The captain took his cigar out of his mouth and turned blankly on him: "'Further your ends?' But, Bruce?—"

Neckart laughed: "Oh, no doubt they were created with some other object in view than to serve my purposes. But that is the cognizance which I take of them. Really, captain, if you were in public life, and saw with what eagerness masses of men follow feeble leaders who know the trick of piping to them, and how willing they are to be manipulated, you would soon come to look upon the American public simply as a machine ready for your own use when you had the skill to work it."

The captain's cigar went out in his fingers as he sat staring with dull perplexity at Neckart. There was a certain nobility in the carriage of the powerful figure and black shaggy head, an occasional fire in the deep-set eyes, a humor in the fine smile, which argued a different order of man from this scheming, selfish politician.

"I can't place you at all, Bruce. Now, I should have thought you would have been a reformer—worked for humanity—that line, you know. You were a sensitive lad, like a girl."

"I am quite too warm-hearted a fellow to be a philanthropist," laughed Neckart. "The philanthropists I know work for principles, liberty, education and the like: they don't care a damn for the individual Tom and Jerry. The chances are, that your reformer is a cold-blooded tyrant at home: he makes a god of his one idea: his god makes him nervous, ill-conditioned—the last man in the world to choose for a friend or a husband."

"You amaze me! I should have said that they were the wisest and purest of men. Next to clergymen, of course. I don't go to church myself, but I respect the cloth. But speaking of yourself, Bruce, you were a most affectionate little fellow. Do you remember how you referred every new idea to your mother? I recollect you told me once that you read your lessons in your school classics to her to amuse her. You must have cleaned the translation sometimes to make it fit for her ear."

"Yes."

"And I remember, too," regardless of the sudden silence which had fallen on his companion, "how you watched my wife making a cap one day—she had nice fingers in such work, Virginie—and how you saved your money to buy lace and ribbon for her to make your mother a cap; and how anxiously you sat watching every stitch as it went in, and carried it off triumphantly when it was done."

"I remember quite well. Mrs. Swendon was very kind to me in the matter."

The captain did not reply: he glanced at Neckart with sudden alarm. What was it that he had heard of Bruce's mother? Some wretched story that came out at the time of her death: had she committed a crime or gone mad? He could not recall it, but something in the silence of his companion told him that he had blundered. He began to smoke violently in contrition of soul, and remained silent, while Neckart lay still in the sand, his hands clasped behind his head, looking at the surf.

It was not the surf he saw.

It was that little silly cap which he had held on his boy's chapped fist delighted and proud. Twenty years ago! He had earned the money to buy it by work after the other boys in the shop had gone home. He could see the very pattern now that was worked in the lace, and the ribbon—a pale blue, just the color of his mother's eyes. He had carried it home in the evening, and smoothed the gray hair over the gentle little face, and tied it on her before he would let her go to the glass. She was just as pleased as he, and kissed him with her arms tight about his neck and the tears in her eyes. An hour afterward he had found her tearing it into bits with an idiotic laugh. A little later—

He shut his eyes, as if to keep out some real sight before him.

It seemed to him as if his whole boyhood had been made up of just such nights as this one which he remembered.

It was not often that Neckart looked back at that early time. He was neither morbid nor addicted to self-torture. He had carefully walled up this miserable background of youth from his busy, cheerful, wide-awake life. Why should he go back to it? Something, however, in the air to-day, in the moan of the sea through the sunlight, brought it all before him, more real than the stretch of water and sand.

The captain smoked out his cigar and began to talk. Gaps of silence were so much wasted time in the world; and besides, he owed a duty to Bruce. Here was a man going headlong to the devil by the road of ambition, a sweet, high nature becoming soured and tainted, all for the lack of honest direction from somebody of age and experience.

When Neckart roused himself enough to understand, the captain was in the full swing of his dictatorial oration. "I don't want to intrude with my opinion. But no man should live for himself," he said. "Now, if my scissors had turned out as I expected, I should have been worth a million to-day. I'd have spent a good share of it—let me see—on churches, I think. Small churches—at corners in place of grogshops. Pure Gothic, say—"

"Stained glass and gargoyles instead of whiskey? You must bid higher for souls in back alleys than that, captain."

"Well, schools, then—colleges, asylums, soup-houses. I tell you, Bruce, if I had your opportunities, if I could work political machinery, I'd lift this festering mass below us up—at least to civilization and Christianity."

"I thought you meant me," laughing. "Go on."

"Of course I can't give you detailed advice. Take me on pistons and screws, and I'm at home; but I know only the broad outlines of political economy. My view," ponderously, "is purely philosophic. Our politics need reform, sir. An honest man who would come to the front just now would save the country. The masses would follow him to honesty. The Americans are a just people by instinct. I tell you, sir, if I had your chances—Talk to Pliny Van Ness, Bruce. There's a keen man of the world, who is as pure and lofty in his notions as an enthusiastic woman. He has a scheme just now for bettering the condition of the children of the dangerous classes of Pennsylvania. I wish you knew Van Ness."

"I've seen him;" adding, after a moment's hesitation, "He is as upright a man, I believe, as you say—the very man to be inspired with your heroic rage for reform, and to carry it into effect. I am not the same kind of material."

"Bruce, you belie yourself. I knew you as a boy—"

"Then you knew an ordinary, not bad sort of a fellow, captain, but no hero. I have had one or two qualities which have pushed me up—a skill—craft with using words, as you have with tools, for instance, an inflexibility of purpose, a certain tact in influencing large bodies of men. I have never had any affection for them. I have two or three stanch friends. Other men and women are part of the world's furniture to me. Nothing more."

"But the power which these qualities have gained for you? How do you mean to use it?"

"You press me closely," with an amused scrutiny of the captain's monitorial face. "I shall use it, just now, to make money. That is the thing of which I have had the least in the world, and which has yielded me most substantial pleasure. When I am a rich man I can command knowledge, power and whatever else I covet." His eye kindled at the last words. There was a darkened background in his thoughts, to which Neckart, with all his easy frankness, admitted no man.

The captain studied him with perplexity: then his face lightened: "I have it! You must marry! A wife and children are the very influences you need to soften and broaden your aims. Yes, I know I'm speaking plainly. But—have you never thought of it?"

Mr. Neckart did not reply for a few moments. "It is impossible that I should ever marry," he said gravely. "There is an obstacle which would make it simply criminal in me. I never think of it."

The captain colored: "I beg your pardon, Bruce: I did not know—"

"You have not intruded: you have not hurt me in the least," laying his hand for an instant on the captain's knee. "It is not a matter about which I have any soreness of feeling. The obstacle arose from circumstances: I am not in any sense guilty."

Captain Swendon nodded and occupied himself with rebuckling his shoes. He could neither answer to the purpose nor rid his face of the shocked alarm visible in it. To have been told that Neckart was dying would have startled him less, and seemed not so pitiable to him as to know that he was shut out for life from love and marriage.

Neckart read his thoughts. "There's a difference in men," he said, concealing a smile. "It would not suit you, captain, to go through life as an anchorite or a Catholic priest, but it really agrees with me very well. I am not a domestic man by taste, nor susceptible to woman's influence. I have met a few women, of course, beautiful, and with the intellect and wealth which would make them desirable wives; and I have no doubt if I had been differently situated I should have loved and married. But it never cost me a second thought to pass them by."

"But this obstacle—it may some day be removed?" ventured the captain.

Mr. Neckart's features settled into the hard lines again. "Not while I live," he said.

If there was one quality in himself on which the captain could build with confidence, it was his keen insight into other men. He read Neckart's life as an open book. "Bruce is married already," he said to himself. "He was precisely the kind of lad to be taken in by some creature that is now a secret burden on him. Drinks or chews opium, I've no doubt, or has gone to the devil with one jump. Tut! tut! He would not be divorced. I know what his opinion is on that head. But she'll die: that sort of women never live long.—It will all come right, Bruce," he said aloud. "There's more ruling of eternal justice in all of our lives than we give God credit for. But this matter astonishes me. I've heard of your intimacy with certain women in Washington—leaders of society. I always thought of you as a marrying man."

"Because I cannot marry I have the more right to accept whatever entertainment or friendship women can give me," falling into his ordinary easy tone. "I have the keenest appreciation for an ambitious woman who has intellect and culture, and is alive with energy and coquetry. I know such women. They seem to be full of subtle flame. Certainly, I would make a friend of such a one. Why not? I would marry her if I could."

A moment after he looked up the beach, and seeing the captain's daughter, smiled to think what an absolute contrast she was to this ideal live, brilliant woman. She was sitting on a log, the dog asleep at her feet, her hands clasped about her knees, looking out to sea, and he could swear she had sat there motionless as the stretch of gray sand about her for an hour. Such torpidity revolted Neckart. Neither did it appease him that the nobly-cut, dim-lighted face, the mass of yellowish hair rolling down from its black band, the coarse brown dress which hung about her in thick folds, all gave him pleasure. In the moment he had met her first he had felt an odd repulsion to this girl. The women with whom he had fraternized were akin to himself: Jane, child as she was, was antagonistic. He felt for her the same kind of irritated dislike as that which Miss Fleming gave to her, and which people of active brains are apt to give to any creature whose animus is totally different from their own.

What did the girl sit there for, thinking her own thoughts? Young women at her time of life blushed and fluttered and plumed themselves when a man came near who was of the right age to love and marry. And so they ought, so they ought! Neckart was used to see women of any age plume themselves when he was in sight. It was simple admission of his position. They knew their own capital of beauty or wit, and showed him the best of every point, just as a pheasant turns every golden feather to the sun when a passer-by comes near. He liked these radiant, self-asserting women, to be sure, very much as he did the silly fowl or a Skye terrier conscious of its beauty in every hair. But beauty was so much wasted material on this daughter of Swendon's, who did not seem to know she had it.

Besides, Mr. Neckart had always been thrown into contact with women who had careers and aims. Each one of them wished she had been born a man, and did what she could to snatch a man's prerogatives. One wrote, another painted, a third sang; this one strove for political power in the lobbies of Congress, that for money, the majority for husbands: they were wits, litterateurs, society women. But for a young girl to jog on from year to year striving neither for knowledge nor lovers, making her world of the whims and wants of a weak-minded old man, composedly building up every day models which she knew would prove failures to-morrow,—here was a most inane life.

Any eye which had grown used to the flash and flutter of brilliant tropical birds in a cage would be apt to find the little dull-breasted swallow sitting motionless by her nest a very insipid subject of study. Probably no other man, as active and busy in the world as Neckart, would have wasted so much thought on a chance young girl sitting on a log. But women being forbidden fruit to him, he was morbidly curious about them all. Old Chrysostom, barred into his cave by an impassable line, was much more inquisitive about the princess asleep outside than if he had been a hearty young fellow free to go out and kiss and make love to her.

Miss Swendon came up presently, the dog marching alongside. "Father," she said, "you are spending the whole day with Mr. Neckart. You have not told Sutphen the town news. I am afraid the old man will be hurt."

"That's a fact: I'll go over directly. You will like to be alone a while, Neckart, at any rate.—Come, Jane."

Neckart rose: "You are not going over to those rough fellows, Miss Swendon? There are no women there."

Jane laughed. "I am a woman," with an arch little nod. "One queen-bee makes the whole hive proper, conventionally."

"Of course. But really those men are vulgar and fishy to such a degree—Nothing but a missionary spirit can take you to them?"

"On the contrary," gravely, "they are the best-bred men I know. Their talk is fuller of adventure and sincerity than any book I ever read."

"Still, stay with me. I have feelings to consider as well as Sutphen."

"Very well.—I will come over presently, father. Tell the little boys to make a fire clear enough to broil the fish for dinner." She sat down and called Bruno to her feet. There was a grave, childish simplicity in her motions which was a new study to Neckart.

"I believe," watching her keenly, "you would rather have gone. Sutphen would have been a better companion than I?"

"I don't know as yet. I have never tried you. I do know Ichabod."

"Or perhaps the truer courtesy would be to leave you alone with the sea? You were making a picture of it in your mind a while ago?"

"No," knitting her brows. "I could not do that. I know people who look at the sea or mountains or sky as so much canvas and gamboge and burnt umber and bits of effect. They are very tiresome."

"You have imagination rather than fancy, then? You hear the secret words in that everlasting moan yonder? You know what the mountains say to you at nightfall?" Neckart vaguely remembered the jargon of sentimental novels, the heroines of which always keep their heads on Nature's breast. He did not mean to chaff any woman, but he would gladly have proved this one sentimental and weak to explain his strong antipathy to her.

"No, I never thought of those things. But one grows tired in town—housekeeping, models and all of it. My work is very light, but I do not like to work at all. And here—the beach is silent and the sky blue and the sea rolls—rolls all day long: it is like coming home after one has been out on the streets."

"About as keen comprehension of Nature as the tree yonder," thought Neckart contemptuously. But, after all, the tree was warmed, and its sap ran stronger, and it grew and broadened in the sun and air; and that was more than he could say of painter or poet.

He lay at her feet, leaning on his elbow, for an hour or more. He had meant to gauge her intellect, experience and character in a few minutes. It was a recreation which had sometimes amused him when with women. As soon as his curiosity was satisfied he was done with them. But the discoveries he had made in those pretty little dwellings innocently opening their doors to wandering hearts of marriageable men! The miserable shams inside, the traps, the dark rooms full of all uncleanness! To-day he forgot his system of exploration. He began to feel the physical effect of coming from close streets and striving work into this vast open space—the drowsiness which men experience on high mountains or by the sea, and which has a subtle, lasting enchantment in it. The damp wind bent and whitened the stretches of salt grass in the meadows behind him; brown clouds swept from west to east overhead in endless procession; the great dun-colored plane of the sea rose and fell steadily: for the rest, except the shrill pipe of a fishhawk perched on a dead tree by its nest, there was silence. He spoke to Jane now and then, but for the most part forgot her. She had fallen into the motionless quiet which seemed habitual to her. Some of the brilliant women he knew would have dug holes in the sand, or chattered gossip, or interpreted to him with much intellectual force the meaning of land and sky, or have taken their last love-affair or other private little misery to give words to the complaint of the sea. This girl seemed only a part of the shore, as much as sea or sand. The sun warmed, the air blew on her as on them: if they gave her anything besides, she too kept their secret.

Occasionally Neckart roused himself to talk briefly to her, and noticed then a blunt directness in her speech that would have appalled an ordinary hearer. It was her habit and choice to say nothing, but if pushed to the wall what was there that she would not say?

The dog, lying at her feet watching him steadily, did not give up to him the secret of its own being or its opinion of himself; but if it once did speak it would do both, and with no white lies in the words either. "The girl is like her dog," thought Neckart.

She rose at last, and went across the sands to her father. Neckart was soon conscious of an uneasy change in everything about him. The atmosphere of sunlit rest was broken. The clouds only meant rain, the sand was sand, and the sea but a wet swash of water: he began to look at his watch and think of the trains. The influence that had quieted him so unaccountably had been in the girl, then? He shut his eyes and tried to recall the erect figure, the fall of yellow hair, the clear Scandinavian face. He felt the same strong repulsion from her, yet in their brief interview she had certainly affected him uncontrollably—brought him back to old boyish ways of thinking. It was perhaps, he thought, because he was unused to such absolutely honest women.

He sauntered up the beach, and in five minutes wondered how he had based such magniloquent ideas on a child out for a holiday. The fishermen on this solitary beach apparently made a holiday whenever Swendon and Jane came, and humored the latter in all her vagaries. No doubt they would have preferred to eat properly in their own kitchens, but the cloth was spread on the sand beside the fire. The captain, with the perspiration streaming, was broiling ham at the end of a long stick; Sutphen cleaned the crabs; Lantrim's wife cooked the perch, and Jane herself was making the coffee.

"Don't speak to me: I'm counting," as Mr. Neckart stopped beside her. "Five, six, seven. You can't trifle when you make coffee," peering into the pot with the gravity of a judge on the bench.

The smell of the broiling ham in the salt air suddenly brought back to Neckart a day when he had gone fishing with his mother in the old place in Delaware. How happy and hungry they were!

"Give me your stick, captain. You are burning up," he said, sitting down on the log beside him.

"You've been on this beach afore, sir?" said Sutphen, who was his neighbor, and felt it his duty to play host.

"Never but once, when the Argyle went ashore."

"You were here fur the Treasury Department?"

"Yes. Did you know anything about that case?" eying him with sudden interest. "It was a muddled account that was sent up to Washington."

"Likely. Yes, I knew. I've been in the wracking and life-saving service thirty years come June."

When Jane came to that side of the fire twenty minutes later, none of the crabs were cleaned, and the ham and stick burned black together while Neckart held them in the fire.

"I ought not to have allowed two men to sit together: I might have known they would gossip," she said.

Mr. Neckart had just made up his mind that Sutphen and the two Lantrims were as shrewd, common-sensed witnesses as he had ever examined. He was hungry too, and as they ate together he borrowed Sutphen's clamp-knife, and told some capital stories, and handed about his cigars when they had all finished.

"I misjudged that black-a-vised fellow," said Ichabod to Lantrim. "He's consid'able of a man."

Lantrim nodded ponderously. One story or slow monologue followed another—of shipwrecks, frequent on that murderous coast, of rescues by wreckers, of "vyages" down the coast or to India, Africa, with plenty of sailors' superstition in it all. Neckart lay on his back smoking, his hands under his head. It seemed as if he were the boy he was on that day's fishing long ago. His blood quickened and heated at these tales of adventure, just as it used to do when he pored over La Perouse or the History of Great Navigators. The afternoon was darkening, raw and cold; their fire was a mere ruddy speck in the indistinct solitudes; a wall of gray mist moved down the marshes toward them.

Jane, he noticed, was uneasy, watching her father anxiously after the dinner was over, until Sutphen proposed to have some music and begged the captain to sing. Then she was quite happy, sat closer to him, taking his hand, and as his cracked voice piped manfully out some ancient drinking-song she nodded complacently and beat the time softly with his hand upon his arm.

Mr. Neckart watched her furtively through his half-shut eyes. She was wrapped in her cloak, her head rose in clear relief against the background of fog. The men and their wives, he saw, looked upon her as a child, a straightforward little girl, with whom they had fished or cooked crabs for years: very different from the ladies who came down in summer, and were a fearfully and wonderfully made species of human being. Neckart would have analyzed these women at a glance as easily as he could impale a butterfly on a pin: why should he watch Jane as though she were the Sphinx? The dark-blue eyes that met his now and then were the most frank and friendly in the world, but the naked truth in them irritated him as though it had been the gleam of a drawn sword. He sat erect, thinking that if there was anything repulsive to him in a woman, it was physical indolence, and a strength of any sort greater than his own.

Old Sutphen presently asked him if he too wouldn't give them a song. Now, Neckart never sang except when alone, as his voice was a very remarkable baritone, and he had no mind to make a reputation on that sort of capital. He could not afford to be known as a troubadour. But he sang now, a passionate love-song, of which, of course, he felt not a word: the air was full of fervor, with an occasional gay jibing monotone. The words in themselves meant nothing: the music meant that whatever of love or earnestness was in the world was a sham. The men nodded over their pipes, keeping time: Jane held her father's hand quiet in her own, looking straight before her.

"Thank you, sir. Very lively toon that," said Lantrim when it was ended.

"Kind o' murnful too," ventured his wife.

Jane, with the last note, rose and walked hastily down the beach, where the fog was heavy. She did not return. Mr. Neckart smiled: he could only guess the result of his experiment, but he did guess it.

"Miss Swendon did not ask me to sing again," he said to the captain.

"Well, no. The song hurt her somehow. Jane had always an unaccountable dislike to music," apologetically. "I'm exceedingly fond of it myself: it's a passion with me. I enjoy anything from an organ to a jewsharp. But she does not. When she was a baby it seemed to rouse her. She's a very quiet little body, you see.—Go, Bruno: bring your mistress back."

She came in a few minutes, as they were making ready to meet the train. She hurried to her father, caught his arm, and when they were seated in the train still held him close: "Stay with me, father. Mr. Neckart does not need you. Don't leave me alone again: I need you."

"But, dear child, that is hardly courteous. He is our guest."

"He need not have made himself a guest. He has spoiled our whole holiday. He has spoiled the whole dear old place for me," her eyes filling with tears. "I shall never hear the sea again without hearing that song in it."

"It was a very good song, I assure you, Jane. I do wish you had a better ear. Why, Bruce has a voice of remarkable compass. I fancied he struck a false note once, though."

"It was all false—false and cruel!" vehemently. "And why should he sing it there, where you and I have always had such good times?"

"I am astonished, Jane! But you never had any perception of character. Bruce is such a thoroughly good fellow, I fancied you would be friends."

"I never saw any one before whom I disliked so much," slowly, as if to collect her verdict with certainty. "He seems to me like so much unmitigated brute force."

"Tut! tut!" said the captain absently, looking out to see how the early wheat was coming on.

She touched his arm presently: "Father, you said you thought we should be good friends. I never had a man for a friend but you."

"Certainly not. Good Heavens! what are you thinking of?"

"Most girls do," gravely, her color rising. "Oh, I know all about the world. Miss Fleming told me that when she was my age she had a dozen chums—hearty, good fellows."

The captain hastily put his arm about her: "All very well for Cornelia Fleming, child. She's a middle-aged woman. But not for you."

"When I am middle-aged, then," looking up at him anxiously, "if I have a friend I know precisely what he will be. Of fair complexion, placid, truth-telling—"

"Yourself duplicated," laughed the captain. "But here is Mr. Neckart."

The two men took the seat in front of her, and as night came on and the lamps burned dimly, Jane wrapped her veil about her head and fell asleep. Mr. Neckart remembered at last the purpose of his visit in the morning.

"Surely something can be done to compel Laidley to leave the property to its rightful owners. Have you stated the case to him plainly?" he asked.

"I? State it? Now, Bruce, how could I? If I were not the one to be benefited by it, I'd put it to him forcibly enough. But as it is—No, I've not the moral courage for that."

"But for your daughter's sake—"

"I know. I've thought it all over. But Jane and I can keep on in the old way a little longer. Scanty and happy-go-lucky, but, on the whole, comfortable." He was silent a while, and then in a cautious whisper said, "I'll explain to you, Bruce. I might have made Jane's life easier if I had worked. I know that. I know our friends look on me as a lazy, selfish dog, a dead weight on the child. But—you are the first person to whom I have ever told this—I have had for many years a disorder, an ailment, which must in any case make my life a short one. Confinement and continued exertion would bring on a crisis at once. My physician told me that five years ago. Now you know why I have indulged myself. I still hoped some of the infernal patents—" He choked, and turned to look out of the window.

"But your danger is another reason why you should not be kept out of your property."

"Of course. But it's my luck."

"Does your daughter know this story?"

"No. Don't tell her, for God's sake!"

Nothing more was said until the train rolled into the station.

"Come, Jane, child," the captain called briskly. She rose and took his arm.

Mr. Neckart took leave of them under the flaring lamps outside. "You have left all the life and color of your face down in the salt air, Miss Swendon," he said. "You will not mark this holiday with a white stone, I fear."

"No," she said, waiting until he was gone before she spoke again.—"We shall go to Cousin Will's now, father. I wish to say good-night to him."

"Very well, my dear. I'll leave you to read to him while I run round to see if any letters have come. I feel confident somebody will answer my advertisement about the scissors."



CHAPTER V.

A luxurious apartment, of which the most salient features were excess of heat and color. A glowing fire burned in the grate. Persian rugs, richly-tinted curtains, tiger and leopard skins, light and gilding on every side, threw into more miserable contrast Laidley's pinched, pallid face as he stood in the midst. His back was to the fire, his claw-like hands behind him, opening and shutting mechanically as if to grasp the heat, his pale eyes blinking through his eye-glasses on Jane standing before him.

"Do I understand what you say?" in a tone of blank amazement. "That you, a child, come here to a dying man to assert your claim to his property! It is incredible that you came of your own free will. Who sent you?"

"Nobody, Cousin Will. It seemed to me the thing I ought to do. I do wish you would sit down," anxiously. "You are not able to stand."

He sank into a chair: "Bring me some wine."

She brought the wine, tucked the leopard skins about him, wiped his forehead tenderly, placed a cushion beneath his feet. He shivered, closed his eyes for a moment, then fixed them on her: "Now go on."

She did go on without the slightest hesitation, without even a flush of color, quick as her blood was to come and go when she was moved. The thing she had to do evidently seemed to her exceedingly simple and easy: "I knew you did not see the matter just as it is, or there would be no difficulty about it. No one else seemed willing to speak to you, and so I came myself."

He put out his hand toward the wine: she set it within his reach, and resumed her place, one arm resting on the mantel-shelf, looking down at him. There was only that sorrowful pity in her face with which any large-hearted, healthy woman would look at a diseased, dying man.

"I don't deny," he said, coughing feebly, "that at first sight you have a crude, illegal claim on my property—"

"My father—not I," throwing out her hand hastily.

"But even your claim admits of argument—argument," staring into the fire. "Yet what if I should meet Virginie Morot yonder, and she should tax me with having wronged her child?" looking about him with a sudden turn.

A tricky girl could have gained her point now on the instant. But Jane, dull and straightforward as usual, knelt quickly down and took his fingers in her own cool, strong hands, as if she were dealing with a nervous child.

"Put my mother out of the question. She is not going to blame you for doing what seems to you just. I want you to see that it is not just. It is of the living, not the dead, you ought to think."

"Give me that medicine, can't you? My blood is like fire. Oh, you stand there," after he had swallowed it, "with your dogged, calm way of putting the question, as if it were a matter of a new gown. Hush!" as she began to speak. "You are but a child. You're not even a clever child. How can you understand the relations of a dying man to his Maker? It has been shown to me how with this money I could make peace with—with Him. The way has been opened for me to give it to the poor and the churches. Why, the rich man was commanded to 'sell all that he had and give to the poor, and he should have treasure in heaven.' The place is marked in the Bible there." His hands worked feebly together, and he looked from side to side, avoiding the face in front with its steady dark eyes. "Why should I take from the poor to give to your father?"

"Because it is not yours to take or give."

He waited for her to go on, but she said no more. "I haven't forgotten you, Jane. I've planned for you as your father never would have done. There's good-fortune waiting for you which any woman would envy you. Go now—go!"

"I did not come to you with any claim of my own," the indignant lips trembling. "You shall not think so meanly of me as that. I told you why my father needs the money—all that he told to Mr. Neckart. Surely, you don't understand?"

"Oh, I understand your father very well," smiling dryly. It suited him just now to consider the captain a shrewd humbug, and his mysterious ailment the last dodge to raise money and sympathy.

The man at that moment looked so ill, so small and spiteful, that Jane's heart gave a sudden wrench of pity. It was a cruel, brutal thing, she felt, in her to stop him on the edge of the grave and demand his money. She put her hand to his forehead: it was cold and clammy. "Don't wrong my father in this way," she said in a lower voice than before. "You have had our money all the time, and our life has been hard—hard. I never said that before, but it is true."

He looked at her now, his courage flickering up to meet the crisis: "I hear you. Go on!"

"My father's life depends upon your honesty. I only ask you to remember that."

"You use plain words. So shall I." He thrust his hand into a drawer of the table before him, drew out a folded paper and pushed it toward her: "There is your answer. That is my will. My property is left in the way it will do God service. You can read it if you choose."

"And my father—?"

"I have not left him a dollar."

She turned on him, silent, a moment: he cowered and evaded her eyes.

"You shall not wrong him. He shall not die for the want of the money if I can help it," in the same quiet voice. She took up the paper, passed him and laid it on the fire, then watched it shrivel and burn to ashes. He could not have detained her, any more than he could stay the scorching flame with his hand.

She threw her cloak about her without a word, and drew the hood over her head.

He pulled the bell violently: "You have only given me the trouble of preparing a second copy. It shall be identical with the first."

Old Dave, coming in, observed that Miss Swendon's very lips were without color. But as she went out of the room she halted to move a screen, so as to protect Laidley from the draught.

She met her father on the stairs. "Do not go up," she said. "David is with him, and I want you to take me home." ...

Before daylight the next morning Captain Swendon was summoned by David to his master. A keen north-east wind had caused a sudden change in the weather, and Mr. Laidley had sunk rapidly, and was now scarcely conscious.

"It is only what I anticipated," said the physician, meeting the captain at the door. "Though if he had remained in the South he might have lingered until midsummer. Not longer."

The captain nursed the dying man anxiously all day, and when he was dead came home excited and haggard. It seemed to him by that time that one of the most lovable fellows in the world had gone out of it. He always was of that opinion at a funeral.

"Well, it's all over, Jane!" he cried, coming just at dusk into the room, where she stood at the window, her back turned toward him. "Yes. Poor Will! He was a good fellow years ago—witty, hospitable. You didn't know him in his prime. Your mother liked him. That is, well—" He sat down by the fire, staring at it with his owlish eyes, pulling off his old boots and soaked coat, for it was raining hard, and wondering a little that Jane had not a warm change of clothes ready for him as usual. But she did not move. "Yes," with a groan. "He knows the great secret now, poor fellow! I wish I'd been kinder to him. There's lots of things I might have done. But that damned money! I suppose it soured me."

Jane turned. "I am glad I did what was right to him," she said slowly.

The captain looked at her surprised. The shock had been too heavy on the child, he thought: her eyes were quite sunken in her white face. "Yes, yes. You were always a very nice, attentive little nurse. But when anybody dies one is apt to remember one's shortcomings to them, and wish for even an hour to set all right."

"I have done nothing to him which I would wish to set right," she said again, her lips moving with difficulty.

Her father did not answer. But she was so unused to speak of herself in any way that he observed her persistence now as peculiar.

REBECCA HARDING DAVIS.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]



IRISH SOCIETY IN THE LAST CENTURY.

Nations as well as individuals have the defects of their qualities, and the Irish race has its faults as well as its virtues; but it will be conceded on all sides that the humdrum is not one of its attributes. During the eighteenth century the social state of Ireland was peculiarly anomalous. The penal laws were in full force for the most of that time. The great families, Irish or Norman—the latter having long before become Hibernis ipsis Hiberniores—had either conformed to the ruling faith or had betaken themselves to more friendly shores, or, having lost their estates by confiscation or treachery, had become confounded with the oppressed and suffering multitude. The Irish nation was practically divided into a "Protestant garrison" and a pariah caste. It would have been strange, therefore, if the faults incident to their position had not been developed in each of these classes. And yet when the beautiful and accomplished Mrs. Pendarves visited the island in 1731 she found social life in the capital worthy of commendation. The generality of the people, she said, were much the same as in England—a mixture of good and bad. All she met behaved themselves very decently according to their rank. "Now and then," she adds, "an oddity breaks out, but none so extraordinary but that I could match them in England. There is a heartiness among them that is more like Cornwall than any I have known, and great sociableness." Cornwall, it must be remembered, is largely Celtic. She writes, again, that she has too much gratitude to find fault where she was treated kindly, even if there were room for it, but declares that she was never in a place that more deservedly claimed her good word than Ireland.

It was to the famous earl of Strafford that the viceregal court first owed its brilliancy. When he came to Dublin as lord deputy he found the Castle falling to ruins. He had it restored, and lived there in the manner described by a traveled eye-witness, who says that a most splendid court was kept there, and that he had seen nothing like it in Christendom except that of the viceroy of Naples. In one point of grandeur the lord deputy went beyond the Neapolitan, for he could confer honors and dub knights, which that viceroy could not do, or indeed any other he knew of. This splendor was interrupted by the civil wars, but burst forth anew under the viceroyalty of the great duke of Ormond. Matters seem then to have been somewhat irregularly managed. It was a time of great politico-religions excitement, and "Papists" were forbidden to have residences in Dublin. Nevertheless, complaints were made that several Catholic nobles and gentlemen, among whom were Colonel Talbot and the earl of Clancarty, not only took houses, but were received at the Castle, where they joined the duke and the earl of Arran at play, which was often continued till three o'clock in the morning. It was said that they then passed through the gates with their coaches, and drew upon the guard if they attempted to stop them. This good-fellowship did not serve to cement a very close friendship between the parties, for Colonel Talbot was afterward thrown into the Tower on the charge of attempting the duke's life. He was soon freed from captivity and loaded with favors by James II., who made him duke of Tyrconnel and lord lieutenant of Ireland.

When Mrs. Pendarves (nee Mary Granville) paid her first visit to Ireland, all was at least outwardly quiet. The Revolution was long past, and the House of Hanover was firmly seated on the throne. The utmost magnificence was displayed by the court at Dublin, and the lady's letters are filled with descriptions of every kind of gayety. The witty dean of St. Patrick's, though nearing the melancholy close of his career, was still exciting by turns the wonder, the amusement and the gratitude of the Irish public. In spite of much that would now be deemed very inconsistent with his calling, Swift had a firm practical belief in the truths he was bound to teach, and was scrupulously careful in the discharge of his public duties. Mrs. Pendarves, who some years later became the wife of Swift's friend, Dr. Delany, a celebrated preacher and afterward dean of Down, was much attracted by the many virtues hidden under the apparent misanthropy of this wonderful man, and kept up a correspondence with him until his intellect failed. Her relative, Lord Carteret, had been the dean's great friend long before he was sent to Ireland as viceroy. A postscript which he added to one of his letters written in 1737 shows what he thought of Swift as a patriot. It ran thus: "When people ask me how I governed Ireland, I say that I pleased Dr. Swift. 'Quaesitam meritis sume superbiam.'" Nevertheless, Swift was too uncompromising to be trusted with power, even by Carteret. He wished very much to be made a trustee of the linen manufactory or a justice of the peace, and complained that he was refused because it was well known he would not job or suffer abuses to pass, though he might be of service to the public in both capacities; "but if he were a worthless member of Parliament or a bishop who would vote for the court and betray his country," then his request would be readily granted. Lord Carteret replied: "What you say is literally true, and therefore you must excuse me." When he asked the archbishop of Cashel and other trustees of the linen manufacture why they would not elect him, the archbishop answered that "he was too sharp a razor, and would cut them all."

Lord Carteret was a true courtier, and managed to keep fairly with both parties. He had much wit and readiness, and parried the attacks of Swift with such dexterity that on one occasion, the latter exclaimed, "What, in God's name! do you do here? Get back to your own country, and send us our boobies again." When we recollect that in London Swift enjoyed the society of the first literary characters of the day, we need not wonder that he looked on a residence in Ireland as a sort of banishment, and yet he did not fail to use every opportunity of doing good in private and in public. He gave half his annual income to decayed families, and kept five hundred pounds in hand for the sole service of the industrious poor, which he lent out in five pounds at a time, and took payment back by installments of two shillings—of course without interest. He was thus the means of helping them to help themselves, a species of charity which was not then so well understood as it is now in process of becoming. His indignation at the oppressive conduct of the English government in destroying Irish trade and manufactures vented itself in many ways. "Do not the corruptions and villainies of men eat your flesh and exhaust your spirits?" said he to his friend Dr. Delany; and in another burst of the same saeva indignatio he exclaimed, on hearing some one spoken of as a "fine old gentleman," "What! have you yet to learn that there is no such thing as a fine old gentleman? If the man you speak of had either a mind or a body worth a farthing, they would have worn him out long ago."

An incidental notice of the state of Irish trade at that date is afforded in a letter of Mrs. Delany's to a friend in England: "They make mighty good gloves here, but I shall not be able to send you any: they are prohibited." Mrs. Delany was herself much interested for the people, and brought Irish poplins into fashion at the viceregal court. She lost no opportunity of expressing her liking for the tone of Irish society. When herself residing in England she writes to her sister, Ann Granville, afterward Mrs. Dewes, expressing a wish that they could both be conveniently transported to Ireland for one year, that no place would suit her sister's taste so well, and that "the good-humor and conversableness of the people would please her extremely." This lady's descriptions of life in the country parts of Ireland are perhaps more interesting than even her experiences in the capital. At one time she describes her entertainment after a picnic in a thatched house which she calls a "cabin," and remarks that the people did not seem solicitous of having good dwellings or more furniture than was absolutely necessary—hardly so much—but they made it up in eating and drinking; adding that no people could be more hospitable or obliging, and that there was not only great abundance, but "great order and neatness." There is, unfortunately, a reverse to the medal. She remarks that they cut down all their trees instead of preserving them; that the poverty of the people as she passed through the country "made her heart ache," as she never saw a greater appearance of misery; and that they lived in great extremes, either profusely or wretchedly. The same testimony is borne by all who knew the state of Ireland at that time.

A family with which Mrs. Delany had much friendly intercourse was that of the Wesleys, who then and long after lived at Dangan Castle in the county of Meath, within two miles of Laracor, Dean Swift's first Irish living. This residence is generally supposed to have been the birthplace of the duke of Wellington, though No. 24 Upper Merrion street, Dublin, disputes that honor. Mrs. Delany describes Dangan Castle as being a large, handsome and convenient house. Mr. Richard Colley Wesley, who was then the proprietor, planted and laid out the grounds with much taste. They lived magnificently, and at the same time without ceremony. There was "a charming large hall" with an organ and harpsichord, where all the company met when they had a mind to be together, and where "music, dancing, draughts, shuttlecock and prayers took their turn." The house is now in ruins, having been sold to Roger O'Connor, and burnt accidentally afterward. Mrs. Delany speaks of her friend, Richard Colley Wesley, the ancestor of the duke, as having more virtues and fewer faults than any man she knew. She adds a curious circumstance in connection with the ruins of a castle in the town of Dangan. It belonged to King John, and his butler, gentleman-usher and standard-bearer were the ancestors of the duke of Ormond (Butler), Mr. Usher (high sheriff of Dublin that year, 1733), and Mr. Wesley. The first connection of these families with Ireland is sometimes stated to have been in the time of Henry II., the surname of Butler arising from the circumstance that Henry conferred the chief butlership of Ireland on Theobald Fitzwater in 1177. It is also said that Wesley was the original form of the duke of Wellington's family name. On the other hand, De Quincey says that Wellesley was shortened to Wesley by the same process which leads people to pronounce Marjoribanks "Marshbanks," and St. Leger "Silliger." It was probably resumed to distinguish a particular branch of the family. However this may be, it is to be regretted that the "iron duke," who was Irish both by birth and long descent, should have habitually affected Anglicanism. When in a celebrated speech he frequently used the words "As an Englishman," he provoked the remark of an Irish wit: "The duke reminds me of a countryman of mine who was accosted by President Jefferson in the United States: 'Well, Paddy, and why have you come to America?'—'Begor, yer honor, I jist come over to be a native.'"

The viceregal court has never been without its traditions of beauty, wit and fashion. The two Gunnings, whose fame has come down to our day in the letters of Walpole, made their debut at the Castle when the earl of Harrington was lord lieutenant. They were the daughters of an Irish gentleman of old family who had married the Hon. Bridget Bourke, a daughter of Lord Mayo. Their father seems to have been improvident, for they were said to be so poor that they thought of being actresses, and when they were presented they had to borrow clothes from Mrs. Woffington. Walpole speaks of them as two young Irish girls of no fortune who were declared the handsomest women alive, and says that they could not walk in the Park or go to Vauxhall but such crowds followed them that they were generally obliged to go away. Some years after he writes to Miss Berry: "The two beautiful sisters (Gunning) were going on the stage when they were at once exalted almost as high as they could be—were countessed and double-duchessed." This last expression was in allusion to the marriage of one of the sisters first to the duke of Hamilton, and afterward to the duke of Argyll. She thus united two rival families and became the ancestress of the present duke.

A still more remarkable belle in many respects was Miss Eleanor Ambrose. This lady, who was exquisitely beautiful and of very fascinating manners, was the brightest star in the viceregal court of the celebrated earl of Chesterfield. She was the daughter of a Catholic gentleman of good family and connected with the leading Catholic aristocracy. The professions were at that time closed against members of the old faith, and, in spite of the prejudice which then existed against trade, some of the younger sons of good Catholic families betook themselves to commerce. Hence the father of Miss Ambrose gained wealth as a brewer in Dublin, and left a considerable sum between his two daughters. The earl of Chesterfield, being warned before he came to Ireland that he would have much trouble from the Catholic party, wrote back soon after his arrival that the only "dangerous Papist" he met was Miss Ambrose, a title by which she was known ever after. Many graceful compliments paid to her by the courtly earl testify to his admiration of her beauty and accomplishments. On seeing her wear an orange lily on the anniversary of the Battle of the Boyne he addressed her in the following impromptu:

Say, lovely traitress, where's the jest Of wearing orange on thy breast, When underneath that bosom shows The whiteness of the rebel rose?

On another occasion, Miss Ambrose being present when the freedom of the corporation of Drogheda was presented to the viceroy in a gold box of exquisite workmanship, she laughingly asked him to give it to her. "Madame," said Chesterfield, "you have too much of my freedom already." The lady eventually married a county Mayo gentleman of large fortune named Palmer, and lived to the age of ninety-eight, forming a connecting link between two very distant periods. In her extreme old age Sheil paid her a visit, the admiration which Lord Chesterfield was known to entertain for her having induced him to seek an introduction to her. Although rich, he found her occupying a small lodging in Henry street, where she lived secluded and alone. "Over the chimney-piece of the front drawing-room was suspended the picture of her Platonic idolater. It was a half-length portrait, and had been given her by the man of whose adoration she was so virtuously vain." While Sheil was striving to image to himself the fascinations of the "dangerous Papist," the door was opened: a volume of smoke had previously filled the room, and the rush of air causing it to spread in huge wreaths around her, "a weird and withered form stood in the midst of the dispersing vapor." Lady Palmer was a most vehement Catholic. Lord Chesterfield and the Catholic question were the only subjects in which she seemed to take any interest. On the wrongs of her country she expatiated with both energy and eloquence, but when her visitor remarked that he was not surprised at Lord Chesterfield's having called her "a dangerous Papist," the patriot relapsed into the woman, and she looked up at the picture with a melancholy smile.

The subject of society in Ireland during the eighteenth century would be singularly incomplete without some notice of the disabilities under which so large a portion of the nation lay. The penal laws were designed to transfer all the property of the country to the hands of Protestants, and they were effectual to a great extent, but in many instances they were evaded by the friendship and good feeling of Protestants themselves. Intermarriages often took place, and individuals of the favored party in several cases held property secretly in trust for the real owners. By this and other devices a portion of their estates was saved for Catholic families. It may not be amiss to relate two or three illustrations of the working of these laws, and also of the way in which they were evaded.

In the year 1776, Mr. Thomas Stephen Coppinger lived on his family estate of Carhue in the county of Cork. His ancestors had eschewed politics, and had retained their property and their religion for a century and a half without molestation. Now, however, his first cousin, Thomas John Coppinger, laid claim to half the estate on the plea that it should have been "gaveled," or divided between the sons, when his grandfather died without leaving a Protestant heir, such being the law at the time. In order to force his cousin to consent, Thomas John became a Protestant and threatened to file a bill of discovery; which meant that he would give formal notice that his cousin was "discovered" to be a Catholic. By going through this form he could claim the whole estate. Thomas Stephen was advised to go through the ceremony of conforming, but refused on principle. The case was tried, but in the existing state of the law there was no redress, and half the estate, with the family residence, was given up to Thomas John. It tells well for the family affection and forgiving disposition of the Irish that far from this transaction originating a feud between the Protestant and Catholic branches of the Coppingers, they were always on the best terms. The year after this occurrence the law was altered and some of the severest restrictions on the Catholics removed.

A few years before this change in the law a Mr. Duggan resided at the "Park," near Killarney, a property which is still held by his descendants, who have adopted the name of Cronin. A Protestant gentleman having taken some dislike to Mr. Duggan, and being besides a furious bigot, resolved to file a bill against him. Before he had time to execute his design a relative named McCarthy, who had been living in Paris, came to see him. This relative told him that he was very badly off and about to leave for America. "Never mind," said Mr. ——: "I'm going to file a bill against Duggan. The fellow is a Papist. I will get his property, and you shall have a share." It is probable that Mr. —— might have tried to quiet his conscience by this intended application of the money, and to persuade himself that he was not acting through love of gain. In a day or two after the above conversation McCarthy was staying with Mr. Deane Freeman of Castle Cor in the county of Cork. This gentleman being a Protestant and a Tory, his guest told him of the plan against Duggan. But Mr. Freeman was quite a different person from the others, and was besides a friend of Mr. Duggan's. He went immediately to Mr. —— 's house, and learned from his own lips that he was about to commit this wrong. Mr. Freeman then said that he also had business at Dublin, and proposed that they should go together. Traveling was at that time both slow and dangerous, and Mr. —— was glad of the addition to his party. They stopped the first night at the house of a friend, who on a hint from Freeman managed to induce the intended filer of the bill to partake so largely of his hospitality that he was carried to bed the next morning in a state of insensibility. His companion being thus put hors de combat, Mr. Freeman hastened to Dublin and filed a bill in his own name. While this was on the file no other bill could be proceeded with, but for further security he got Mr. Duggan to make a fictitious sale of the property to him, and thus saved it for better times.

The MacMahon estates in the county of Clare were saved in the following way: Suspecting a "discoverer," a Miss MacMahon—who must have been own cousin to Lever's Miss Betty O'Shea—resolved to become a Protestant. She first, however, consulted a friar, and was told by him that if she did so she would peril her soul. "Here goes, then!" cried the doughty damsel: "better that the soul of an old maid should go the wrong way than that the property of the MacMahons should go to the Protestants." She conformed and saved the property. More than one estate was preserved to the Catholic owner by the singular proceeding of his filing a bill against himself under an assumed name.

A tragic occurrence, arising out of the working of these laws, is commemorated by a tombstone in Kilcrea Abbey near Cork. Arthur O'Leary, a member of the old Catholic family of that name, had served for a few years in the Hungarian army, as the laws against the Catholics did not permit them to hold commissions in the British service. On his return to Ireland he married a daughter of the O'Connell who lived then at Derrynane, an aunt of the "Liberator." He settled at a place called Raleigh, situated on the river Lee, and became a country gentleman, holding considerable personal property. From his descent and creed he was looked on as a chieftain by the peasantry, which made him unpopular among his neighbors of English blood. One of them, a Mr. Morris, took great pride in a fine stud of horses. Having lost a race to O'Leary on which a heavy wager depended, he was greatly mortified. Some one, perceiving his vexation, unfortunately reminded him that the "Papist" could not legally keep a horse exceeding five pounds in value. He tendered this sum to O'Leary, who indignantly refused to give up his favorite animal. On his resisting the warrant which was then made out for his arrest, he was outlawed. A party of soldiers was sent after him, and he was shot in the encounter that followed. This took place in the year 1773, when O'Leary was only twenty-six years old. The tragedy did not end here. A brother of O'Leary's was seized with an insane desire of vengeance, and made several attempts on Mr. Morris's life, till the latter, in a state of chronic terror, left his country residence and came into Cork to live. Here O'Leary watched day after day, and at length succeeded in wounding him fatally. He then escaped to America, where he died some years after. An ancestor of the writer afterward resided at Hanover Hall, the place which Mr. Morris had been thus forced to leave, and a member of the family used to relate how she was shown when a child the marks of O'Leary's bullets in the doors and wainscoting. It would seem as if a desire to brave the laws of the "Saxon" was inherent in this family. A noted professor of the name in Cork appeared a few years ago at a fancy ball clad in his ancestral clothing of the sixteenth century and wearing the insignia of the chieftainship. He boasted that in doing so he broke no fewer than three statute laws. But times are altered now, and the learned professor was permitted to indulge his whim in peace. No clansmen gathered round him, and no "Sassenach" soldiery rent away his saffron robe.

Attempts at the abduction of heiresses were then of more frequent occurrence than a lover of Ireland could desire. Mr. Froude has made the most of this blot on their civilization, but he has forgotten that such outrages were not in those days peculiar to Ireland. Mrs. Delany relates a flagrant case which came under her immediate notice. Miss MacDermot was a Connaught lady who with her sister had inherited a large estate. They were originally Catholics, but decided on becoming Protestants. Their intention was suspected, and their maternal uncle, whose name was Flinn, asked them to his house to dine, the distance not being so great as to prevent them from returning home in the evening. They had never had a quarrel with this uncle, and could not well refuse the invitation, though they would rather not have gone, the eldest sister having rejected an offer of marriage from Flinn's only son. After dinner they prepared to leave, but the uncle insisted on their remaining for the night. They refused firmly but politely, and were then told that the chaise and servants had gone home, but would return for them the next day. Miss MacDermot was much frightened, but, as they had no redress, she concealed her feelings, and they sat down to cards. While engaged in this way four men with masks rushed into the room. The two sisters made their escape into the next apartment, but were followed by the masked men. One of these seized upon Miss Maria MacDermot, who had hid behind a bed, but when he saw which he had he flung her from him with an oath, saying that she was not the right sister. The portion of the elder being double that of the other explains this ungallant proceeding. Miss MacDermot was then seized and dragged back into the room, where her uncle was still standing by the fire. He took no notice of her tears and entreaties, but allowed her to be forced into the hall, where a crowd of Flinn's friends and followers were assembled. They set her on a pillion behind the principal mask. She was a tall, strong woman, and struggled so violently that she succeeded in getting off the horse. While they were endeavoring to put her back again, she managed to get the sword of one of the men, for they were all armed with swords and bludgeons. Then, like a true Amazon,

Her back against a tree she bore, And firmly placed her foot before,

and defended herself for some time, till one of the gang ran a sword up her arm from her wrist to her elbow, and obliged her to drop her weapon. Being no longer able to resist between extreme pain and loss of blood, she was taken to a cabin, where the cousin came in with a priest and some others. The priest told her that if she submitted to the ceremony of marriage with Mr. Flinn, she should be treated with kindness and respect. She declared she would rather die than marry one who had been guilty of such outrageous conduct. They tried to force the ring on her finger, and the priest was proceeding with the ceremony when the lady seized a jug of milk which stood on a table near and dashed it in the face of "His Reverence." Some of the party coming in gave the alarm to Flinn, saying in a whisper that the country was raised and in pursuit of them. More messengers came to confirm the news. The lady's arm was still bleeding profusely, and they carried her out and plunged her up to the shoulder in a bog, two men being left to guard her. This singular treatment stopped the bleeding, but, though she was soon rescued, she remained twenty-one days in great pain and danger. Her sister had previously escaped in time to give the alarm. Some months after they came to Dublin and read their recantation in Dr. Delany's church.

Miss MacDermot's courage was certainly admirable, but it must be admitted that Mr. Flinn was not without his share of the same quality. Few men in these degenerate times would care to have so brave a wife. Indeed, some of these Irish dames were quite capable of defending both their rights and their privileges against assailants belonging to what is called the "stronger sex." Sir Jonah Barrington's great-aunt, Mrs. Elizabeth Fitzgerald, and her husband held the castle of Moret against the O'Cahils, who claimed it as having been originally theirs and taken from them by another Elizabeth, the queen of England. They were repulsed with much slaughter, but Squire Fitzgerald had the imprudence to venture outside the walls, and was carried off by the survivors of the hostile faction. They approached the castle again with their prisoner, and one of the party, exhibiting a white cloth on a pike, came forward: "I'm a truce, my lady. Look here!" (showing the terrified squire): "we have your husband in hault: yees have yer castle sure enough. Now we'll change, if you please: we'll render the squire, and you'll render the keep; and if yees won't do that same, the squire will be throttled before your two eyes in half an hour."—"Flag of truce," said the heroine with due dignity and without the slightest hesitation, "mark the words of Elizabeth Fitzgerald of Moret Castle: they may answer for your own wife upon some future occasion. Flag of truce, I won't render my keep, and I'll tell you why: Elizabeth Fitzgerald may get another husband, but Elizabeth Fitzgerald may never get another castle; so I'll keep what I have; and if you can't get off faster than your legs can readily carry you, my warders will try which is the hardest—your skull or a stone bullet." It were too long a story to relate how this Irish Penelope, unsustained by the hope of the return of her Ulysses, inasmuch as she had seen him hanged before her eyes, defended her castle and her liberty against all the neighboring squires, who had agreed to decide by lot which should carry her off. Nearly every one of them had previously tried to persuade her to accept his hand, the proposal being made by "flag of truce," till at length she threatened to hang the next messenger.

These events took place in 1690. Later on, such women as Elizabeth Fitzgerald became more rare, but there is one noted example of womanly daring which must not be passed over. The celebrated "Lady Freemason" confronted the terrors of a Masonic lodge, and, unlike our mother Eve, the forbidden knowledge has brought no evil consequences on her posterity, who continue to be reckoned among the most estimable and most respected families of the county of Cork. The Hon. Elizabeth St. Leger, daughter to Lord Doneraile, was descended from Robert de St. Leger, who accompanied William the Conqueror to England, and cousin to the General St. Leger who instituted the Doncaster St. Leger race. When a young girl she was seized with a desire to see the mysteries of the initiation of a Mason which were about to be celebrated at her father's house. The generally-received tradition is that she concealed herself behind a large old-fashioned eight-day clock, but another version of the story is that some alterations being in progress, she picked a brick out of the partition which divided the room occupied by the Masons from the adjoining apartment. However this may be, the young lady got frightened and attempted to escape, but was detected by the Mason on guard. Her life was spared, it is said, at the intercession of her brother, but on condition of her becoming a member. She afterward married Richard Aldworth of Newmarket, and lived and died much respected. On public occasions she walked at the head of the Freemasons wearing the apron and insignia of the order. Her portrait in this attire is in the lodge-rooms of several Irish lodges and also in the family mansion of the Aldworths. This family is of English descent, and settled in the north-west of the county of Cork, where an ancestor of theirs got a grant of land from James I. They patronized Curran's father, and appointed him seneschal of their manor of Newmarket, in which town the great wit and patriot was born.

The remarkable prevalence of dueling, which rose in Ireland to almost an insane height toward the end of the eighteenth century, had at least the good effect of encouraging a chivalrous feeling toward women, who thenceforward depended on their male relatives and friends for protection. It is said that if any gentleman presumed to pass between a lady and the wall in walking the streets of Dublin, he was considered as offering a personal affront to her escort, and if the parties wore swords, as was then customary, the first salutation to the offender was usually "Draw, sir!" However, such affairs mostly ended in an apology to the lady for inadvertence. But if a man ventured to intrude into the boxes of the theatre in his surtout or boots or with his hat on, it was regarded as a general insult to every lady present, and he had little chance of escaping without a shot or a thrust before the following night. It must be confessed that this species of punctiliousness was carried too far. Some say that dueling reached to such an extravagant pitch in Ireland because the Protestant gentry were a garrison in a hostile country, and were obliged to cultivate familiarity with the means of defence. It is possible that this state of affairs may have originally led to the remarkable prevalence of the custom, for when such transactions as that between Mr. Morris and Arthur O'Leary were of frequent occurrence, there must have been much to provoke the bitterest enmity. Nevertheless, it would seem that there was really a good deal in the practice to warrant the old saying that "the English fight for liberty, the French for glory and the Irish for fun." A gentleman who is said to have been one of the most humane men existing quieted his little son in this wise when the child was crying for something: "Come, now, do be a good boy. Come, now, don't cry, and I'll give you a case of nice little pistols to-morrow. Come, now, don't cry, and we'll shoot them all in the morning."—"Yes, yes," responded the child, drying his little eyes and delighted at the notion—"Yes, we'll shoot them all in the morning." In the regulations for dueling, called in Galway the "Thirty-six Commandments," one of the rules laid down was that when the seconds disagreed and resolved to exchange shots, they should stand at right angles with the principals and all fire together. A duel of this nature took place near Glinsk, the seat of Sir J. Bourke, between that gentleman and a Mr. Bodkin, when the old family steward and other servants brought out the son, then a child, and held him on men's shoulders to see papa fight! Professed duelists were called "fire-eaters," and the first two questions always asked as to a young gentleman's respectability and qualifications, particularly when he proposed for a wife, were, "What family is he of? Did he ever blaze?"

A Mr. Bagenal in the county Carlow, called King Bagenal from his absolute sway within his extensive territories, was a polished gentleman of Norman race. He used to have a brace of pistols laid before him on the dinner-table, and when the claret was brought in after dinner—which was always in an unbroached cask—Bagenal tapped it with a bullet from one pistol, and kept the other in terrorem for any of his guests who should fail to do justice to the liquor. Some pigs belonging to a neighboring gentleman having strayed into his flower-garden, Bagenal had them docked of ears and tails, sending these trophies to the gentleman with an intimation that the owner merited a like punishment. The gentleman, who had only recently settled there, sent him a challenge, which he accepted with alacrity, stipulating, however, that as he was nearly eighty, he should fight sitting in his arm-chair. The duel was fought in this strange fashion: Bagenal wounded his antagonist, but escaped unhurt himself.

Barristers who were good shots were retained at elections as "fighting" counsel. A lawyer of this stamp, having conducted an election more peaceably than his wont, was asked why he acted contrary to his usual custom. He answered coolly, "Because my client does not pay me fighting price." It was not usual for the Irish bar or the Irish members of Parliament to calculate in this way when a chance of "blazing" was in question. Mr. Toler, afterward Lord Norbury of punning celebrity, had some words with Sir Jonah Barrington. They left the House to settle the dispute outside, but the Speaker, perceiving them, sent the sergeant-at-arms with his attendants to bring them back. They caught Toler just as the skirts of his coat had become so entangled in a door-handle that they were torn completely off. Sir Jonah, resisting the sergeant's satellites, was caught up by one of them, brought back like a sack of meal on the man's shoulders, and thrown down in the body of the House. The Speaker required them both to pledge their honor that the matter should end there. When Toler rose to reply the dilapidated condition of his coat became apparent, upon which Curran stood up and said gravely that "it was the most unparalleled insult ever offered to the House, as it appeared that one honorable member had trimmed another honorable member's jacket within those walls, and nearly within view of the Speaker."

The incessant play of wit and drollery then animating the Irish capital has perhaps never had a parallel in any society. The House and the bar were both overflowing with it. When the dull, matter-of-fact Lord Redesdale first came over to take the position of lord chancellor, he felt some curiosity as to the reputation of the latter for these qualities which had reached his ears in England. At one of his first dinners to the judges and higher law-officers he found himself unable to see any wit, or perhaps any meaning, in Toler's jests, and turning to another barrister, Mr. Garrat O'Farrell, he said that he believed his name and family were very numerous and reputable in the county of Wicklow, as he had met several of them in his late tour there. "Yes, my lord," said O'Farrell, "we were very numerous, but so many of us have been lately hanged for sheepstealing that the name is getting rather scarce in that county." This reply reduced his lordship to silence, and it was probably some time before he made up his mind as to whether he had really been associating with law-breakers of so disreputable a class. Mr. Plunket afterward puzzled Lord Redesdale still more when arguing a cause in chancery. The question was about "flying kites" (fictitious bills). His lordship took the word literally, and declared he did not understand the matter. "It is not to be expected that you should, my lord," said Plunket, "for in England the wind raises the kite, but in Ireland the kite raises the wind." The lord chancellor was no wiser than before, and the counsel was obliged to have recourse to a less metaphorical explanation.

So late as the time of the Union old Irish families lived in the way described by De Ounce. When a lad of fifteen he visited Ireland with his young friend Lord Westport. He was even then a keen observer, and his remarks on the Irish nobility of that date are worthy of attention. He first notices that the tardiness and difficulty of communication, the want of newspapers, etc., must in those times have kept the provinces two or three generations in the rear of the metropolis, and accordingly the old Irish rural nobility stood in this relation to English manners and customs. The houses were often large and rambling, in the style of antique English manorial chateaux, ill-planned as regarded convenience and economy, with long winding galleries and innumerable windows, but displaying in the dwelling-rooms a comfort and "coziness," combined with a magnificence, not always so effectually attained in modern times. "Here were old libraries, old butlers and old customs that seemed to belong to the era of Cromwell, or even an earlier era than his; whilst the ancient names, to one who had some acquaintance with the great events of Irish history, often strengthened the illusion." In fact, the aristocracy of Ireland was divided into two sections—the native Irish, who were territorial fixtures, and those who spent so much of their time and revenues at Bath, Cheltenham, Weymouth, London, etc. as to have become almost entirely English. It was the former whom De Quincey saw most of, and though they lived in the amplest comfort and exercised the most unbounded hospitality, still they were greatly behind the English commercial gentry as to modern refinements of luxury. There was at the same time a strength of character and a raciness of manner which could not fail to interest and impress a stranger. Although there was much sterling worth to be found in this class, a high-handed lawlessness broke out now and then. Doubtless, a daily familiarity with the wrongs perpetrated under cover of the penal laws undermined their natural sense of justice. A remarkable instance of the tyranny sometimes practiced occurred in a family well known to the writer. A gentleman rented several hundred acres of land from the earl of B——, a nobleman whose title is now extinct. The tenant exercised some right that was permitted by the terms of his lease, which had been granted by the former owner of the estate. Lord B——, who was a haughty and irascible man, disputed the right, and the tenant came with his lease in his pocket to explain the matter. It was winter, and there was a large fire in the room. Lord B—— asked to see the lease, and when he got it into his hands suddenly thrust it into the middle of the fire, near which he stood. He then told the gentleman that he would continue to let him hold half the land, but that he had another tenant for the rest. As there were no witnesses to the transaction except Lord B—— and the tenant, and the law's delays are always in favor of the rich, the gentleman thought it better to submit. It is believed that a sum of money had been paid on receiving the lease, which made the proceeding the more unjust.

Irish roads in those days were probably as bad as those in England. They could hardly have been worse, for De Quincey tells of his childish interest in watching the postilions, who were employed, not by fits and starts, but "always and eternally," in quartering—a word which he explains to mean going from side to side to avoid the ruts and large stones. A natural consequence of bad roads and inefficient police was the prevalence of highwaymen, who were then to be met with in both countries. They usually infested the roads which had to be passed by traders at fairs or by men employed in collecting rents. A noted highwayman named Brennan was the terror of all who traveled in the northern part of the county of Cork. After some outrages more than usually daring, no one in the service of a gentleman in that neighborhood could be found brave enough to pass the lonely mountain-road to bring home a balance of rent remaining due. A young lad volunteered, saying that he would go in his every-day garb, and that no one would suspect him of carrying money about him. Having received and secreted the cash, he was returning in apparent safety, but just as he arrived at the loneliest part of the road Brennan leaped out from behind a hedge and presented a loaded pistol. "Give up that money," said he to the boy.—"Sure, then, I will if you give me time, but you won't have me go home wid my finger in my mouth, widout looking as if I made a stand for it, anyhow. Look here!" continued Jerry, dismounting and holding up the ragged skirt of his coat, "couldn't you put a ball through this for me?"—"'Tis riddled enough in all conscience, but here goes," said the highwayman, firing off a pistol at it.—"Here's my ould caubeen now, and I'll just give my face a scratch to draw the blood if you put a hole through that too." The hat was riddled for him in the same way. "Well, now, that's grand; but I think if the other skirt was tore, they couldn't say a word then."—"Why, you omadhaun! haven't you enough of it? Give me the rint. Do you think I have any more powder and ball to be wasting on you, you spalpeen?"—"If you haven't, I have," cried Jerry, springing on his horse, and pulling out a loaded pistol he was off and away before the astonished highwayman had time to prevent him or to reload his weapon.

The legislative union forms a distinct epoch in Irish social life, and we cannot more fitly close this paper than by giving an account of the last meeting of the Irish House of Lords in the words of an observant and dispassionate eye-witness. After expressing his surprise at the facility with which their consent was gained, De Quincey adds: "They all rose from their couches peers of Parliament, individual pillars of the realm, indispensable parties to every law that could pass. To-morrow they will be nobody—men of straw—terrae filii. What madness has persuaded them to part with their birthright, and to cashier themselves and their children for ever into mere titular lords?... The bill received the royal assent without a muttering or a whispering or the protesting echo of a sigh. Perhaps there might be a little pause, a silence like that which follows an earthquake, but there was no plainspoken Lord Belhaven, as on the corresponding occasion in Edinburgh, to fill up the silence with: 'So there's an end of an auld sang.' All was, or looked, courtly and free from vulgar emotion. Thus we were set at liberty from Dublin. Parliaments and installations and masked balls, with all other secondary splendors in celebration of primary splendors, reflex glories that reverberated the original glories, at length had ceased to shine upon the Irish metropolis. The 'season,' as it is called in great cities, was over—unfortunately, the last season that was ever destined to illuminate the society or to stimulate the domestic trade of Dublin."

ELIZA WILSON.



VINA'S "OLE MAN."



"Vina's got an idee she wants to git married." The speaker was a venerable darkey, who stood twirling his rimless hat with a sheepish air in the probate-office.

"Rather hard for you, Father Abram," said the judge kindly, "but it's a way girls have. I presume my daughter will be leaving me some day in the same ungrateful fashion. Bring around Vina's man and I will make out the license."

Father Abram's manner became at once more confused and ludicrous: he poised himself alternately on either foot, and scratched his head vigorously, while his facial expression was something too comical for description. Finally, through a series of embarrassed chuckles and gurgles, he rippled into a broad guffaw, articulating indistinctly between its paroxysms, "Bress de Lord, sah! I'se de man!"

"Shades of the mighty!" exclaimed the judge, in his astonishment dropping his pen upon a virgin page in his docket. "But the United States is a Christian country, Abram, and a man can't marry his own daughter here: it's contrary to law and gospel."

"Yes, sah?" said the negro submissively. "Den dar ain't no way for me an' Vina to git married, not even if we go over to Platte City? Vina'll be mightily disappointed."

"Good Heavens! no. 'Twould be a State's prison offence, and I don't see what ever put such a revolting idea into your head anyway, you hoary-headed old sinner!"

'"Deed, sah, 'tain't no idee ob mine. I done tole yer dat it was all 'long ob Vina, but I wouldn't see her outed for a sight" (outed being a negro expression for displeased). "An' don't yer t'ink, sah, de law might be changed, jus' for dis one time, or dat Vina an' I could be sent to de penitentium togedder? It's rather hard on both on us, 'specially on Vina—'specially as she ain't no more my darter than you be."

"Why didn't you say so before, instead of having all this talk about it? I don't know whether to believe you now: it is more than likely only a lie that you have trumped up as a last resort."

"Wish I may die, sah, ef it ain't de honest truf; an' de fus' time dat ebber I set eyes on Vina war in a slabe-pen in New Orleans eight years ago, when we war sold to de same marster. Ef Massa John Brown war libbin' he could prove it to yer; but dar ain't no udder libbin' human 'cept de slabe-driber—and he war blowed up on his nex' trip up de ribber—dat knows anyting about it."

The judge believed now that Abram had spoken the truth, for the time

When Old John Brown, Ossawattomie Brown, Shall be a name to swear by in backwoods and in town,

had come. The time was the commencement of the war, and any reference to his name on the part of a negro was equivalent to the most solemn oath.

"What did John Brown ever know about it?" asked the judge.

"Why, yer see, he war dar, sah: he come down de ribber on de same boat wid de driber an' Vina. De driber he'd done bought up a heap ob likely young gals all de way down t'roo' Missouri an' de udder towns what neighbored on to de ribber—han'somest young women he could find, what'd bring a high price in New Orleans—an' when he gits dar, what's he do but go roun' to all de slabe-pens an' buy up a heap ob worn-out, or'nary old niggers, what had been worked to def in de rice-swamps, an' nobody wouldn't gib five dollars for. Den he marries de peartest ob de gals to de mizzablest ob de ole men. When de time fur de auction come, dar was plenty ob buyers for de gals, but nobody wanted dem good-for-nuffin' ole husbands. 'Can't help it,' says de driber—'Can't help it, no way whatsumebber: it's ag'in our principles to part families. Ef yer want de woman, yer mus' take her ole man too.' An' so dey gin'rally did, an' paid a high price fur him too, fur de sake ob gittin' de gal. Wall, as I was a-sayin', Massa John Brown he come down in de same boat wid Vina: he'd took notice ob her, and he knowed she hadn't any ole man. De nex' day he come walkin' down to de slabe-pen, a-purtendin' to be a planter, and a-axin' de price ob de niggers. When dey tole him I was Vina's husband, he says, 'Why, he's too ole to be anybody's husband: I don't believe he's got a toof in his head.'—'Yes I has, massa,' says I: 'I'se got t'ree left, and can chaw hoecake powerful, but I don't crack no pecans in my mouf. Better buy me, sah: dar's a heap ob sarbice in me yet. I'se only drawed up wid de rheumatiz, dat's all.'—'Come ober heah to de light,' says he, 'an' let me look in yo' mouf, an' see whedder yer hab got any teef.' So I went wid him, an' while he was a-purtendin' to find out my p'ints he says to me, very quiet, 'Yer ain't dat gal's husband, nohow,' says he, 'an' yer knows it.':—'I knows it, massa,' says I, 'an' I'se skeered for my life ob her, fur she done said she'd kill any one dey dar'd to mate wid her: she's done got a husband ob her own up de ribber, I reckon.'—'Yes, dat am de truf,' says Massa John Brown; 'but see here, uncle: de Lord has done 'p'inted yer to be a guardian angel to dat po' chile. He calls yer to be a fader to her; an' from dis day yer is her fader—'member dat. But it may be jus' as well for yer to purtend to be her husband: 'at will keep de udder boys from pesterin' her. But 'member dis: de Lord will 'quire dat chile's happiness of yo' han's, an' will so do by yer as yer do by her.'—'Be yer de angel ob de Lord, massa?' says I. 'Clar' to goodness, sah! I was dat skeered one knee knocked ag'in de udder like a woodpecker a-hammerin' a rotten tree.—'Yes,' says he: 'I be de messenger ob de Lord, an' my name is John Brown, but I don't s'pose yer ebber heern tell ob it.'—'No, massa,' says I, 'we don't see no powerful sight ob angels down in de rice-swamps.'—'Well, keep a-watchin' an' a-waitin',' says he, 'an' yer will heer from me ag'in.' Wid dat de driber come up, and he tole him he guessed he wouldn't buy me dat day; and den he went away.

"Vina said dis mornin' she 'lowed to go up to yo' house to do some washin' for de missus; an' yer can ax her, sah, an' she'll tell yer dat all I'se been a-sayin' is de libbin' truf."

The judge hardly needed any confirmation—Abram's story was too straightforward and naif to have been coined—but, telling him to call at his house toward evening, and that he would have the necessary papers there, and make them out if satisfied as to the eligibility of the parties for such a contract, he dismissed the aspirant for marital honors. As the judge entered the shaded coolness of his library after a distracting day spent in the discussion of a complicated will-case, the refreshing atmosphere of refinement and quiet and home exercised so powerful an influence over his tired nerves that he straightway forgot all professional and other cares, and stretching himself in his favorite lazy-chair, was soon fast asleep.

As he drifted back to a semi-conscious state he became aware of voices conversing on the back veranda, which shaded one of the library windows. The voices were those of his wife and the girl Vina, and the words which he first clearly comprehended were—

"I tell yer what, Miss' Fairdealer, dar ain't no niggerism about ole Fader Abram."

As Father Abram approached the nearest to a pure-blooded Congo African of any negro that he knew, the judge rubbed his forehead in the gentle stimulating way which he always employed when he wished to convince himself that he had heard aright and to assure some sophomorical young lawyer that he had not been asleep at all, but had caught every word of his long-winded statement of the case. The judge's ideas came back to him with their usual easy flow, and before the next sentence was enunciated he had made a mental summing-up of the case and given judgment for the plaintiff.

"I mean," continued Vina, "dat Fader Abe's got de whitest soul ebber yer see: he couldn't do a mean ting, no matter how much money de debbil 'greed to pay him for't. Fus' time I ebber see him war down in Lousianny. My ole marster had sole me away from my husband an' from John Brown: she war a little ting den, only six mo'ths, an' oughtn't to have been weaned, but I don't s'pose he cared whether she libbed or died, and de slabe-driber wouldn't take her—"

"How did you," interrupted Mrs. Judge Fairdealer with the curiosity of a true woman, "ever give your little girl such an unsuitable name as John Brown?"

("Why couldn't the woman let her go on with her story?" thought the judge. What did he care how that impish little creature, whom he had always regarded as old Abram's granddaughter, and who glared at him with such savage malignity from her piercing black eye (no figure of speech, for she had but one) when with his foot and cane he gently rolled her off the door-mat, where he found her coiled up asleep on his entrance to the house,—what did he care how that mixture of chimpanzee and evil sprite, to whom were to be attributed nine-tenths of the mischief done in the neighborhood, came by her unmaidenly cognomen?)

"John Brown didn' hab no name den: she war jus' my baby, dat war all. I use to t'ink I'd call her for her fader, an' his name war George—mos' consniptious rascal ebber yer see, de han'somest man in de whole township (John Brown takes arter him a sight), but so powerful ugly" (ugly being used here in reference to disposition) "dat de only way de oberseer could make him mind was to hab a parcel ob de boys hold him down while he kicked him in de mouf. Wall, short time befo' John Brown was born he kicked one of his eyes out dat ar way, and I nussed him an' tended him till he got well; an' when John Brown come, 'clar' to goodness ef she didn' have jus' only one eye too! Wall, I lubbed dat ar George wid all my soul, Miss' Fairdealer. Mean an' sneakin' a nigger as ebber libbed, but I didn' know it den; an', anyway, he war John Brown's fader, an' powerful han'some; an' dat do count for sumfin'. When dey sole me away from him I jus' t'ought I should die. Dey let me take my baby wid me down to de partin'-plank—dat's what dey called de gangway dey t'row out from de steamboat—but dar de gals had to bid good-bye to all dar fren's. Such a hollerin' and yellin' an' takin'-on you nebber heerd, Miss' Fairdealer. It was a little lonesome, landin' in de midst ob a right smart piece ob timber, like a many another along de Big Muddy, whar de boats stop to wood up—fearsome-enough place any day, but at night, wid dem tar-barrels a-flarin' an' dem women a-screechin'—some on 'em gone clean crazy, and all on 'em actin' zif dey had—it war more like dat place dan any 'scription I ebber heerd any minister gib ob it. I 'members one face, dat ob a man dat leaned ober de railin' and looked at us bein' dribben on board, dat looked so wild and mad-like. I allus t'ink de Lord will look dat way when on de day ob judgment he says, ''Part from me, all ye onb'lievin', backslidin' workers ob pernickety: don't want to see no more ob yer.' He spoke to me once on our way down de ribber. 'Hab patience, chile,' said he: 'de Lord ain't clean forgot yer. He'll bring yer an' yo' baby togedder ag'in ef yer kin only wait His own good time. I'm on de Lord's business: He's sent me down dis yeah ribber, same as he sent Moses into Egyp', to 'quire into dis matter an' to preach deliberance to de captive. Yer will all be free some day, but yer mus' hab patience, for de time is not yet.' I heern some one say dat dat war John Brown, and somehow de name heartened me up a little, do' I'd nebber heern it befo'."

Vina next told the incident of her so-called marriage at the slave-mart with old Abram.

"'Pears like," said Vina, "I could hab killed dat man when dey tole me he was my husband; but when he tole me 'twan't no sech ting, an' axed me if I hadn't ebber heern 'bout Fader Abram at camp-meetin', an' dat he wan't no fader till de Lord sent His angel and called him to be one—same as He called him to be a fader to me—den I listened to him, an' 'gan to b'lieve de Lord reely had sent him. Den he tole me how Abram went down into Egyp' wid his cousin Sarer, an' ole Pharaoh wanted to marry her, an' Abram he purtended dat Sarer was his wife, so Pharaoh shouldn't get her—leastways, it was sumfin' like dat—an' how de Lord bressed 'em, an' how when dey cl'ar'd out ob Egyp' dey stole 'bout ebberyting Pharaoh had; an' dat John Brown had done tole him to be anudder Fader Abram; an' I promised him I'd be anudder Sarer to him, an' we'd pull de wool ober de white folks's eyes, an' serbe de Lord till it done pleased Him to set us free."