there was Dan off in the Bay of Chaleur. 'T was the best place for Inm. And I went about my work once more. There was a great gap in my life, but I tried not to look at it. I durst n't think of Dan, and I wouldn't think of them, — the two. Always in such times it 's as if a breath had come and blown across the pool and you could see down its dark depths and into the very bottom, but time scums it all over again. And I tell you it 's best to look trouble in the face ; if you don't you '11 have 176 LITTLE CLASSICS. more of it. So I got a lot of slioes to bind, and what part of my spare time I wa' n't at my books the needle flew. But I turned no more to tlie past than I could help, and the future trembled too much to be seen. Well, the two months dragged away, it got to be Thanksgiving week, and at length the fleet was due. I mind me I made a great baking that w^eek ; and I put brandy into the mince for once, instead of vinegar and dried-apple juice, — and there were the fowls stuffed and trussed on the shelf, — and the pumpkin-pies like slices of split gold, — and the cranberry -tarts, plats of crimson and puff's of snow, — and I was brewing in my mind a right-royal red Indian pudding to come out of the oven smoking hot and be soused with thick clots of yellow cream, — when one of the boys ran in and told us the fleet 'd got back, but no Dan with it, — he 'd changocl over to a fore-and-after, and wouldn't be home at all, but was to stay down m the Georges all winter, and he 'd sent us word. Well, the baking went to the dogs, or the Thanksgiving beggars, which is the same thing. Then days went by, as days will, and it was well into the New Year. I used to sit there at the window, read- ing, — but the lines would run together, and I 'd forget what 't was all about, and gather no sense, and the image of the little fore-and-after, tlie Feather, raked in be- tween the leaves, and at last! had to put all that aside ; and then I sat stitching, stitching, but got into a sad ]ial)it of looking up and lookmg out each time I drew