S. W. Kellogg.



CUBA.

"If," wrote Franklin, "you wish a separation to be always possible, take the utmost pains that the colonies shall never be incorporated with the mother-country. Do not let them share your liberties. Make use of their commerce, regulate their industry, tax them at your will, and spend at your caprice the wealth thus drawn from them, which costs you nothing. Take care to invest the general in charge of them with despotic power, and at the same time give him immunity from all colonial control. If the colonists protest, do not listen to them, but reply by charges of high treason and rebellion. Say that all such complaints are the invention of certain demagogues, and that if one could catch and hang these wretched fellows all would go well. If need be, arrest and hang them. By continuing such a policy you will infallibly arrive at your goal, and to a certainty be in a brief time disembarrassed of your colonies."

The above, wrote an accomplished Spaniard a few years ago, applies as exactly to the Spanish colonies to-day as it did to those of England at the time of our struggle with her. In fact, the misrule in Cuba has been fifty times worse than the worst Anglo-Saxon misrule ever known. The island has been used by Spain simply as a gold-mine.[J] So far as those toiling in it are concerned, she has displayed an indifference similar to that which resulted in the destruction of her West Indian population three centuries ago. The Cubans have been taxed without representation, shot down if they remonstrated, and mocked by acts of the Cortes, granting relief which it was never intended to afford to them, but which for a time served in some degree to throw dust in the eyes of Europe.

And thus it came to pass that on the 10th of October, 1868, the Cubans, recognizing the truth of the poetic axiom, that

Who would be free, themselves must strike the blow,

and that Spain's difficulty should be Cuba's opportunity, issued a Declaration of Independence. The document, dated from Manzanillo, thus stated the case: "In arming ourselves against the tyrannical government of Spain, we must, according to precedent in all civilized countries, proclaim before the world the cause that impels us to take this step, which, though likely to entail considerable disturbance now, will ensure future happiness. It is well known that Spain governs this island with an iron and blood-stained hand, holding its inhabitants deprived of political, civil and religious liberty. Hence the unfortunate Cubans, illegally prosecuted, sent into exile and executed in time of peace by military commissions. Hence their being prohibited from attending public meetings, and forbidden to speak or write on affairs of state. Hence their remonstrances against the evils that afflict them being regarded as the proceedings of rebels, from the fact that they are expected to keep silent and obey. Hence the never-ending plague of hungry officials from Spain to devour the product of their industry and labor. Hence the restrictions to which public instruction with them is subjected, in order to keep them so ignorant as to render them unable to know and enforce their rights in any shape or form. Hence the navy and standing army kept in and about their country at an enormous expense (paid out of taxes levied on Cuba), to make them submit to the terrible yoke imposed....

"As we are in danger of losing our property, our lives and our honor under further Spanish domination; as we have reached a depth of degradation revolting to manhood; as great nations have sprung from revolt against a similar disgrace after exhausted pleadings for relief; as we despair of justice from Spain through reasoning, and cannot longer live deprived of the rights which other people enjoy,—we are constrained to appeal to arms, to assert our rights in the battle-field, cherishing the hope that our grievances will be a sufficient excuse for this last resort to redress them and secure our future welfare."

Ten days later the Cuban insurgent general Cespedes asked our own government to recognize the belligerent rights of his party, in a letter which detailed the rapid success of the movement. On the 27th of December, 1868, Cespedes issued a proclamation of emancipation. In January, 1869, it would appear that Spain, herself in a very critical condition under a provisional government, thought that a sop must be thrown to Cuba, and accordingly the captain-general of Cuba issued one of those highflown addresses which come with such readiness from Spanish bureaus. Said this gallant and noble-minded governor: "I will brave every danger, accept every responsibility, for your welfare. The revolution has swept away the Bourbon dynasty, tearing up by the roots a plant so poisonous that it putrefied the air we breathe. To the citizen shall be returned his rights, to man his dignity." [An admission, by the way, that they had been bereft of both.] "You will receive all the reforms which you require. Cubans and Spaniards are all brothers. From this day Cuba will be considered as a province of Spain. Freedom of the press, the right of meeting in public, and representation in the national Cortes—the three fundamental principles of true liberty—are granted you. Speaking in the name of our mother, Spain, I adjure you to forget the past, hope for the future and establish union and fraternity."

These very fine words, however, seem to have utterly failed in buttering the Cuban parsnips. They were, in truth, calculated to carry about as much conviction to the mind of Cubans as Joseph Surface's sentiments after the discovery of Lady Teazle behind the screen do to her ladyship's husband.

The insurrection saw no abatement. A reinforcement of fifteen hundred men came from Spain, and within six weeks of all these blessings being promised by the captain-general, freedom of the press was abolished and trial by military commission established. On the 3d of March came a second reinforcement of a thousand men from Spain.

Meanwhile, Cespedes, the Cuban general, found his only available policy to be a sort of guerilla warfare until he could rally a sufficient force and collect arms for an encounter with the Spanish army; and on March 1, 1869, he again addressed our President, asking for the recognition of belligerent rights.

Up to this date no civil organization had existed among the insurgents, but in April, 1869, representatives from the several anti-Spanish districts met at Guaymazo, in the province of Puerto Principe, when Cespedes formally resigned his power into the hands of the House of Representatives, who thereupon proclaimed him president of the Cuban republic, and General Quesada commander of the forces.

During the summer of 1869 the war was carried on with indifferent success by the Spaniards, and in June General Dulce, captain-general, went home,[K] being, in fact, virtually deposed by the "volunteers," who were supposed to support the Spanish interest. These latter are, for the most part, a set of worthless men, the scum of Spain and other countries, who, with everything to gain and nothing to lose, consented to enlist in the service of the Spanish slave-dealing clique in Havana, and were furious at what they deemed too great clemency on the part of the captain-general.

Dulce was succeeded by De Rodas, who announced "a vigorous policy." During the autumn of 1869 no decisive step was taken on either side, but the insurgents, careful to prevent the enemy profiting by the confiscated property of the Cubans who had been compelled to abandon their plantations, set fire to the cane, and hundreds of valuable crops were thus destroyed. The year 1870 saw no abatement of the struggle.

Meanwhile, Peru and Chili formally and cordially recognized the independence of the insurgents, toward whom still warmer symptoms of sympathy from this quarter have been lately evinced, and widespread sympathy has also been expressed toward them in the United States; but the President in his message of December, 1869, intimated that he did not consider the position of the insurgents such as to warrant him in recognizing their belligerent rights.

And thus matters have continued till to-day. For more than four years Cuba has been the scene of bloodshed, misery and ruin. Notwithstanding the strong feeling for Cuba in this country, it would appear that even now our cabinet deems it undesirable to recognize belligerent rights on the part of the Cubans, but at the same time Mr. Fish's letter to Mr. Sickles of the 29th of October last is couched in terms which clearly indicate a limit to this forbearance, when he says: "Sustained, as is the present ministry, by the large popular vote which has recently returned to the Cortes an overwhelming majority in its support, there can be no more room to doubt their ability to carry into operation the reforms of which they have given promise than there can be justification to question the sincerity with which the assurance was given. It seems, therefore, to be a fitting occasion to look back upon the relations between the United States and Spain, and to mark the progress which may have been made in accomplishing those objects in which we have been promised her co-operation. It must be acknowledged with regret that little or no advance has been made. The tardiness in this respect, however, cannot be said to be in any way imputable to a want of diligence, zeal or ability in the legation of the United States at Madrid. The department is persuaded that no person, however gifted with those qualities and faculties, could have better succeeded against the apparent apathy or indifference of the Spanish authorities, if, indeed, their past omission to do what we have expected should not be ascribable to other causes.

"The Spanish government, partly at our instance, passed a law providing for the gradual emancipation of slaves in the West India colonies. This law, so far as this department is aware, remains unexecuted, and it is feared that the recently-issued regulations, professedly for its execution, are wholly inadequate to any practical result in favor of emancipation, if they be not really in the interest of the slaveholder and of the continuance of the institution of slavery."

And after various stringent comments he concludes: "It is hoped that you will present the views above set forth, and the present grievances of which this government so justly complains, to the government to which you are accredited, in a way which, without giving offence, will leave a conviction that we are in earnest in the expression of those views, and that we expect redress; and that if it should not soon be afforded Spain must not be surprised to find, as the inevitable result of the delay, a marked change in the feeling and in the temper of the people and of the government of the United States. Believing that the present ministry of Spain is in a sufficiently confirmed position of power to carry out the measures which it announces and the reforms which have been promised, and to do justice by the removal of the causes of our well-founded complaints, and not doubting the sincerity of the assurances which have been given, the United States look confidently for the realization of those hopes, which have been encouraged by repeated promises, that all causes for estrangement or for the interruption of those friendly feelings which are traditional, as they are sincere, on the part of this government toward Spain, will be speedily and for ever removed."

The cry is now loudly raised for recognition of belligerent rights, with a view to independence and annexation by the United States. But, as we have said, the government of this country does not—wisely for American interests, in our opinion—appear inclined to hurry toward such a course, and we should like to see the experiment first tried of active mediation on its part between Spain and Cuba. A meeting of leading representatives of both parties of the island under a distinguished jurist at Washington might not impossibly assist the solution of the difficulty.

Although many Cubans, despairing of reconciliation, are disposed at this moment to declare that the time has quite gone by for a compromise, it is doubtful whether this be really the case. Cuba and Spain have been united for centuries, and notwithstanding fierce animosities have yet many common ties. There are, too, not a few prudent men who, whilst strongly in favor of abolition, dread the sudden adoption of such a course, which would be the inevitable result of an entire break with Spain. They see in it nothing but ruin to the majority of whites, without corresponding advantage to the blacks. "Let abolition come," they say, "by all means, but not all at once. Look at Jamaica, look at your own South! Would it not have really been better for all parties if the abolition had been more gradual, or at least attended by such conditions as would have ensured less immediate depreciation of property?"

We believe that our government could not more effectually serve the interests of the Cubans than by a vigorous intercession[L] to secure them an independent government on the Anglo-colonial system, accompanied by the passage of an act of the Cortes freeing every slave within five years; and meantime enforcing rigorously protective measures for the enslaved, including payment of wages.

There seems no reason why a legislative system on the plan of the Australian colonies of Great Britain should not be attempted. Its failure in Jamaica is not sufficient ground against it. In Jamaica there were a few grains of whites to bushels of blacks: in Cuba there are some seven hundred thousand colored—of whom only four hundred thousand are slaves—to about one million four hundred thousand whites.

We can scarcely doubt that the Spanish government will feel constrained to hearken to the remonstrances of that of the United States. Spain is to-day in all but extent of territory a fourth-rate rather than a second-rate power. Her government is the least stable in Europe, except possibly that of France. Her exchequer is exhausted. Her credit is utterly gone. Assume a war: where is she to get money? There is not a people in Europe, save the Dutch and the English, who at this moment have anything to lend, and neither Dutch nor English are likely at present to send more money to Madrid. Spain has too amply proved herself the defaulter par excellence of the world.

Now, therefore, is the time for American mediation; and we sincerely hope that Mr. Fish will not let it pass, but will follow up vigorously his admirable despatch, and thus secure to Cubans the blessings of a free country.

For years Spain has been promising, and not performing. Performance seems with her the result only of compulsion; and if this really be so, she must be compelled. So far as Cuban affairs are concerned, she has had ample indulgence at the hands of ourselves and Great Britain. Every reasonable chance has been given her to mend her ways. She has failed to avail herself of her opportunities, and cannot complain if she suffer accordingly. It is not in the nature of things that this country should look calmly for all time on the just struggles of an enthralled and trodden-down people dwelling within a few hours of our own mainland.

FOOTNOTES:

[J] In September, 1872, Senator Benot made a remarkable speech in the Cortes in reference to the treatment of Cuba. "It is," he said, "the Spanish peninsula alone that is ignorant of events in Cuba. But it is not ignorance only of which I complain. From those remote possessions comes the blood of the negro converted into gold to pervert the public mind."

Referring to the horrid massacre of students in 1871, Senator Benot said: "Spain does not rule Cuba: if she did, innocent children would not be executed at the instance of the Spanish clique in Havana. Senators, you are parents. Suppose that your boys in the professors' absence were to run out to play in the adjoining cemetery. Suppose that for this lack of reverence a ferocious mob seized your sons, subjected them to a court-martial, charged them falsely with the demolition of sepulchres—sepulchres whose crystals are untouched even now. Imagine them brought before a court-martial and absolved, and then imagine these children dragged by the mob, disappointed of their prey, before another military council, who under terror condemned eight to death and the remainder to the galleys. There were forty-four children, and the kind council drew lots to decide which of them should be shot. Two brothers were drawn, but even the stony hearts of the so-called judges thought that it would be going rather too far to rob one father of his two sons; so one was discharged, and another substituted because older than the rest. This incredible, unprecedented crime yet goes unpunished."

[K] He died in the following November at Madrid.

[L] "I have, since the beginning of the present session of Congress, communicated to the House of Representatives, upon their request, an account of the steps which I had taken in the hope of securing to the people of Cuba the blessings and the right of independent self-government. These efforts failed, but not without an assurance from Spain that the good offices of this government might still avail for the objects to which they had been addressed. It is stated, on what I believe to be good authority, that Cuban bonds have been prepared to a large amount, whose payment is made dependent upon the recognition by the United States of either Cuban belligerency or independence. The object of making their value thus contingent upon the action of this government is a subject for serious reflection." (President Grant's message, June, 1870.) Suggestive statements, indicating how powerful the interference of our government may be! It would more than aught else give the Spanish cabinet strength in inducing the Cortes to endorse it in high-handed measures against the moneyed slave-holding, slave-dealing clique in Havana, which is the root of all evil there.



PROBATIONER LEONHARD;

OR, THREE NIGHTS IN THE HAPPY VALLEY.

CHAPTER X.

THE ADVANTAGE OF A DEBTOR.

The house to which Spener's steps now turned was the sixth one below Loretz's, on the same narrow street facing the stream—the long white house with a deep porch in which young men might often be seen smoking. Spener had given it the name of "Brethren's House," rather in remembrance of the custom still existing in Moravian villages than because it was strictly the abode of unmarried men who sought there a home. It was the fact that many unmarried men did dwell there, but also it was true that the house was the one inn of the place, and at this time it was well filled, as Loretz had said to Leonhard when he opened for him his hospitable gate.

At the head of the long dining-table Albert Spener took his place, and room was made beside him for his guest; and truly it was a company of cheerful-hearted workers, on whom no director might look without a thrill of satisfaction.

"Stay a month with us as a probationer," said Spener suddenly, bringing his eyes to bear upon Leonhard, and there was kindly and powerful persuasion in them. "We can make you comfortable at least, and perhaps you may be brought to like us. I want to have a school-house built here: it is getting to be a necessity. You shall give us something ornamental in spite of ourselves, if you insist upon it. And it may be no difficult thing to compel me to put up houses on both those sites. But you are settled already, I suppose?"

"No," answered Leonhard: "I am much more unsettled than any man of my years ought to be. I am so unfortunate as to have two professions."

"Get into debt, and that will straighten you for a while," said Spener, laughing heartily. "When I had fairly left my employer and set this enterprise afoot, I gave up my sleeping habits. You will be obliged to part with something in order to convince yourself that you are in earnest. If you give up sleep, you will soon come to decisions."

"I owe enough," said Leonhard.

"I should not have guessed it. You sleep yet, though."

"Because I can't help it. Yes, I sleep."

"Then you will have to part with something of your free will—one of the professions, I suppose: you can't follow two very well. It is astonishing," Spener continued, not averse to talking about himself just now, when he was so much occupied with thoughts which concerned himself chiefly—"it is astonishing how different things look from the two sides of an action. Do your best, you cannot tell before you have taken a step how you will feel after it." On that remark he paused for a moment. Then he went on. It was a relief to talk with this young stranger: he had this advantage in the talk—it relieved him, and what he said, much or little, did not affect in the least the more that was left unsaid. There was nobody in Spenersberg to whom he could say as much as he was saying to Marten. Any Spenersberger would immediately proceed with the clew to the end. "My employer," he continued, "was a very cautious man, and I believe he thought me crazy when I told him what I was going to do, and asked him to lend me the money. Not a dollar would he lend, and I thank him for it. Go to the bank if you can find an endorser: it is best to feel that an institution is at your heels, and will be down on you if you are not up to time. An avalanche is a thing anybody in his senses will keep clear of."

"True," said Leonhard; and Spener went on eating his dinner, without suspecting that his talk had entirely appeased his companion's hunger.

The young men spent a part of the afternoon walking about the garden alluded to where the willows were under cultivation. A scene of thrift and industry of which the eye could not soon tire was presented by these products of careful labor in every stage of growth.

At length Spener came to Leonhard and told him that he should be obliged to leave him till the next day. "I find that I must go to town this afternoon," he said, "but you are to stay until after the festival. That is decided. I must talk with you again, and arrange about those buildings."

It was easy now for Leonhard to decide that he would stay till after the festival—there was reason good why he should—and he promised to do so. Spener was so desirous that he should stay that after he had left the field he came back to urge it. But when he had looked again at Leonhard, he did not urge it in the way he had intended to do: "You must think whether it will be worth your while to stay or not. What is the profession you spoke about that keeps you unsettled, did you say?"

"Music."

"Ah!"

"But I am a builder of course—an architect and a builder," said poor Leonhard hurriedly.

"I like you," said Spener, drawing Leonhard's arm within his. "If you could make up your mind to stay, we might make it your interest to do so. As a probationer, you understand. There is a good deal to be done here, and I may throw open the farm up there to purchasers. The only difficulty is, that our people here might object. But it is quite clear to me—quite clear—that a little daylight wouldn't do any of us harm if it could be had, you know, by merely cutting away the dead underbrush and worthless timber."

He shook hands again with Leonhard, who said, "I will think about what you have said: I like the sound of it."

"There will be no end of work here for a skillful man of your business if the land is sold in lots. I have had a great many applications. I don't know of any such building-sites anywhere. My house will have to be over there on the slope, I think—a sort of guard to the valley and an assurance to Spenersbergers."

He now went away, looking back and nodding at Leonhard, confident that they understood each other.

"There's a man to envy!" thought our explorer; and he felt as if a strong staff had been wrenched out of his hand.

But the thoughts with which Albert Spener strode toward the station, a mile away, were not enviable thoughts. For a little while he went on thinking about Leonhard with great satisfaction, and he made many plans based on ground-lines traced for his new acquaintance; but as he went his way he passed first Mr. Wenck's small abode, and farther on the house where Elise lived, and his indignation was not lessened when he thought how trivial was the part he had allowed himself to act in the play which might end as a tragedy if Elise should prove obstinate.

CHAPTER XI.

LORETZ ON THE TROMBONE.

Later in the afternoon, toward sunset, Leonhard left the gardens and walked slowly down the street, taking cognizance of all things in his way. He noticed that Taste had taken Haste in hand in many a place, and that already attempts were evident to repair and amend or construct anew. What might not be done toward making a paradise of such a place under the encouragement of a man like Albert Spener? But a probationer! That meant, Say that you will present yourself to Moravian brethren as a candidate for admission to their fellowship. He smiled at the thought, but when he considered the opportunities of work Spener would put in his way, he began to look grave. Of course he must give up his music: it was no profession for him, and he saw that it was folly and weakness to attempt the service of two masters; and yet he will go back and talk with Mrs. Anna about Herrnhut and old Leonhard Marten. Just here comes the sound of a trombone cleaving the air.

It startles him, and it startles others also. "Who is gone?" he hears one man ask another from his place in the garden; and he understands that the trombone has made an announcement to the people of Spenersberg. How the notes wind along, a noble stream of solemn sound!

"Who is gone home?" he hears another ask, but again there is no answer.

He sees a group of children stopping in the midst of their play and looking at each other with scared faces—one little one suddenly hiding its face in its mother's apron, as if in the shrinking shyness and awe of apprehension.

As he approaches his destination a ghostlike face and figure startles Leonhard: he looks back and sees it is "our little minister, Wenck," whom Spener had pointed out to him in their morning walk. He is hurrying down the street, and it is not likely that any one will stop a man proceeding at such a rate, with questions.

Loretz stands on his piazza with his trombone in his hand: it is he who blows that blast which echoes through Spenersberg, announcing a death.

Doubting what the signal means, Leonhard, with a little hesitation, approaches his host and looks for the information he does not ask. Is it a calamity that has overtaken the house? One could hardly gather from a glance at Mr. Loretz. Evidently the stout little man has been moved by some powerful surprise: his eyes are full of agitation; his dress betokens it; he has been driven to and fro, distracted, within the hour. When he sees Leonhard his excitement exhibits itself in a new form: he lifts the trombone to his lips, and taking another key he sounds again; it is a note of solemn triumph, so prolonged that it would seem as if the desire was that all space should be filled with the echoes thereof.

Leonhard sits down on one of the large wooden chairs in the piazza to enjoy the music: then Loretz comes to him and says, "You have heard it?"

"I have heard it?" repeated Leonhard, interrogatively.

"Sister Benigna—"

"What is it, sir?" exclaimed Leonhard, starting to his feet.

"She has gone home."

"Good God!" exclaimed Leonhard. "Do you mean to say that she is dead?"

"We call it going home," answered Loretz.

"But gone home! When, why, how did she go?"

"It shocks you," said Loretz, finding perhaps not a little satisfaction in seeing this stranger so moved. He had himself been so horrified by Benigna's silent, unlooked-for departure, and to be shocked and horrified by death was so undesirable and so fought against among good Moravians, that Leonhard's emotion, and much more than emotion, seemed a real solace for the moment. "We don't know how it was," he continued. "My daughter was to go to practice the music with her in the hall after school, and when she went into the school-room she found Sister Benigna sitting at her desk with The Messiah open. But she was gone. We had in Doctor Hummel, and he says it was the heart. He has thought, he says, for a year or so, that there must be some feeble action of the valves. She went to him a twelvemonth since about it, and he told her his opinion; but he told her she might live fifty years yet, though she might go any day. She never mentioned it to us. But Hummel says when he told her she said it was good news. Yet, sir, you never saw a happier creature. You saw her last night and this morning. Well, sir, that's a fair sample—busy all the time, and happy as happy."

"But are you sure that nothing could be done for her?" exclaimed Leonhard, to whom the quiet and calm into which Loretz had talked himself was anything but composing.

"Perfectly sure. If you should look at her once you would see. But I must go back to my women. Will you make yourself at home within? We shall all be back in an hour or so."

Leonhard said he would go to the Brethren's House and spend the night there, but Loretz said hastily, "I was afraid you would be thinking of that, sir. Stay with us: we want your company. We shall not bring Sister Benigna here. If she had—had died here, we should have carried her to the corpse-house this evening. It is but a short distance from the factory, and she will lie there to-night. And—I have been thinking—to-morrow evening we must celebrate our congregation festival with her funeral."

"Then if I had not come just when I did," thought Leonhard, "I should never have seen Sister Benigna. If the truth could be known, I don't believe the woman has known any greater pleasure in a long time than I gave her when I made those suggestions last evening. Only twenty-four hours, and it might be a year! She ought to have lived until after the festival. How she would have enjoyed it! I should like to look at Spener when he hears that the woman is actually out of the world. It would be a bad job for him if it had happened to be the other one. Jupiter! wouldn't I like to know whether it is better to be lamented by the community, so far as the community's principles will allow it to lament, or to spread devastation all around in the way this little Miss Elise couldn't help doing if she should be 'called home,' as they say! Musician answers one way, architect the other. Have you the nerve to go in and touch that piano, Probationer Marten?"

Rex tremendae Majestatis, Qui salvandos salvas gratis, Salva me, Fons Pietatis!

What voice was this which made the house resound, and thrilled the hearts of the listeners at the gate as they stood there for a moment in the moonlight?

"I left Mr. Marten within," said Loretz to his wife and daughter.

"He is singing the Requiem," said Elise. They waited a moment longer, but just then Leonhard stepped over the window-sill, and began pacing the piazza with his arms folded on his breast, his head bent. The words he sang in fact had electrified him, and the rush of thoughts had driven him from the piano.

Salva me, Fons Pietatis!

CHAPTER XII.

PREPARATIONS FOR THE FESTIVAL.

Later in the evening, Mr. Wenck came to the house, not to talk about the event, but the funeral. In spite of the hint Loretz had dropped when talking with Leonhard, he seemed somewhat surprised when the minister proposed that the funeral should take place on the following evening. The good man made this proposal in the fewest words possible: it had evidently cost him a good deal to make it. He perhaps felt himself under constraint in the midst of this very select audience.

Loretz said, "I don't know that we can decide till Mr. Spener gets back. He went to town this afternoon."

"When will he come?" asked the minister.

"Some time to-morrow—toward night: he usually comes up at six or seven, unless he is detained."

"We might fix the funeral at six: the concert was to begin at seven. I think we may take it for granted that the hours would meet his approval. He would say, if he were here, that we had better decide on the hour ourselves."

"Yes, yes, he would say so, of course," said Loretz quickly, "and he would mean what he said, sir," he added, argumentatively. "Of course: let us then say at six o'clock the procession will move from—from the corpse-house to the church. She has been taken away just as she was in the midst of preparation for the festival; let us therefore observe it even as it would have been observed."

The voice which spoke these words was altogether under the speaker's control, but the pathos in it so moved the heart of dear little Dame Loretz that she exclaimed, "Let it be so, father: certainly, it must be. It would please Sister Benigna beyond anything to have all the little children there just as she had arranged. And who has done for the church more than she has? I am sure it is what—what everybody must see is the right thing. Mr. Wenck, I am very glad you came to talk about it: we were all beside ourselves—we didn't know what to think or what to do."

"Shall it be so, Elise?" asked Loretz, turning to his daughter quietly after his wife had concluded her animated speech.

"I know it would be what she would wish," said Elise.

"Then it shall be. I have a mind to go to town for Mr. Spener. But he will come: he is always on time. He knows when he means to be here, if we don't, and we can't change that."

So it was decided, and Mr. Wenck went away, having declined the entreaty of Mrs. Loretz to fill a seat at their supper-table.

Slowly walking back to his lonely house, which had never seemed so lonely, so desolate to him, Mr. Wenck saw little Charles Hummel, who was going in the same direction and homeward. He had been looking for Charley, for he had heard one of the children say that he was in the school-room with the teacher last, and so he took the boy's hand, and they walked along together.

"Are you all prepared with your pieces, Charley?" the minister asked.

"Oh yes, sir, but now we shall not sing them."

"And why will you not sing them, my boy?"

"Because there will not be any celebration—will there, sir?"

"Certainly: why should there not?"

"What, sir! to-morrow night, just the same?"

"Do you think that Sister Benigna would approve of our having no congregation festival?"

"Why, sir, you know—don't you know? I saw them carrying her from the school-room. She—she—"

"Yes, I know all," said the minister: "she is gone home. But then she will know about our celebration: oh yes, just the same: it must be that she will hear all the sweet voices. It seems far away to us where she is: perhaps it has seemed so, but she brings heaven nearer: it is surely but a step to the Better Land."

It had appeared almost impossible for Mr. Wenck to speak in Loretz's house, but now words came so freely to his lips that he seemed even to find comfort in speech.

The boy had now reached his father's house, and would have gone in, but the minister with gentle force retained the small hand he held, and said, "Let us walk on a little farther, Charley. How beautiful the moon is to-night! Were you in the school-room to-day, my boy?"

"I was there this afternoon, sir," said the little lad, awed by the sound of his own voice's gentleness—so gently the minister spoke he could himself speak in no other way. But he would not have liked the boys to hear him, and he looked around as if to see if any one followed, and was a little startled when he saw his shadow and the shadow of Mr. Wenck following so close.

"When I come to speak to the congregation about her I shall want to tell them all about to-day," said Mr. Wenck, "if there is anything it would be pleasant for them to know. Do you remember anything she—she said or did, Charley?"

The boy thought a moment. "It was just the same as always," said he.

"Did you practice your songs this afternoon?"

"Yes, sir, we practiced them."

"For the last time, and you did not know it!" Would that little lad remember, when he came to manhood, this hour and these words? Would he from that noonday sun receive a light that could enlighten the mystery of this pallid, shadowy hour which filled his little being with such awe?

"But she said we sang beautifully," he said, moved by the spirit of obedience to stay and answer, and not shake off the hand that held him and run home affrighted, and dream of spirits and Mr. Wenck's pale face and his strange voice.

"Oh, then you pleased her?"

"She said it was the best singing, sir, she had ever heard, and that she was glad we had worked so hard and had been so attentive and patient. That was what she said, I remember now," said the little lad with spirit: "I thought there was something I forgot. She said when we sang our part in the festival all the people would know how hard we had tried to learn."

"And when she dismissed you, was there anything more?"

"She—she kissed us: she always did," said the little fellow, bursting into sudden crying.

"Oh, Charley," said the minister—and he bent down and kissed the little boy, whose face was wet with tears—"we must not cry for her—not any of us. And God himself has wiped away her tears."

"And then when I was going out," said Charley, rallying again, "she asked me to bring her a pitcher of water from the spring before I went home. When I took it in she was reading her music, and she had some flowers in a glass. And I filled it with fresh water for her," he said proudly. And that was all he had to tell.

"You are a good boy to remember so much," said Mr. Wenck; and now he walked back with Charley to the doctor's gate, and kissing him again bade him "Good-night."

Long after every light was extinguished in Spenersberg homes, Mr. Wenck was walking up and down in front of his own house beneath the trees, pacing the grass, a noiseless sentinel. He had no duties now to perform: undisturbed his thoughts might wander whither they would. They could not wander far—too near was the magnet. The day had begun in a manner which he could not but think remarkable: the shadow of approaching calamity had disturbed him until the horror appeared. For, accustomed as he had been to teach and preach and to think of death as a friend, the conductor to a happier world, the enlightener and the life-giver, he could not regard the departure of Sister Benigna in such light. The loss to the community was almost irreparable, he began by saying to himself, but he ended by saying, "Hypocrite! do you mourn the community's loss, or your own?"

The tower-clock struck twelve as in his walk he approached the gate to his little garden: he hesitated, and then noiselessly opened it. Here were various fragrant flowers in blossom, and roses innumerable on the well-cared-for bushes, but he passed these, and gathered from the house wall a few ivy leaves, and climbing the fence in the rear of his house began to ascend the slope that led to the cemetery, that place of the people's constant resort. He did not enter it, but stood a long while on the peaceful plain, which was filled with moonlight. At last he slowly turned away and walked across the wooded knolls and fields until he came to the corpse-house, which only yesterday he had garnished with fresh boughs. He knew whither he went, and yet when he had come to the door of that resting-place the external calm disappeared—the props of consolation, the support of faith, gave way. He opened the door, entered, closed it behind him, and by the light of the lamp suspended from the whitewashed rafters saw Sister Benigna lying on the bier, dressed in white garments, with a rose in one white hand.

When he came forth again a cold fog was filling the valley, and morning approached. Who will wish to dwell even in imagination on the hours he had passed in that silent house, or care to guess the battle which perchance had been fought there, or the wild flow of tears which had for years been pent, or the groans which could not be uttered, which at last had utterance; or how at last the man died there, and the victor, as one who had been slain, came forth?

CHAPTER XIII.

THE MOTHER CONFESSOR.

So the day passed in preparation for Sister Benigna's funeral, as well as for the congregation festival.

Mr. Spener had given out yesterday that the workers in the factory should have a half holiday, and, in conformity to his orders, at twelve o'clock Loretz dismissed the weavers for the day. The various performers met in the hall and rehearsed their several parts, and the programme, it was decided, should be carried out precisely as Sister Benigna had designed.

Leonhard looked on and listened, wondering. Mrs. Loretz, who had only to sing in the choruses, had a little time on her hands during the day, and was glad that the young man was there to be talked to. True, he was busily at work over his drawing, which he wished to have ready to show Mr. Spener in the morning, but he was glad to listen, and the talk was in itself not uninteresting. Dame Anna had a great deal to say about Sister Benigna—not much to tell, really: the facts of her life as they were known to Mrs. Loretz were few. Benigna had come six years ago to Spenersberg, and had been an active member of the church there since that day. What everybody said was true: she had been the Genius of Music there, and in the true Moravian spirit had rallied every musical thought and all musical skill to the standard of religion. At first there had been a good deal of talk about founding a Sisters' House, but that had been given up: it was thought that the ends to be accomplished by it could be obtained at less cost and with less labor. She had lived in their house since the day she came: she was like a daughter to them, and a sister and more to Elise.

Then by and by the communicativeness of the good woman, as well as her confidence in Leonhard, increasing with her speech, she began to talk about Mr. Spener, and to hint his "intentions;" and she ended by telling this stranger what was not known outside her own family except to the minister. And when she had explained all it became clear to her that she must justify the method of proceeding in matrimonial affairs which had given to herself a good husband, and had been the means of establishing many happy households which she could name.

The only trouble that could possibly arise from the turn affairs had taken was a trouble that did look rather threatening, Leonhard thought. Spener had consented to abide by the decision of the lot, but now—would he?

After she had told all this, Mrs. Loretz asked Leonhard what he thought about it. He said he thought it was a hard case: he could feel for Mr. Spener. He was afraid that under the circumstances he should not behave well.

The good woman nodded her head as if she quite understood the force of his remarks, but, though it seemed hard, wasn't it better to be disappointed before marriage than after? Undoubtedly, he answered, yet he should prefer to feel that in an affair like that he could make his own choice, with consent of the lady.

Mrs. Loretz thought to herself he spoke as if he had already chosen for himself, and knew what he was talking about; and the cheerful fancies which she had entertained last night with regard to the beneficent care of Providence in sending Leonhard to Spenersberg disappeared like a wreath of mist. She must now mourn the loss of Sister Benigna more heavily than before, since she found herself without support on the highway of sorrow.

Had an unhappy marriage never come within her knowledge, Leonhard asked, which the lot had seemed to sanction?

She had been thinking of that, Mistress Anna acknowledged. There had, certainly—she could not deny it. But it was where the parties had not seriously tried to make the best of everything.

Was it necessary, then, he asked—even when the lot decided favorably—that people should put up with each other, and find it not easy to keep back sharp words which would edge their way out into hearing in spite of all efforts to keep them back? Must people providentially yoked together find themselves called upon, just like others, to make sacrifices of temper and taste and opinion all through life?

Wasn't that going on everywhere? she asked. Did he know of any people anywhere who agreed so well about everything that there was never a chance of dispute? And where was there such an abundance of everything that there was no occasion for self-sacrifice?

Leonhard laughed at these questions, and Mistress Anna looked wise, but she did not laugh. Leonhard might not be the providential substitute for a lover providentially removed, but at least he was a pleasant companion for a troubled hour. He had thought so much on this subject, possibly he had some experimental knowledge. Had he a wife?—Not yet, he said. But he would have.—Oh, of course: what would a man do in this world without a wife? Perhaps it would not trouble him to think of the one he would like to marry if he might.—No, not in the least.—And he would be satisfied to decide for himself, and not ask any counsel?—Was he not the one who must live with the lady? and was it likely that anybody would know as well as himself what he wanted?—Only, she suggested, how could he feel certain that he would have what he wanted, after all?—What! hadn't a man eyes?—That can be trusted, my dear?—If he can't trust his own, will he trust another man's?—But can he feel sure that what he wants would be best for him?—Is the best he can imagine any too good for a man, if he can get it?

But she has been thinking, How happened it that father should have found his very name in the birthday book? She has been thinking of it nearly all the morning. When she first set eyes on him—did he know?—she felt sure that he belonged to them.

Leonhard did not know about the name. He felt very grateful to her for her kindness. He hoped the book had shown him the writing of his ancestor, but he did not know. His parents died when he was a little boy, and if he had any relatives alive, they were unknown to him. He should be glad to believe that the Herrnhuter was his grandfather or great-grandfather. But they must not ask him to run the risk of losing his chance if there should be a young lady whom he might wish to marry: he could not trust any voice in such a matter except hers.

"Loretz and I have had our share of trials," she answered solemnly. "It has helped us to bear them, I am sure, dear youth, to think that God had brought us together and united us, for the lot decided how it should be. There have been times when I knew not how I could have endured what was put upon me but for remembering—remembering that in the counsels of a better world our marriage was decreed. See, Sister Benigna brought the ink home with her this noon! Now write your name in Frederick's book, and think whether it would not be best to stay with us."

Leonhard appeared to be intent on his drawings: he bent over his work, but in truth his eyes could not see quite distinctly the lines which he drew. "I will not forget the book," he said: "as to staying in Spenersberg, I am only a probationer wherever I am."

"And who knows how happy you might be among us!" said Dame Anna, who was quite clear now on a point somewhat cloudy before. The stranger had brought with him some secret sorrow and trouble, poor dear!

CHAPTER XIV.

THE CONGREGATION FESTIVAL.

As the day passed on, all thoughts were evidently directed toward the solemn scenes with which it was to close. It was pleasant to our friend to walk along the street toward the end of the afternoon, and look at the pretty cottages, each with its garden of flowers in front and its vine-encased windows and doors. Now and then he saw at door or window or in little garden young girls with flowers in their hands: were they weaving them into emblematic devices for the coffin and the grave? This little hamlet seemed to be the sanctuary of beautiful thoughts and things. Music was loved and served here, and he had never seen so many flowers as were crowded into these gardens.

Instead of entering the church at the hour appointed for the funeral, as Mrs. Loretz had advised him to do, Leonhard merely ascended the steps and looked within on the neat edifice, all the architectural points of which could be surveyed at a glance, for there was neither pulpit nor altar within, nor pointed window nor arched roof to gaze at, but merely a large square room well furnished with benches, and a table and the minister's chair; and then descending the steps, he retired to a group of trees in the distance, beneath which he sat down to await the procession. He had not to wait long. Soon the sound of trombones came floating upon, encompassing, filling the air. A slight breeze was stirring; the sun was going down; the willow-covered plain was aglow with its golden light; among the hills the evening shadows were already gathering. Night was only awaiting its swift-coming opportunity.

A small company gathered around the corpse-house, the body was brought forth upon the bier, and the procession, which had silently and quickly gathered at the signal of the trombones, started on foot for the church.

When all had entered the edifice, Leonhard went in and sat down near the door. It was but his third night in Spenersberg, yet he was not among strangers, and how his heart was moved by all he saw and heard! An influence prevailed in this place which was fast mastering him.

As he sat down and looked upon the faces of the elders, the faces of the men and the women—of the people who had toiled, and whose toil had been blessed to them—who had suffered, and whose suffering had been sanctified to them—his heart was like wax. In the drive and hurry of life he had never seen such faces. When he watched the troop of children, dressed in white and walking hand in hand, he thought of his own lonely childhood, and sighed to think that he had come here too late. And the minister, whom Spener had spoken about with patronizing contempt—looking at him, Leonhard said to himself, "Here is a man who could counsel me. He has fought his fight, and for him there is a crown of victory and rejoicing."

The impression he had received when he glanced toward the minister's place was deepened as the services went forward, and he saw Mr. Wenck stand looking down upon the coffin, and from it toward the people.

The music for the congregation festival was sung. It was all as Benigna had arranged it: there was no omission of parts except her own and Elise's. Such voices, such trained voices, and such instrumental performances, Leonhard said to himself, and could say truly, he had never heard. He was dumb with wonder, and because he loved music he wept as though he had loved Benigna. It seemed indeed that the mourners—and the church was filled with mourners in spite of all the words of resignation and immortal hope upon their tongues—were all intent on doing honor to the woman whose life among them would never be forgotten.

In accordance with the usual custom—nothing could he omit that would do honor to her memory—the minister gave a slight biographical sketch of Benigna. He spoke of her childhood, and told the children that there was not one of them who had not been born in a happier home and to better fortunes than she. She had served music well because she loved it well, and they were all witnesses whether she had received any reward for faithfulness in that service. She had served her Master well because to her His service was the highest freedom, and she found in it the greatest joy. They had but to think upon, to look upon, her beautiful face if they would know whether she could have chosen another service in which she would have found such joy. Did she not appear to them—not because she had departed: would she not if she were still among them?—the most complete in excellences and virtues of any character they had known? Was she not farther on in the perfect life than any one of them? And how happy her life in Spenersberg had been! "Surely, surely," he concluded, "this heroic example of constancy to duty, of struggle against weakness, will not be lost on us! Never, on any battle-field of faith, fought a braver soldier. God has given her the victory. In a moment, at the close of a day of labor, in her school-room, right there in that blessed, that sacred place—just there where she would have chosen, with the kisses of her children on her face—just there she heard the summons. Can we doubt, O friends! that when our day of labor is ended we shall see Sister Benigna again? Not if we resolve that with God's help we will prove ourselves worthy of the high honor of being called her friends on earth."

The silence which filled the house after the minister sat down was broken by the sounding of the trombones: then from beneath the trees Leonhard saw the beautiful procession again following the bier; and as he watched the flutter of garments between the dark-green cedar walls, it had been no difficult thing to see in that company not a company of mourners, but the ransomed sons and daughters of the New Jerusalem.

After the services at the grave the people assembled in the church again to partake of the love-feast. Leonhard still followed. No wonder if he walked as in a dream, and at times stood to ask himself where he was, and what all this might mean. A month ago, a week ago, he might have seen half his acquaintances hid away in darkness, and such feelings not have been stirred, such thoughts suggested, as were stirred and suggested here. So much human kindness he had never heard in human voices or seen in human faces. The fierce grasping at opportunity, the wild struggle for place, which his short experience had shown him was the world's way of living, made him wonder if it was possible that mortals could live so near heaven as these people lived. In that hour the sharp strain of life relaxed—his disappointments ceased to torment him—he almost forgot that he stood in the attitude of an absconding debtor. Around him flowed the isolating, soothing, life-renewing waters. He had passed rapids and cataract: could his humbled head receive the benediction of the hour? Could he drop his burdens here, and go forward on a new path and with a new ambition? What were all the honors of the world, its rewards, its pride, compared with the peace and satisfaction of this people? Home, work, friendship, holiness—could so much content him? All were to be had here. But why might he not find the same elsewhere—home, work, friendship, uprightness, honor, success—patience to do the work that offered and to wait for the ripening of the harvest which should rightfully be his? While the people sat at their love-feast, exchanging the grasp of friendship and the kiss of peace, these questions waited upon him. Then came thoughts that were like answers. He would write to Wilberforce: if Spener had spoken seriously he would undertake those buildings; and then he looked around, and his imagination transformed this room of the worshiping congregation into a temple all beautiful within; and somehow into tint and form the character of the Spenersbergers seemed so to enter that over the people as well as the house of worship he saw the wings of the Angel of the Covenant outspread.

CHAPTER XV.

LEONHARD'S THIRD NIGHT IN THE HAPPY VALLEY.

Loretz invited Mr. Wenck to go home with him after the services: there was something he wished to speak about, he said. Mr. Wenck needed no urging: he wanted to see Elise one moment alone. But he did not find that moment, for while Loretz was talking about the work which should be done without delay in the cemetery, and saying that there could be no better time to call attention to it than the present, when so many would be going to visit Sister Benigna's grave, Spener came in. He had heard already all that could be told him with regard to Benigna's death, but his surprise had brought him straight to Loretz, and what he said was creditable to him, although he had made certain statements to Leonhard yesterday concerning Sister Benigna which neither of them would be likely to forget. It was perhaps the recollection of them just now which made him look at Leonhard and say, "I have been speaking to Mr. Marten about a school-building, and he has promised to give me a design for one. Shall we not call it Sister Benigna's monument?"

"Sister Benigna's monument should be erected by the people," said the minister instantly. "She is in such regard among them all that it would be a most beautiful memorial."

"We will consider that," said Spener. He was not very well pleased by Wenck's remark, and perhaps there could be no better time than the present to express his thought in regard to such assistance as he would be likely to receive from Spenersberg in erecting a monument. "I dare say the parents would be pleased to contribute their mite, and the children also; but no doubt in the end it would be my lookout. And it would be my pleasure, certainly, to see that there was no debt on the building."

"Then, sir, pray do not call it her monument," said Mr. Wenck.

When Spener had spoken he felt a slight misgiving, as one who should look pitifully on the moth which he had crushed. The minister's words now amazed him, but he restrained his rising anger. Wenck must have something else to say: let him say it then.

"I judged the people by myself," Wenck said. "And that is saying a great deal more than I can express. It would be no pleasure, certainly, to see that her friends bore the least share in such expenses."

"But, dear Brother Wenck, we are all Sister Benigna's friends," said Spener with the expostulation of a master in his voice.

"Could we praise ourselves more highly, sir, than to say we are her friends? For myself, I feel that the glory of Spenersberg has passed away. I came here, Brother Loretz, to speak to you about her."

Loretz nodded: he was too much surprised by the minister's remarks to speak. They all seemed to feel that the only thing asked of them was a hearing.

"One week ago," Mr. Wenck continued, "I did not suppose that I could speak to you with such freedom as I feel I may use now. If I had said then what I now must, I might not have been able to convince anybody except of one thing. Perhaps I could not have felt certain about my own motives. But now I am above suspicion: I cannot suspect myself. She will not doubt my secret thought, and you will all bear me witness." The minister looked around him as he spoke, and Spener would never point him out to man again as yesterday he had called Leonhard's attention to the little minister. Leonhard sat uneasily on his chair, doubting whether to go or stay, but nobody thought of him, and he felt himself to be in the centre of a charmed circle, out of which he could not remove himself. Every one was looking at Mr. Wenck, who, pausing a second as if to assure himself again that all to whom he would speak were before him, went on, his voice becoming more calm and strong, and his whole bearing witnessing for him in his speech. "Before I heard of Spenersberg," he said—"before it had existence even in the brain of its honored founder—my acquaintance with Benigna began."

"Is it possible, Mr. Wenck?" exclaimed Dame Loretz, her voice breaking under the weight of her sympathy.

"Yes, and I was hoping that she and I were to spend our lives together. Dear Sister Loretz, you understand now why I could not take a wife."

"Why—why is that so, sir?" asked Loretz, doubting, and not very well pleased: "that's news, I'm sure."

"It is, I know. And the story would never be told by me but for—for your sake, my friends."

"Well, well, but—" said Loretz, afraid to hear what was coming; not that he guessed, but because Spener sat there with a face so—so inexplicable. Loretz could not make out its meaning when just now he glanced that way; and the face was full of meaning. What was passing in his mind?

"Let me tell the story, Mr. Loretz. I want you to know it. It will not take long. May I not go on?"

"Go on, sir, by all means!" exclaimed Spener. "Say what you have to say, and—" His voice sunk: he did not finish the sentence, audibly at least.

But Wenck still waited until Mrs. Loretz said, "Husband, surely you would like to know about dear Sister Benigna?"

"Well," said Loretz, reluctant still because of his misgivings, "go on. It will be a comfort to you, I dare say, Mr. Wenck, to talk about her here."

"It is my duty, sir, to talk about her here, and my privilege. We were both toiling in our way to reach the time when our love for each other might be spoken and shown to be something short of unreasonable. When that time did come we were led to ascertain whether our union would be in accordance with the Divine will, in the manner of our fathers, which had been adhered to for generations in the village where we lived. We found that, according to the lot, our lives must be lived apart. It did not appear to me then that we did right to give each other up. But I did not attempt to persuade her—or—to assure myself that I had not made a mistake when I loved her."

"I believe that," was the comment on this statement which appeared on the scornful face of Spener.

"But I have often asked myself whether I should not have performed my duty in a better way, a more enlightened way, if I had tried to persuade Benigna to a step which has been taken by many of the most devout, God-fearing brethren."

"What! what!" exclaimed Loretz, aghast. This was the very thing he had feared from some quarter, and now he heard it whence he had least expected it to come.

"I told you before you resorted to the lot—and my inmost hope was that you would act upon it—that the lot is not now considered among the brethren essential in the decision of questions of this kind. Surely you have not forgotten."

"You mentioned it," said Spener reluctantly, in most ungenerous acknowledgment. "I recollect wishing that you would make a point of it."

"It was impossible," replied the minister. "But now I can speak. If I understand you, my friends, there is none of you that feels ready to resign his own will in this matter. In your own secret hearts you understand there is no submission. With such sacrifice God is not well pleased. Do you think He can be? You have but followed a fashion. It is a vain oblation. But"—he went on hurriedly, for he did not wish to provoke discussion, at least until he had told the brief tale to the end—"Benigna and I accepted the decision as final. When I came to Spenersberg and found her here, it was a great, an overwhelming surprise. Brother Loretz, you know by whose request I came."

"I have always felt proud of having brought you here, Brother Wenck: I stand by it yet. You have done the right thing always, so far as I know. Surely it was well to bring you here."

"When I found her here I thought I could not stay, but I finally accepted that too as a dispensation of the Divine will, thankful, sir, thankful that I might have the woman for my friend and co-worker. Has she worked with me? Oh, Benigna, thou art still and for ever my friend—for ever!—and the thought of thee will be an inspiration to my work till my work too is done! But, Mr. Spener, I do not think that this trial is set for you and Elise. Brother Loretz, I feel called upon to testify that I do not believe that this trial is appointed to Brother Spener and Elise. Think of it, and give me your consent, all of you, and I will immediately, with devout thanksgiving, in the presence of God, join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony."

Spener was first to break the silence which bound each amazed soul of this little company when Mr. Wenck ceased to speak. His face shone, he looked as if he could have embraced "our little minister" then and there. He had been, in spite of his pride and prejudice, converted wholly into faith in Wenck, but instead of manifesting his conversion at once, he strode across the room to Elise's mother. "This is a house of mourning," said he, "otherwise I would never consent that Elise's marriage should be a private one. I would wish all Spenersberg to see my bride: I would like all the people to see our happiness. But let it be now, let it be now, Loretz. Elise, let it be now. Surely you see the wisdom of it. Such a compliance as ours to a mere custom would be an insult to our Father in heaven. Common sense is against it."

His voice was tremulous with emotion: he took Elise's hand. Who could stand against him? Her eyes were lifted as to the hills whence help had come to them.

Loretz was sadly disconcerted. Spener's instant acceptance of the minister's proposal completed the overthrow occasioned by Mr. Wenck's astonishing words. How true what he was always saying, that nobody could stand against that man!

"Surely, father, surely," said Spener, approaching him, and drawing Elise along with him—"surely you cannot fail to feel the force of what our good brother has said."

Loretz looked at his wife: it was not merely Albert, the man he revered most, but the child—yes, the child of his heart also was arrayed against him. How was it with Anna?

"Listen to the minister," said she. "He knows what is right."

"I have spoken in the fear of God," said Mr. Wenck. "I call no man master."

Spener looked down at these words: he understood their significance. The interview he had returned home intending to ask of Wenck was of a different character from this. "I think that no one could suspect you, sir, of tampering with another man's destiny or his conscience," he said. "I have never understood you till now, and for my misunderstanding I humbly ask your pardon." And indeed who that looked at him could suppose that this was a moment of proud rejoicing over a success won in spite of Church and household?

The minister silently gave him his hand. Spener did himself justice when he took the extended palm and held it a moment reverently in his.

"Father, we await your decision," he said to Loretz. He still held Elise's hand, and she would not have flown away had he held it less firmly.

Leonhard, quite forgotten, just here accidentally touched the piano with his elbow, and the sound that came forth was the keynote to Mendelssohn's "Wedding March." Forthwith he began to play it. Loretz looked at him, and seemed to feel suddenly reassured. A wavering light fell around him: he beckoned to the minister. "Do any of the folks around here know?" he asked.

"About the lot? Who would have told them? I should say no one."

"Then 'twill do them no harm: I am my brother's keeper. Go on. We won't make a balk of it this time."

"What, father!" exclaimed Dame Loretz. "How! Now?" It was her turn to offer herself as a stumbling-block, but, dear soul! she must always make poor work of such endeavor.

"If they are agreed, let it be. Albert Spener never gave his consent out and out to the testing; and look at our girl here! The Lord have mercy on us! If I can understand, though, it isn't Albert's doing."

"It is wholly Brother Wenck's," said Spener.

"It is Benigna's," said the minister. "Let us therefore celebrate this day of sorrow by a concluding special service;" and he drew from his pocket the manual from which he had read the burial service over Sister Benigna. "We will rejoice together, as she will rejoice if it is given her to know what the friends she loved do on the earth. Is it not as if she had given her life for her friends?"

When Leonhard took up the interrupted strain of the "Wedding March," bridegroom had saluted bride, and Loretz, by the light of his daughter's eyes, had taken one decided step toward conviction that he had consented in that hour not to the furtherance of his own will, but the will of Heaven.

Have we permitted Miss Elise to figure almost as a mute on this momentous occasion? But does the reader think it likely that she had much to say? She might perhaps have uttered one word that would have proved insurmountable, but Mr. Wenck had spoken as it were with Benigna's authority, and so to yield now was the most obvious duty.

The next morning saw Leonhard Marten on his way back to A——. He had submitted to Spener his designs for the monument to be erected among the living to the memory of Sister Benigna, and for the houses to be built on those elected sites; and these all accepted, he had said to himself, "I am an architect and a builder as long as I live," though Spener had embraced him when he said, "I never heard such music, sir—never—as you gave us last night!"

He went away, promising to come back and bring with him a young lady to study music of the Spenersbergers, so soon as he should have despatched a letter to a friend who was about to travel abroad.

He promised with a young man's audacity, but he performed it all. If Marion was not to be abandoned at once and for ever to a false style of music and a false way of living, she must be converted, as he had been, out of all patience with the foolish falseness of their life. And then everything seemed so easy to him, and really was so easy, after he had decided that he could write his name down in that birthday book sacred to friendship in which Loretz had offered him a place.

And here is explanation ample of the fact that Wilberforce, about to travel abroad and in sore need of money, found a thousand dollars deposited to his credit when he expected five thousand, and in due time received a letter which satisfied him, in spite of its surprise, that Leonhard was the best friend he had and the most trustworthy man living, and that whoever she might be whom he had taken in holy matrimony for his life-companion, he was worthy of her.

CAROLINE CHESEBRO'.



UNSETTLED POINTS OF ETIQUETTE.

In England the higher the rank the more affable and kind I found them. It is only the little people climbing up who are disagreeable.—SULLY.

Not alone of English people can this be said. In "society" all over the world it is the same; for everywhere men and women born and bred ladies and gentlemen value their reputation as such too highly to risk it by any rudeness or uncourteousness. They may upon occasion be frigidly polite, but polite they will always be. But customs vary so much that some things which would be considered polite in one country would be looked upon in another as rude or intrusive. Take, for instance, one illustration among many which might be cited. A foreigner sent on a diplomatic mission to this country brought with him letters of introduction to several members of a large family. Having affairs of importance to attend to, he was remiss about delivering these letters on this occasion, but on a second visit, having more leisure, he made it a point to have himself presented at a ball to every member of the family who was present. After the ball he told a lady of the trouble he had given himself, and asked her congratulations upon having accomplished so much in one evening. She, being upon intimate terms with him, assured him that his politeness was not only unnecessary, but would in all probability be misunderstood. "According to the customs of our country," said the lady, "you ought to have waited until they asked to be presented to you." "How could I do that," he inquired indignantly, "when it was my duty to make myself known to them, out of respect for the writer of the letters as well as for those to whom she had written? Besides, one can never be too civil to ladies and gentlemen." The lady replied, "True; only you must first be sure that you are dealing with ladies and gentlemen who understand all points of etiquette as you do." Before his return to his own country he learned his error by the result, for during a stay of some months he never received an invitation from any of the family. By following the customs of his own country, instead of adopting those of the country he was in, he had subjected himself to being looked upon as "a pushing foreigner," who valued their acquaintance so highly that he was determined to gain it, even at the sacrifice of the customs of good society.

Americans when abroad, unless in an official position, have very little opportunity of gaining a knowledge of such requirements of etiquette as had influenced this gentleman in making the overtures he had thought necessary; nor can we be expected to be acquainted with them. The rules of social etiquette are all so well understood and practiced in Europe that no opportunity presents itself for the miscomprehensions as to one's duties in society which prevail with us. There every detail is prescribed by the codes and usages of courts; and one might as well pass an acquaintance in the street without the usual salutation as neglect any one of these forms. Again to illustrate: A gentleman belonging at one time to the English legation in Washington passed a summer at one of our fashionable watering-places. His official position would have secured him the consideration to which he was entitled, even had he not been the general favorite that he was; but the men who left their cards from time to time upon him were not always particular in having themselves presented the first time they met him afterward at the club or at dinners; and looking upon this omission as he had been trained to do, it could not but seem to him an intentional rudeness on their part. The consequence was, he avoided the watering-place thereafter, and sought his summer recreation where there was less pretension at least, and where he doubtless became less exacting or more accustomed to such trifling breaches of etiquette.

For want of an exact code many points of etiquette are with us left open to discussion, and this without reference to foreign ideas. Thus the custom of inviting gentlemen to call when a married lady wishes to give them the entree to her house seems to have become an obsolete one with a great many. Quite recently a discussion took place as to its propriety between several ladies of distinction in this city. One lady said that it was the Philadelphia custom for gentlemen to call where they wished, without waiting for an invitation, after they had made the acquaintance of any lady in the family; and more than one married woman asserted that they had never yet asked a gentleman to come to see them; while another insisted that gentlemen generally would not venture to make a call upon any married lady unless she had invited them, or they had first asked her permission. As a difference of opinion exists on this point, it would be well if it could be an understood thing that any gentleman wishing to make the acquaintance of a lady could, after having himself presented to her, leave his card at her house with his address upon it. Of course this applies only to comparative strangers, for any young man can commit his card to his mother or sister to leave for him at a house where either visits, if he wishes to be included in invitations. Unless his card is left in this way or in person, how can he expect to be remembered? Some years ago, a lady who gave a ball during the winter after her return from a residence abroad, omitted to send invitations to the young men who, having previously visited at her house, had not left their cards at her door since her arrival home, preferring to substitute gentlemen who had never been entertained by her to inviting those who were so remiss. For this reason she gave permission to several young ladies to name gentlemen among their friends whom they would like to have invited; and so agreeable to the hostess was the selection thus made that she placed permanently upon her inviting list the names of those who sufficiently appreciated her courtesy to remember afterward the slight duties which their acceptance of her hospitality imposed upon them.

Still another illustration will show what unsettled ideas many hold in regard to points of etiquette which ought not to admit of any diversity of opinion. Ladies sometimes say to each other, after having been in the habit of meeting for years without exchanging visits, "I hope you will come and see me," and almost as frequently the answer is made, "Oh, you must come and see me first." One moment of reflection would prevent a lady from making that answer, unless she were much the older of the two, when she could with propriety give that as the reason. The lady who extends the invitation makes the first advance, and the one who receives it should at least say, "I thank you—you are very kind," even if she has no intention of availing herself of it. A lady in the fashionable circles of our largest metropolis once boasted that she had never made a first visit. She was not aware, probably, that in the opinion of those conversant with the duties of her position she stamped herself as being just as underbred as if she had announced that she did not wait for any one to call upon her. No lady surely is of so little importance in the circle in which she moves as never to be placed in circumstances where a first visit is requisite from her; nor does any one in our land so nearly approach the position of a reigning monarch as to decree that all, irrespective of age or priority of residence, should make the first call upon her.

One of the most reasonable rules of etiquette is that which requires prompt replies to invitations. The reason why an invitation to dine or to an opera-box should be answered as soon as received is so evident that it will not admit of questioning; but many who are punctilious in these particulars are remiss in sending promptly their acceptances or regrets for parties and balls. Most of those who neglect this duty do so from thoughtlessness or carelessness, but there are some who have the idea that it increases their importance to delay their reply, or that promptness gives evidence of eagerness to accept or to refuse. Others, again, are prevented from paying that direct attention to an invitation which politeness requires by the inconvenience of sending a special messenger with their notes. Where any doubt exists in reference to the ability of the person invited to be present at a soiree or ball, an acceptance should be sent at once; and if afterward prevented from going a short note of explanation or regret should be despatched. It is well known that a few words make all the difference between a polite and an impolite regret. "Mrs. Gordon regrets that she cannot accept Mrs. Sydney's invitation for Tuesday evening," is not only curt, but would be considered by many positively rude. The mistake arises, however, more frequently from ignorance than from intentional rudeness. "Mrs. Gordon regrets extremely that she cannot accept Mrs. Sydney's kind invitation for Tuesday evening," is all that is necessary. All answers to invitations given in the name of the lady and gentleman of the house are generally acknowledged to both in the answer, and the envelope addressed to the lady alone.

Some persons are in the habit of sending acceptances to invitations for balls even when they know that they are not going; but this is very unfair to the hostess, not only because she orders her supper for all who accept, but because she may wish to invite others in their places if she knows in time that they are not to be present. No house is so large but it has a limit to the number of people that can be comfortably entertained; and some ladies are compelled by the length of their visiting-list to give two or three entertainments in order to include all whom they wish to invite. When the invitations are sent out ten days in advance, if answered within three days the hostess is enabled to select from her other lists such of her friends as she would like to pay the compliment of inviting twice, in case the number of regrets which she receives will permit her to do so; but delaying the answers or accepting with no intention of going puts it out of her power to send other invitations.

An invitation once given cannot be recalled, even from the best motives, without subjecting the one who recalls it to the charge of being either ignorant or regardless of all conventional rules of politeness. Some years ago a lady who had been invited with her husband to a musical entertainment given at the house of an acquaintance for a mutual friend of the inviter and the invited, received, after having accepted the invitation, a note requesting her not to come, on the ground that she had spoken slanderously of the lady for whom the soiree was to be given. Entirely innocent of the charge, she demanded an explanation, which resulted in completely exonerating her. The invitation was then repeated, but of course, as the withdrawal of it had been intended as a punishment, the rudeness was of too flagrant a character to overlook, and all visiting between the parties ceased from that day. The rule would not apply to a more recent case, where a lady gave a ball, and, in endeavoring to avoid a crush and make it agreeable for her guests, left out all young men under twenty-one years of age; but finding that she had received wrong information concerning the age of one whom she had invited, and that this one exception was much commented upon, causing her to appear inconsistent, she wrote a note asking permission to recall the invitation (having received no answer to it), and expressing her regret that she should be made to appear rude where no rudeness was intended. In this case the gentleman could, without compromising his dignity, have sent a courteous reply, assuring the lady that he perfectly understood her motives, and begging her not to give herself any uneasiness upon his account in having felt compelled to withdraw the invitation. By doing so he would have made the lady his firm friend, and had she appreciated his politeness as it would have deserved to be appreciated, she would have lost no opportunity of showing her sense of it.

There is no better test of ladies and gentlemen than the manner in which they receive being left out of a general invitation. They may feel ever so keenly the omission, but it should never betray itself in a shadow of change either in look or in tone. If the invitation is not a general one, why should any one feel hurt by being omitted? No one but the entertainer can know all the motives that influence her in her selections. And here might be mentioned several reasonable points of etiquette which may control her. When a first invitation has not been accepted, it is to be supposed that no other will be expected until the recipient of the invitation has returned the courtesy in some way, be it ever so simple. In cases where previous invitations have been accepted, even those who are not in the habit of balancing the exchange of hospitalities cannot continue to extend them year after year, however much they may wish to do so, when not the slightest disposition is shown to make any return. Then, too, many ladies are not willing to overlook the omission of leaving cards after their entertainments, and they very naturally feel that a distinction should be made between such young men as have shown an appreciation of their past courtesies and those who have not. And again, a lady may often be deterred from sending invitations to those whom she heartily wishes to invite, from her dislike of making any advance to persons who are older residents, or from a fear of being considered pushing or patronizing. A lady who never makes first calls upon those who have lived longer than herself in the city where she resides (unless in cases where age or infirmities upon the part of those inviting her makes it her province to do so), learned just before giving an entertainment that the wife of a gentleman from whom she had received assistance in the charitable labors which occupied some of her leisure hours was a native of another city; and in writing a note upon business to the gentleman she expressed her intention of calling upon his wife, explaining why she had not sooner done so. She received an immediate reply from the husband, in which, after the business had been attended to, he informed her that he and his wife selected their own circle of friends, which was quite as large as they desired to make it. The lady as promptly sent back a note in answer, in which she expressed her regret for the mistake she had made, and thanked him for having corrected the impression which she had formed of him as a gentleman in her acquaintance with him solely in business relations. Such an experience would prevent a sensitive woman from ever placing herself in a position to receive such a rudeness again from any one and therefore no one whose duty it is to make a first call, and who has not made it, should ever feel hurt or offended at not being invited by such an acquaintance, no matter how general may have been the invitation.

Ladies who are the most apt to give offence are those who divide their lists, giving two parties in the course of the year, instead of the grand crush which is more popular. Some feel aggrieved because they are not invited to both, fancying that there are reasons why an exception should be made in their favor; while others prefer the party for which no invitation was sent. Those who send regrets for the first party sometimes expect to be invited to the second, but this in no way changes the relation between the inviter and the invited. It is the misfortune and not the fault of the lady who invites that such regrets are sent; and if she is able to repeat her invitations to any upon her first list, it will surely be to those who gave such reasons for regretting as illness or absence from the city. Certainly the entertainer must desire to make both parties equally pleasant, and must select her guests to this end; and yet there are those who, when left out, do not hesitate to show her by the change in their manner that they consider themselves more capable than she is of selecting her guests.