"Take care of yourself!" was the farewell adjuration of everybody; and so he rode away.

The allotted week of his absence passed uneventfully. The boarders at Alexander's were very quiet people. The transients came and went without exciting much attention: there was nothing to break the placid repose of a life that almost seemed to realize a lotoseater's dream. Louise walked and read, and talked to Paul. In Asheville she had frankly said that she missed Dunwardin. Now she did not say so, and Paul, with a shrewdness beyond his years, decided that this was a good sign.

At the end of ten days the adventurous traveler had not returned, and another week passed without any sign of him. Paul was inclined to be uneasy, but the proprietor of the house pooh-poohed the idea of any harm having befallen him. "When those mining fellows set out they never know where to stop," he said. "I've seen too many of them with their pockets full of ores. Depend upon it, Mr. Dunwardin will turn up all right."

Louise said little, but as the days wore on there came an anxious look into her eyes, and in her walks she almost invariably followed the road down the river, as if she hoped to meet the returning wanderer. She looked and hoped in vain, however. The days slipped by, and the third week of his absence found September throned in golden beauty on the earth.

Then the brother and sister said to each other that they began to fear some harm had befallen their friend. Since he left Alexander's nothing had been heard from or of him. It was certain that he had gone alone into one of the wildest and least accessible as well as one of the most dangerous parts of the mountains, and it was impossible to deny that there was ground for uneasinesss.

"If I were a man, like other men, I would go in search of him," said Paul.

"Woman as I am, I would go—if I had any right to do so," thought Louise.

Three more days of increasing anxiety passed. Then a thunder-bolt fell. It occurred late in the afternoon when Paul and Louise were sitting on their favorite end of the upper piazza, while on the one below several of the other guests were gathered. Immediately in front of the house ran the turnpike, along which two horsemen came riding briskly, and drew up before the gate. As they appeared in sight, Louise looked at them eagerly, but, perceiving that neither was the person she wished to see, she sank back with a sigh into her seat behind the vines. When they stopped, one of them uttered the customary country salutation-" Halloa!"

"No accommodation to-night," responded a voice from the piazza; "house full."

"I reckon you'll have to put us somewhere," said the first speaker. "We've come on a pertikler errand. Didn't you have a boarder here what went up Laurel on minin' business?"

"Mr. Dunwardin boarded here, and went up Laurel on mining business," replied the voice from the piazza. "What about him?"

"Well, a man's bin drowned up there, and some of the folks thinks it's him-that's all."

There was a quick volley of exclamations from the piazza below, but neither of the two above uttered one word. Louise's hand closed on Paul's like a vice, but she made no sound. She only leaned breathlessly forward, peering down through the green net-work of vines.

Two or three men went hurriedly down the short walk to the gate, and a conversation ensued, of which every word was audible on the piazzas. The matter, it seemed, stood briefly thus: the body of a drowned man had been found in Laurel, lodged against some driftwood which had accumulated in the middle of the stream. He was a stranger, and there was nothing found on him, by means of which he could be identified. Whether there had been foul play or not, no one could say; but there were no signs of violence, and the inference was that he had been drowned accidentally.

"You see there's been a pretty consid'. able freshet in our part o' the country," said the narrator," and all the waters has been monst'ous high."

"But how do you know that the drowned man is Mr. Dunwardin ?" asked a voice.

"We don't know; we only s'pose so; and that's what we've come fur. Hasn't he got no relations or friends here what could go and say whether it's him?"

And then there was a pause. Paul's voice broke it. He leaned forward and spoke clearly:

"Bring the man here, if you please. We are Mr. Dunwardin's friends, and we want to hear all about the matter."

der good-by. He took both her hands and held them together.

"Keep heart!" he said. "It may be all a mistake. It may not be what we fear. I don't think he is the kind of man to be accidentally drowned."

"But he may have been robbed, and—and murdered," said Louise. "Paul, I feel sure that it is he; and oh, my dear!"—and the great tears began to roll down-"I am so sorry that the only return I ever made for-for all his kindness was-was to give him pain."

"Never mind," said Paul, gently. "You did what you thought right, and he knew it."

"One often makes great mistakes about what is right," said Louise. Then she drew down her veil and departed.

Left alone, Paul sighed deeply. Despite his attempt to speak hopefully, he felt sure that the man who lay dead by the side of Laurel was the friend whom they had liked. so well. He also felt sure that a partial revelation of her own heart had come to Louise during these weeks of absence, and he feared that Dunwardin's death would make that revelation complete. "If so, she will go through life bearing a hopeless burden of regret and self-reproach," he thought. "My poor Louise!"

At another time the journey down the "There are some friends of his here," French Broad to the mouth of Laurel would said some one, hesitatingly. have been to Louise an occasion of pure delight. Nothing can be conceived more grand and at the same time more beautiful than this gorge. The cliffs tower hundreds of feet overhead; the splendid mountains rise heavenward crowned with an almost tropical verdure; the impetuous river rushes, whirls, and foams along the channel which it has torn for itself through the heart of the great hills; and the streams which come to swell its current are clear as clearest crystal. But to-day Louise saw none of these things—or else saw them without interest, as shapes in a dream. The ceaseless voice of the river, tearing madly over the immense rocks that strew its channel, lost all music to her ears; there was terror, not beauty, in the wildness of the gorge as it deepened toward the fatal waters of Laurel.

The man was brought, and told his story again. The body, he said, was lying at his (the speaker's) house on the banks of Laurel, not very far from where that river emptied into the French Broad. All he wanted was that some one should come and identify it. "The kurroner's there," he said. "He'll 'tend to every thing else. AH you've got to say is whether or not it's him."

Those around looked at each other. What could be said? Who could go? It was clearly impossible for Paul to do so. The journey down the French Broad would be terrible, the journey up Laurel much worse, to one like him. He felt this not less clearly than the others, and put his hand to his face with a low groan. "If I were but a man!" he said. "Don't trouble, Mr. Chalmers, over what can't be helped," said his host, kindly. "I'll go. It's my duty to do so."

Louise turned quickly, and spoke for the first time.

"I thought you would go," she said; "and you'll take me with you-will you not?" "There's no need for that-" he began, when she interrupted him.

"Yes, there is need. It is all that we can do for him, and he-ah, he did so much for Paul and me! I must go! Don't say any thing to dissuade me-only tell me when to be ready."

"We'd best start as soon after daylight as we kin," said the man standing by.

Very soon after daylight the next morning Louise bent over Paul, and kissed him a ten

They traveled rapidly, and early in the afternoon Walnut Mountain-at the foot of which the Laurel flows into the French Broad -rose in sight. The first glimpse of the clear water of the former stream filled Louise with sadness beyond expression. As it sweeps between two lordly mountains, and empties into the tumultuous French Broad, it is a thing of beauty never to be forgotten, but she saw only horror in the swift flow of its translucent current. Turning, they followed a road which led along its banks, winding at the base of the overshadowing cliffs. How far they traveled Louise scarcely knew. To her it was all one terrible monotony of sounding water and towering rock, one great confused picture of the brightness, the greenness, the ineffable beauty of earth, from which one presence had forever departed. Her companion was kind, and during all the long hours said little to her. She had undisturbed time for reflection, and there were some thoughts from which she always afterward shrank-connected, as they were, with tho

keen suffering of that fair, sad September day.

SEMINOLES.

We each carried a gun, a pint-cup, and a

I.

10 jealously do the Seminoles hold themselves in seclusion that their existence

At last they reached the home of their guide a substantial log farm-house situated in a valley, where the mountains receded a little from the banks of the river. As they came in sight they perceived that it was evidently the scene of commotion and excitement. Horses were fastened to the fence, is regarded by many writers as purely mythand under the trees men were lounging here ical. Of the thousands of people who anand there; a group of women stood gossip-nually visit Florida, not ten-rarely does one ing by the door. Louise turned so faint-get a glimpse of the swarthy red-man. that deathly faintness which comes only from the heart-that every thing grew black before her. She clutched her companion's

The waters of the St. John's, the mighty river which the Seminole once held as his own, is the winter resort of hundreds who little suspect, as they pass the forest-covered fields and mounds that the Indian once owned and cultivated, that the descendants of the aboriginal inhabitants yet live in the State. Far down in the swampy Everglades a ruined and degraded people eke out a bare existence upon a tithe of the lands which their ancestors once claimed by right of conquest.

Few Northern men have ever visited them, so well have they covered the trails to their hiding-places.

No tribe or remnant of a nation, rather -has preserved its blood so free from contamination as this. No tribe has so sacredly guarded its customs and dress from innovation as this.

Some one led the way, and pushed open the door of a lean-to room. They entered, and the sick horror seized Louise again as she saw the outlines of a rigid figure extended on a bed, covered with a coarse sheet. But she was resolutely determined that she would not fail until all was overuntil she knew. She held herself, therefore, in a powerful constraint, and walked steadily Despite the changes and rude shocks forward. As she lifted the thick veil which which the war must have occasioned, the she wore, a man who was standing by the Seminoles have retained their old-time habbed turned quickly around. For one breath- its of speech, ceremonies, dress, and tradiless moment they faced each other. What tionary rites of religion. They have adopted was this? Had the dead risen? If so, the the dress and habits of the white man only dead could speak, for this man cried : in such a degree as will benefit them, but "Louise!-for Heaven's sake, what has they cling to the primitive style of garb and brought you here?"

Poor Louise! The revulsion was too great. All her self-control gave way suddenly, and she fell forward fainting in George Dunwardin's arms.

When she recovered it was to hear a story which can be more briefly related than it was told by Dunwardin on the banks of Laurel. In his mining expeditions he had been led farther into the mountains than he had anticipated, but had been abundantly rewarded for hardships and delays by finding all-and more than all-of which he was in search. On his way back to Alexander's he had been stopped by news of the drowned body-supposed to be his own-lying within this farmhouse. He identified it at once as that of a

Methodist preacher whom he had met the week before among the mountains, and who had been, no doubt, accidentally drowned in attempting to cross the swollen stream.

"If I had traveled faster, if I had been a day earlier, I might have spared you all this," he said, remorsefully, in ending his story.

But Louise laid her hand on his.

"Don't regret your delay," she said, in her sweet voice. "No doubt it was best. I have suffered terribly, but if this suffering had not come, I might never have learned how much I love you."

speech that their chiefs and old women strove so zealously to preserve in the early part of the last century. They are, therefore, more interesting as a tribe than any other in the United States.

During the late war they maintained a strictly neutral position, though often approached with propositions that they should fight the Yankees. It is possible that they may break the bonds of caution that now restrain them, and dig up the hatchet so long buried, for they are subject to many persecutions by the white settlers who have penetrated into the unattractive Indian reserve.

It has been the writer's fortune to twice

visit this people, which he did at much risk, and after incurring many dangers, and he has had very favorable opportunities for studying the red recluse in his own stronghold.

The Indian settlement near Lake Okechobee is about thirty miles from the Indian River, upon the Atlantic coast. Between the coast and the settlement, at the time of my first visit, there was but one white man's cabin, and this was some ten miles inland. From that cabin, one April morning, emerged the settler aforesaid and myself.

We mounted two tough stallions and turned their heads westward. My guide was owner of several hundred head of cattle, which roamed in a half-wild state through the woods and over the prairies, and these horses we were astride were especially trained for hunting those wiry cattle, and CHRISTIAN REID. admirably fitted for our purpose.

And so, to this day, Dunwardin says that he won his wife "up Laurel."

A narrow trail led across the vast Alpattiokee Flats, following dry creek-beds, through cypress-swamps and saw-grass jungles, beneath gigantic pines, and through dense palmetto-shrub. We followed this Indian trail in a southwesterly direction, till we struck the saw-grass bordering the Black Cypress, a cypress belt of swamp nearly forty miles in length, but scarcely a mile in width. Through this swamp was a narrow, blind trail, carefully hidden, lest the white man should discover it.

The precautions the Seminoles had taken to guard it were useless, for my guide had trailed Indians in that very swamp years before, and it was to him as plain as noonday. Dismounting, we attempted to lead our horses through it. Bleeding and torn, we emerged from the saw-grass, whose serrated edges had cut and gashed us, to enter the blackest swamp that ever defiled the face of Nature. The tall cypress grew high above our heads, excluding every ray of light. Long, trailing vines, and hooked, cruel-looking briers, hung athwart our path, and festooned every tree. The mud in which we struggled was black, and exceedingly soft and tenacious. Stagnant pools of slime-covered water gave lurking-places to numberless alligators and poisonous snakes, which latter reptiles untwisted themselves in dozens from the gnarled cypress-roots, and wriggled silently away after darting at us their forked tongues. It required the utmost vigilance to elude the snakes and the alligators, and the desperate leaps of our frightened horses, as we waded on ahead leading them by the bridle.

Never was daylight hailed more joyfully than by us at the moment we emerged from the swamp, and dragged our mud-covered horses out upon the solid ground. The Black Cypress was passed; a few miles over level prairie, and we saw the first habitation. This, then, was the Indian country. This was the last refuge of a persecuted tribe, this half-dozen miles of prairie, bounded north and east by the swamp; south and west by forests of pines.

The scene before me was of peaceful rest and happiness. The meadow-lark trilled his clear note from the grass as we rode along; the quail whistled merrily; and the woodpecker tapped the aged pine. Paroquets flew by on golden wings, and the mysterious ibis winged his silent way overhead.

As we neared the village the entire population came forth to meet us, for those at work in the hammocks had been apprised of our arrival, and were there to greet us.

The shanties were grouped together, about thirty in number. They were simply constructed; four posts supported a pitched roof thatched with palmetto-leaves. Open at the sides and ends, a full view of the interior could be obtained. A raised platform of logs, three feet from the ground, was used to sleep upon, and hold the family treasures. The people that surrounded me were

strange in appearance, and would have startled me by their strange disregard for clothing had I not already met some of the warriors hunting a few weeks previously.

The men are generally tall, well-shaped, and muscular, though there were exceptions. An old sub-chief, Tiger, who had fought us in the old Seminole War, was a good representative of the average Seminole. He was above medium height, broad-shouldered, with massive arms and legs like mahogany pillars worn smooth by many a brush with thicket and brier. Nose and lips were large, indicating that some remote ancestor may have been of negro extraction. His iron-gray hair was coarse, and straggled over a greasy bandana bound about his temples. The dress he wore may be taken as a specimen of that worn by all the adult males. Two ragged shirts of "hickory," or homespun, hung from his shoulders and reached nearly to his knees, the inner one a foot longer than the outer, and both exhibiting many a rent and tear. Breech-cloth and moccasins completed his attire. The most noticeable brave was young Charley Osceola, a descendant of the famous Osceola who caused the whites so much trouble forty years ago. He was about twenty years of age, tall, over six feet in height, with broad shoulders and finely-shaped limbs. Erect and proud, with the dignified bearing of a prince, he was my bean idéal of a brave. His eyes were small, black, and keen; nose straight, mouth small; hair thick, coarse, and black, with the changeable, metallic lustre of a raven's wing. This was shaven close at the sides of his head, leaving a ridge some two inches high on the crown, which ran from the forehead back like the crest of a helmet, spreading at the back of the head, and hanging in braids upon his shoulders. His dress was similar to Tiger's, though neater, without rents, and about his slender waist a broad belt confined his shirts.

The children were miniatures of the men; the boys deported themselves with the same gravity and walked fully as dignified. Boys under fifteen wore, sometimes, a shirt; oftener, nothing at all.

How shall we describe the women?

They are indescribable. Some were beautiful as bronze Venuses; others as hideous and ugly as Sin in a cast-iron gabardine.

The girls and young squaws were much superior to their degraded cousins of the West in point of cleanliness and beauty, of medium height, with well-shaped limbs, and small hands and feet. Their faces were round; heads small; eyes large, black, and lustrous; nose small; mouth small and fulllipped. Their hair, long, black, and abundant, was gathered in a graceful coil at the back of the head, and worn short in front, after the prevailing fashion among Northern ladies a year ago. Their complexion was not so swarthy as that of the men, being a light | brown where that of the latter was very dark.. Altogether they were not repulsive— attractive rather. The older women were less prepossessing, as older women generally are.

All had low, musical voices, which, though not resembling "the singing of birds," as an old writer would have us believe, were very pleasant to the ear. I beg leave to except

the old hags who had lost their teeth, and those who chewed tobacco to excess.

Their dress was simple. Had it been simpler I could not have described it. It reminded one of the maiden who was arrayed in the full dress of becoming modesty and native innocence. A short cape adorned the shoulders; a short petticoat depended from the waist. A fine pair of stillepikahs, or moccasins, made of deer-skin dressed as soft as silk, encased their little feet and dainty ankles. Around their necks they wore a profusion of beadscoil upon coil of great glass beads. They would omit any portion of their attire sooner than these beads, which are of all colors, shapes, and sizes, and the accumulations of years. So long as there is space between the chin and breast, so long do they crowd in beads until the weight is burdensome. Some of these strings have been weighed, and turned the scale at twenty pounds. They are slaves to fashion, these untutored sisters. The only exception to the general style of dress was in the case of a young widow, who, according to the fixed and unalterable laws of the tribe, was permitted to wear no beads, no cape, no bustle, or polonaise. The law regarding widows is, furthermore, that they shall not leave camp for two years, nor comb their luxuriant hair during that period. If they pass the time of probation with credit, they may marry again.

To summarize in respect to dress: Children of both sexes under five cavorted about in a state of nature. The boys enjoyed this freedom, unrestrained, until ten or twelve years old; but the children of the softer sex donned a petticoat. At fifteen the boys arrived at the dignity of a shirt. The girls of that age had accumulated vast possessions of beads, and when turned sixteen were allowed to wear a cape.

Upon great occasions both men and women ornament themselves regardless of expense. The men disguise themselves in shirts of fine make, and long, flowing gowns of large-figured calico, embroidered elaborately and belted at the waist. Their legs are encased in fringed leggings, and their moccasins are shapely and highly ornamented. Around their heads they wind a large, gaylycolored shawl, making a huge turban, from which the fringe hangs gracefully. Heron and egret plumes are thrust into the hair, and from the neck are suspended huge gorgets of silver.

The women use a profusion of ribbons, bracelets, and beads. About their ankles they tie shells of the box-tortoise, which are bored with holes, so that they make a loud noise when struck together. They manufacture ear-rings from silver half- and quarterdollars without any instruments for working save the most primitive.

These observations I made while surrounded by the motley crowd, and during my subsequent residence with them.

After a short rest, we were invited by Indian Parker, a sub-chief, to inspect his plantation. It was a mile away in the cypress hammock. Their houses are built in the pine-woods for health, while their gardens are in the more fertile, swampy hammocks.

His wife and children were hard at work

when we arrived, but desisted at the first intimation of visitors, washed themselves in a creek, donned their clothing, and gathered about us with offerings of the fruit of, the place-corn and sweet-potatoes. The corn

we roasted in the ashes, and ate the great milky ears with much satisfaction, though our sleeves did not brush away all of the clinging dirt.

It was in April, and Parker had corn sixfeet high, and pumpkins, beans, peas, and melons, in flourishing growth. All worked!

men, women, and children. There were no sbirks. This is a pleasing characteristic of the Seminole. He will hunt all the time that he can be spared from his plantation, but when the season of planting comes, the rifle and arrow are laid aside, and he takes up the hoe and axe. Labor is mutual. The warrior kills the deer and bear, skins it, prepares the meat, and brings it home or to camp. The squaw, sister, or daughter, dries and dresses the skin, smokes the meat for future use, and performs all the labor incident to the camp.

From Parker's plantation we went beyond, to that of Tiger, his father-in-law.

I had met Tiger two weeks previously. He had visited my camp and eaten me out of provisions. At the time of his visit I had enough food, with the game we shot, to last three weeks. He came with ten younger Indians, staid two days, and left behind him at his departure an impoverished party of two, my guide and myself, who were obliged to flee to civilization to avoid starvation. Tiger was one of the few I shall never forget. His feats had won upon me, I'll not say how. He welcomed me warmly, conducted me around his cornfield, and introduced me to his squaw, a hideous, bony old hag, with skinny arms and legs, and fingers like eagles' claws.

The language of the Seminoles is a curious mixture of Indian and bad English-a conglomeration which only an experienced ear can understand. My guide always went upon the principle that you could make any foreigner (Indian included) understand you, provided you spoke loud enough. I could hear him when engaged in ordinary conversation a mile away. He would thunder out the worst English I ever heard in tones so loud that my ears would ring, and then would curse the ignorant aborigine for not understanding questions so clearly enunciated.

I append an excerpt of a conversation between Tiger and my guide. We wished to find Lake Okechobee, a wonderful, almost mythical lake, and Tiger knew the way there, but would not tell us:

Guide. "Okechobee, you savez?"
Tiger. "Hingkah" (Yes).

This assertion, made with such coolness, exasperated me, and I retorted by saying that I was not a low cow, but that he was a bull-hide of the lowest bovine order. Smiling, be seized me by the shoulders and faced me about so that my eyes focused upon a small shanty, beneath which was a small group of Indians, elbow-deep in several iron pots.

Like a flash of light it dawned upon me that humbuxj was, to eat. As I had eaten nothing since morning (it was now late in the afternoon), I lost no time in humbuxjing.

Here was an opportunity! Tiger had eaten me out at Alligator Creek; I would now have revenge. Revenge is sweet. Where was my guide? He had disappeared, and I must play a lone hand. Undaunted, I unbuckled my belt, laid aside my revolver, and joined the band of revelers.

There were three iron pots, and an Indian at each receptacle. In pot the first was "oafka," or thin drink, made by boiling corn with hickory ashes. It was too thin for me. It looked like a kettle of year-old dish-water. While I wondered how the huge spoon, which was as big as a baby's head, could be properly manipulated, a shock headed urchin seized it, filled it with this delectable nourishment, drew it forth full, elevated it till the handle pointed toward the zenith, when the dish-water disappeared. The spoon was returned to the pot with a snoof of satisfaction, and the next Indian took it. After drawing the bowl of the spoon across the skull of an interloping youngster, and smiting a mangy cur in the ribs, he duplicated the performance and passed it to the other Indian, who did the same as the others. Then came my turn. I was hungry. I knew that, for I had ridden thirty miles, and had eaten nothing but corn since morning. But my appetite was gone. I forgave Tiger for devouring all my flapjacks. I promised myself to forget it. What was the loss of a little food? But I must eat, or lose my prestige. Gently I grasped the spoon, shuddered, gulped-lo! 'twas done.

The second kettle contained some thirty feet of sausage. If I knew the Indian name for sausage I would give it; but I don't, so forbear. One of my fellow-revelers would seize one end of the membranous rope, store away as much as his mouth would contain, and then, severing by a dexterous cut the adipose tissue, pass the end to the next. Sausage was never my favorite viand, and my refusal was couched in language more concise than elegant.

The third kettle contained small pieces of meat, boiled, very juicy, and savory.

My appetite returned. Tiger yet should suffer. The meat was tender; moreover, it

had a delicious flavor I had never found pork possessed of before. Of course it was pork— pork; it was not venison, nor common bear. I would obtain the receipt, and the next porcine quadruped that crossed my path should be offered up. To convince myself that it was pig, I said to my next neighbor, imitating the Indian style of conversation:

"Um: good, too much. Sho-ko-sal-iko?" (Shokosaliko is pig.)

"Um: no! Efà!" (Efà is dog.)

Probably a less-experienced traveler would have departed, convinced that the Seminole enjoyed his canine equally with the ChinaBut I knew better (although my occu pation was gone for the time); it was an Indian joke.

man.

The Indian dog never arrives at the dignity of a roast. He is too poor; never acquires fat enough to make his skin pliable. So noted is his leanness, that it has become proverbial.

We afterward returned to the settlement, where I was assigned the chief's shanty as a special honor, old Tustenuggu being out on the hunting-trail. It in no way differed from the rest, and probably the round logs of my bed were just as hard as the others.

FREDERICK A. OBER. [CONCLUSION NEXT WEEK.]

sale. My offer was accepted, and I carried them off in my carriage, just as they were." While breakfasting with him I was made to feel how valueless wealth and station are without health. He wore a violet-velvet cap and gorgeous dressing-gown during the meal; but, though there were cotelettes de mouton, and quails, and other luxuries, he hardly ate of any thing! He sipped his Mocha and smoked his cigarettes, and looked wretched, and as if he would give the world for a new sensation. He asked me if I had seen his pictures in Manchester Square. I told him I had, and that Henry Meynell had taken me to see them. "I will give you a general order if you like," said he; but I did not care to go again, so did not remind him of his offer. The number and quality of his possessions, of which he is totally ignorant, is very noteworthy. He has pictures of inestimable value, some collected by his father, and some purchased by commission for himself, which he has never seen. One day he was walking with his chum, Cuthbert, when an English groom rode by on a splendid horse.

"Oh," said he, "I must have that horse! Let us jump into this fiacre" (he was standing by one on the Boulevard des Italiens), "and follow the man."

With some difficulty they kept up with him. At last Lord Hertford thrust his head out of the window and asked the groom, in English, whose horse it was.

"I'm not bound to tell you, am I?"

66 No, but be civil; is it the emperor's?"

66

O

DOTES.

UR readers will probably recall the publication, a few years ago, of the memoirs of the famous English tragedian of the Kemble period, Charles Mayne Young, with extracts from the journals of his son, the Rev. Julian Charles Young. This volume was crowded with numerous anecdotes and reminiscences of distinguished people in English art, literature, and society, affording many very delightful glimpses of persons the world is never tired of hearing of. Since the publication of that volume, Mr. Julian Young has died, and we have now from the English press a supplementary volume, edited by his widow, entitled "Last Leaves from the Journal of Julian Charles Young," which brings the record down to the time of his death, two years ago. From this volume we glean a few anecdotes of well-known persons, and other passages likely to entertain the reader:

66

March 20, 1865.-I paid two or three visits during my stay in Paris, at his own request, to Lord Hertford. I breakfasted with him one morning, when he showed me over his magnificent hotel. After examining with delight his splendid collection of pictures, and china, and vertu, I was riveted by two enormous vases of Gros Bleu. I asked him their history. Ab," ," said he, "I mean those for Bagatelle!" (his campagne in the Bois de Boulogne). "There is a curious circumstance connected with them. When I first gained possession of them, they were besplashed with human clotted blood. After the murder of the Duc de Praslin, I heard there was to be a public sale of his effects. Fearful that if once the emperor knew of these, which were among them, he would buy them, I went and offered a very large sum for them before the

No, it is not! If you must know, it beHe knew neither his own horse nor his own groom!

Greenshields's statue of Scott, which stands placed at the end of the corridor in the Advocates' Library, from the crown of his lofty skull to the rude simplicity of his shoestrings, is perfect. All the portraits I have seen, except Sir F. Grant's, give him a heavy, lowering look, which at all events is neither pleasing nor, I will add, characteristic. No doubt, when abstracted, or when music, in which he took slight pleasure, was going on, a cloud would come over his face; but I humbly maintain that, before his misfortunes fell upon him, the ordinary expression of his face was one of amenity, benevolence, and waggery; and these qualities are legibly impressed upon the face which Greenshields has given him. I cannot say how important an accessory in recalling my recollection of him I found the apparel, for it proclaimed the man. My acquaintance with him was but of some ten days' duration, but of no man I have ever seen have I such a vivid recollection. I fancy I see his movements with his arms and his limp now, and that I hear his genial chuckle as Adam Ferguson moved him to mirth. His hearty laugh was as infectious as Sydney Smith's irrepressible guffaw. During the few days I was at Abbotsford I do not think ten minutes ever passed without a smile lighting up his face. What I have been rash enough to say of modern busts reminds me of a story I was told more than thirty years ago. Mr. Lyne Stephens, the father of the gentleman who married Duvernay,* a man of large fortune and liberal ideas, gave an order to a wellknown English sculptor, resident at Rome, for busts of the twelve Cæsars, stipulating that he should receive them within eighteen months. Two years having elapsed without the fulfillment of the condition, the patience of the

The celebrated danseuse.

patron became exhausted, and he wrote to his protégé to say that, if the twelve Cæsars whom he had bespoken did not reach him within two months from that date, he would not receive one of them into his house. The forfeiture of so valuable an order was a serious consideration with the artist, and having, when the threatening letter arrived, only completed eight of the Roman emperors, he impressed into his service the busts of four private gentlemen, which he had executed to order according to the received classic type, and dispatched them with the other eight as veritable Cæsars.

The anxiously-expected treasures happened to arrive at their destination when Mr. L. Stephens had his house full of company. When they had been carefully unpacked and deposited in the gallery, on pedestals which had long been prepared for them, the guests were taken by the host to see them. The names of each of the emperors having been written in pencil at the back of the bust, they were transferred to the pedestals, and lettered in gold, so that there was no difficulty in distinguishing them.

"This," said Mr. L. S., "is considered very fine. It is Marcus Aurelius. This is Commodus. This is Pertinax. This is Didius. This is Severus. This is Caracalla. This is Maximus; and I must beg your attention to this, for it is considered the sculptor's chefF'œuvre-it is Elagabalus."

"No, no, I'll be hanged if it is!" said a well-known master of hounds; "it is no more Elagabalus than I am. It is Gratwicke,* and the sculptor showed it me two months ago in his studio as Gratwicke!"

December 11, 1871.-Took a long walk with Lord Lytton. Among other subjects which cropped up was phrenology. In the general principle he had faith, but not in the details, on which professors are so apt to refine. I amused him mightily by telling him what a very clever lady of my acquaintance, a Russian, had told me, with implicit faith in the truth of what she herself had heard, viz., that in one of the battles between France and Germany a French soldier, in single combat with a German, was felled to the earth by the buttend of a musket, and the left side of his skull fractured. As a wounded prisoner, he was taken to hospital, trepanned, and cured. On the recovery of his general health, it was found that he had entirely forgotten his native tongue, his name, his condition of life, etc., etc. Unfit for further military service, he resided for two years in Germany, acquired the German tongue, and adopted the calling of a bricklayer. One day, while at work upon a house, he fell from a scaffold, and fractured the right side of his skull. When once more he was restored it was found that he had forgotten all the German he had learned, that his former knowledge of his mother-tongue had returned, and that he recollected he was a married man, and the father of two children.

December 30.-Dined with Lord Lytton, Mr. and Miss Froude, Sir Thomas and Lady Symonds, Mrs. Vivian, Mrs. Cosway, Messrs. Edmund, Boyle, Sievewright, Cosway, W. H. Smith, M. P., and the Rev. Mr. Patch.

We had an animated discussion on the character of the ex-Emperor Louis Napoleon. Lord Lytton spoke of him, as he invariably does, with great regard. He said that he was by temperament kind to weakness. He gave an interesting account of a long evening and

A gentleman well known on the turf and in Sussex a few years ago, but now no longer living.

a confidential chat he had had with him, after dining with him, and after the company had been dismissed, which ran into the small hours of the morning. He had seen much of him when he lived in a small lodging in King Street, St. James's. He was then occupying a handsome house, as Prince Napoleon merely,

in Carlton Terrace. He said he had never seen any man so confident of his future as he was. He showed him the flag which his uncle unfurled with his own hands, when, at Embabeh (close to Cairo), he directed his infantry to form squares to receive the charge of Murad Bey and his Mamelukes, and called out to his men, "From yonder pyramids forty centuries behold your actions!" Among other precious relics, he showed him also the ring which had belonged to Charlemagne. He said that his uncle prised it enormously, and regarded it as a talisman of magic power, which insured good fortune to its possessor so long as he had it on his person. He declared positively that it always forsook him when he had it not. Before embarking for Elba he lost it, and offered rewards of incredible amount for its recovery. He attributed his failure at Waterloo to its loss. I forget through what means Louis Napoleon regained it, but regain it he did, and treasured it as much as his uncle did. Louis Napoleon never scrupled to acknowledge that he was superstitious! He reposes implicit faith in a prediction made to him by some one or other-I forget whether witch or wizard or conjurer-as to his end. That end was to be death in the streets of London in the hour of victory. He said, "I feel as certain as that I am now smoking with you, that I shall one day be the foremost man in France, whether president or emperor I cannot say."

September 3, 1872.- Sat for a considerable time with Dean Ramsay, with whom I found Lord Torphichen. The dean was in high force, and told me more anecdotes than I can recall. One, however, I remember well. He had been talking of the nationality of his countrymen, and I had been justifying it, when he said: "An Englishman was speaking on the same theme one day to a Scotchman. The Scotchman said:

"It is not mere national pride if I say, what is a matter of fact, viz., that my country is the finest in the world!'

"Well,' said John Bull, ' if it be the finest, it is not the biggest! I suppose you'll allow that England is bigger than Scotland?'

""'Deed, sir,' answered Sandy, 'I'll allow nae sic a thing; for, if oor grand hills were rolled out as flat as England is, Scotland wad be the bigger o' the twa!'

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Well,' retorted John Bull, 'you'll acknowledge that Shakespeare was not a Scotchman?'

"Discomfited at this home-thrust, but not disheartened, he once more replied:

"I'll acknowledge that Shakespeare had pairts' (parts) 'that would justify the inference that he was a Scotchman.'

A Presbyterian minister, who had not long before married a couple of his rustic parishioners, had felt exceedingly disconcerted, on his asking the bridegroom if he were willing to take the woman for his wedded wife, by his scratching his head, and saying:

"Ay, I'm wullin'; but I'd rather hae her sister."

As the name of Moore and his Bessy are on the tapis, I must take the opportunity of mentioning a circumstance which the delicacy of my informant has hitherto kept religiously sccret from the world, but which I am permit

ted by him to divulge, now that all the near connections of the parties implicated are no more. I think, as it is an anecdote which reflects honor on the character of Mrs. Moore, it would be an injustice to her memory any longer to withhold it. . . . When living in Dublin, where Moore was the observed of all observers, he was engaged in some private theatricals when he made acquaintance with Miss Bessy Dyke, who had recently made her debut as a ballet-dancer on the Dublin boards. Moore was smitten with her at first sight, and, having access to the greenroom, used to seek her out and converse with her, whenever he could, behind the scenes.

One night, as the celebrated Sir Philip Crampton, one of the very ablest medical men that ever lived, was just dropping off to sleep, after a day of great fatigue, he heard a violent and agitated knocking at his bedroom-door. "Come in," he said, and a voice, which he at once recognized as that of his friend Moore, spoke through the half-opened door, "Phil, Phil, for God's sake, get up and come with me without a moment's delay!" Sir Philip jumped up, hurried on his clothes, and went out with him. It was about two o'clock, in a bright summer's morning, and the streets were entirely deserted. As they walked rapidly together, Crampton in vain appealed to Moore to tell him what was the matter. The only reply he received was, " You'll see soon enough. Come along quick, for God's sake! There's not an instant to be lost." They hurried down Dawson Street, reached Suffolk Street-a short street at right angles to Grafton Street-and about half-way up that street, lying prostrate on the flags, Sir Philip beheld, to his amazement, what appeared to be the body of a young woman. So it proved to be -not a dead body, but an insensible one, and bleeding copiously from the head, which was severely injured. On going up to it they found an old woman standing by it, and keeping watch over it. Sir Philip Crampton, with Moore's assistance, lifted the body from the ground, and carried it up-stairs to her rooms,

which were on the first floor. After a considcrable time she was brought back to consciousness by the skill of the great practitioner. The ugly wound which she had received did not prove so serious as had been feared; so that, after a while, she gradually recovered, and (here is the curious part of the story) the heroine of this little drama lived years and years after, and lived to become "the darling Bessy" of Tom Moore.

It would seem that on the night in question Moore had accompanied her to her lodgings in Suffolk Street, and while there made use of opportunity to express his feelings toward her passionately. If she were blamable for having admitted a man to her apartments at such an hour, it must be borne in mind that she was really and truly a pure-minded, unsophisticated girl, who, though flattered, naturally enough, by the undisguised admiration of a man so sought after and distinguished as the modern Anacreon, yet had been treated by him invariably with such respect as to inspire her with confidence. However, his advances were made so warmly that his ardor got the better of his prudence, and he rushed forward toward her, hoping to grasp her in his arms. When she perceived his intentions, she said to him in the most decided tone, "Stop, sir! If you come one step nearer to me I will throw myself out of that window," pointing to one that, on account of the sultriness of the weather, had been left wide open. Not imagining her to be in earnest, he continued to approach her, and in one moment she sprang