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She sat down with Manch and Ishmael, and
the mocking-bird sang to them, and she caressed
it with her slender, ungloved fingers, and all the
while she was thinking how she should speak
the words she had come to say—the warning of
danger, the offer of means to get out of its reach.
At last she said, as Constant, perched upon her
finger, picked at the grapes she held:
“They are great company to you. No wonder
you dislike to part with them. You call this one
Constant: what is the name of his mate?”
She had not spoken before. At the first word
she uttered he looked up quickly; his large,
startled-looking eyes fastened themselves upon
her face with a troubled, questioning gaze, such
as she had seen in Gabriel, only more intense,
and shading oft' into an expression of profound
sadness and despondency. Melieent understood
the look. Her face had touched the chords of
memory, but their echoes had said, “the face
which hers resembles has long since been dust.”
He had no suspicion of the truth. She was not
recognized, and Melieent drew a deep breath,—
was it altogether of relief, or did a feeling of
regret mingle with it and make it almost a sigh?
Ishmael roused himself after a moment’s ab
straction, and answered the question she had
asked.
“I call her different pet names,” he said, eva
sively.
Manch had told her that he called this favorite
bird “Milly,” but it seemed he could not speak
that name at this moment.
“ Yon must be lonely here,” said Melieent,
feeling that she must say something to the point,
for time was passing, and she dreaded the thought
of her husband returning and finding her away
after what had occurred that morning. “l'ou
must be lonely here: this is a gloomy spot, and
Manch tells me you have traveled and seen
many beautiful places—would you not rather
live at some of these?”
“All places are pretty much alike to me,” he
answered. “The same sun shines on them, the
same sky hangs over them, and we walk under
it with the same hearts in our bosom. Places
don’t alter feelings.”
“But there are places more profitable to live
at—where you could make more money, I mean.”
“I make all I need here; my wants are few,”
he answered, looking up from the bird he fon
dled, and smiling an indescribably sweet and
patient smile that went to Melicent’s heart. She
was silent for a moment, hesitating liow else to
urge her desire that he should leave this place.
Then she bent nearer to him, her face still
shaded, and said impressively:
“ But suppose you are in danger here—watched
for and liable to be taken and—persecuted—
would it not be better to go away ?”
He gave a start of surprise; his hand involun
tarily clutched his breast; his eyes met hers
with that look of wild trouble and appealing.
“You know it, then,” he said, huskily. “So
they have found me out.”
“No. No one knows but me. I trust no one
ever will find out; but —they are in search of
you—they' are here—at this place. Y’ou know
this, do you not?”
“They told me there were men hunting me—
that they were close on my track,” he said,
pressing his hand to his forehead in a weary,
bewildered way. “But I could not make it
real; it has been a kind of nightmare with me so
long—this feeling of being hunted down—it
seems tlie danger must be a dream still.”
“It is top real,” murmured Melieent, “and j
you must go away soon, and secretly—for your
life’s sake."
“It’s not worth it. I am tired wandering
about like a wounded buffalo hunting a safe
place to die in. I had rather die and be buried
here. I don't want to go away; I want to rest.”
and 'lns'great. sfuTeyes rov0^aronn(f7in*instant',
and then dropped until their long lashes fell
upon his cheek! Melieent
back her tears.
“Has a lady on horseback been here, or have
you caught sight of one passing?”
“Caught what?’
“Sight of a lady, I told you.”
“ Dtinno about them critters; I’ve caught a lot
of fish, though. Don't you want to buy ’em ?—
all fresh and flopping.”
“Dam your impudence! Who said any
thing about fish ? I asked if a lady came here
or passed.”
“One might a" passed,” said Manch, reflect
ively, as he stopped trimming the lead-sinker
on his line, and put his forefinger on his chin.
“I've been fishin' in the bayou down there, and
what with the plaguey minnows a keepin’ your
cork bobbin’, and the mosketoes playin' tunes
under your nose, a body hasn’t much chance to
look out for ladies.”
“ You are either a fool or you pretend to be
one. Where’s the man who lives here?”
“Oh! he’s some better, thank’ee. We don’t
much think it’s the small-pox he’s got, but there’s
no tellin.’ Would you step in and see him?
May be you’re the doctor. ”
The man wheeled his horse and rode off, mut
tering an imprecation. Manch called out after
him, “You didn't say whether you’d take the
fishbut he made no reply. The boy indulged
in a quiet little chuckle as soon as his questioner
was out of hearing. Putting his head in at the
door, he asked:
“ How'’s your small-pox, Ishmael? A news
boy read me something in a paper that put me
up to that dodge. Now, I’ll go for your horse,
1 lady; I hid him in the old nigger fisherman’s
hen-house.”
“ Who was that man?” asked Ishmael. “Is he
one of them you said were on my track?”
“ Yes, he is the principal one. Yon may guess
how blood-thirsty when I tell you that he is the
murdered man’s son. And you will stay here
and put yourself in his power ?”
“I have changed my mind,” he said, slowly,
the light of hope that had so suddenly kindled
in his eyes still showing there. “I’ll try to es
cape—as some acknowledgment of your kind
ness, if nothing else. I thank you for that kind
ness with all my heart. I’ll not need to take your
money, I think. These things,” (pointing to the
collection of fossils, crystals, and curious pet-
rifications that she had been looking at) “are ,
worth something to scientific folks and museum
people, so I’ve been told. They’ll, maybe, bring
some money—enough to get away. I’ll get the
boy to sell them to-morrow.”
“I’ll buy them now,” said Melieent.
“To-morrow—I will send them to-morrow,” he
interrupted, as though wishing to make a delay.
Reluctance to any change seemed to be the rul
ing feeling in his mind. Melieent comprehended
the feeling—the helpless, unnerved weariness of
the man—tired of aimless wandering, tired of
flying from the nightmare dream of being
“hunted down;” broken in health, worse than
broken in spirits, though not yet thirty years of
age, asking nothing of his fellow-beings but per
mission to live out the remainder of his life in
the society of his dumb friends and of the child
who had so strangely attached himself to his
desolate fortunes, and to be buried a’t last near
what he supposed to be the grave of the wife he
had loved so well.
Melieent felt all this as she looked around the
poor room and noted all its humble details—a
bench, a home-made table, a pallet bed, a box
for the squirrel in one corner, in the other a vio
lin, the work of Ishmael’s own hands, and carved
and finished with much ingenuity. On the table
was a little book in old-fashioned leather bind
ing. Melieent took it up, and, struck by a sud
den memory, turned to the fly-leaf. Her heart
beat painfully; a dizzy feeling half blinded her,
as she read there, “ To Xeil from Milly," in the
pvoWl 1 * —■ —~ 4 .V " +. VlOrfl
been hers, blie remembered that she had given
“You shall be obeyed. In turn, you must
bear with me. I told you what lawless company
and a wild life had made of me. Smile now, to
show that you pardon me.”
Smile she did, but the smile was short-lived,
for at that moment they rode up to the gate of
the mayor’s house, and Melieent saw her hus
band looking at them from the porch. She
thought with a pang how he must regard her
conduct of this morning. Colonel Archer said
“good-bye” at the gate; he had lately taken lodg
ings at a hotel in another part of town, in order
to be with a friend, he told Mr. Avery.
Melieent went in and approached her husband
as he walked slowly up and down the piazza,
with an open letter in his hand.
“Have you been long at home, Aleck? - ’ she
asked.
“Nearly an hour,” was the cold reply.
She determined to speak a word of explana
tion. notwithstanding his discouraging manner.
“The day was so line I concluded to prolong
my ride,” she said. “ I rode down the river and
stopped at a fisherman's hut. and bought some
crystals and curious petrifications that I think
you will like for your cabinet. The boy will
bring them to-morrow. I rode alone: I did not
meet Colonel Archer until just now, at the cor
ner of the street.”
He stopped, and there was a struggle in his
mind. He wanted to throw off the burden of
suspicion, as unworthy of himself and her,—he
chafed under it with proud scorn: but an impal
pable something held him back. He did not
know what this undefinabie barrier might be;
he was only conscious of the restraint it exer
cised over him. In truth, it was his instinctive
perception of the shadow of secrecy that had
risen between Melieent and himself. He felt
that there was something he did not share—that
there was an alienation, a want of openness in
what she said and did. It was this that checked
the impulse to put his arm around her in the :
old, tender fashion, and talk to her freely and
fondly as she shared his favorite promenade in
the latticed gallery. Instead of this, he said:
“I think they are about to serve dinner. You
will barely have time to get ready.”
(TO BE CONTINUED. )
[For The Sunny South.]
UNDER THE WHEELS.
BY CAROLINE MARSDALE.
We hear a great deal about our forefathers, but
where are their companions who urged them
along and sustained their flagging spirits ? There
is much talk about the Pilgrim Fathers; did
any women come over in the “May Flower?”
One would think not. We have our monuments
commemorating, our speeches and toasts cele
brating the deeds of our forefathers, but where
are those in honor of our foremothers? It is
ungenerous to push the old ladies aside as if i Let all true women honor him as a man, but
ble information respecting those subjects, are
not qualified to judge in a matter requiring more
enlarged views of literature or society. In gen
eral parlance woman is weak—incapable of ap
preciating man’s ideas—slow to comprehend the
plans and schemes of his life. This is too true:
but I ask. How old will the world be when she
learns these things if men continue to shut the
door and turn the key on every opportunity ?
Don't look down on her because she cannot tell
you whether her government is a monarchy, a
republic or an oligarchy. If she is weak, lift
her to the summit of your strength; ler her
breathe the calm, serene atmosphere of this
height; let her know that she is valued not for
her complexion, her dimples or her teeth, or be-
i cause she can give you the last strain from Ern-
ani, but because her virtues make her lovely
and lovable. This course will do much towards
softening the crudeness of society, and instead
of the flippant platitudes that pass between
young ladies and young gentlemen, we will have
sprightly and ingenious conversation; we will
have genial intercourse and free exchange of
opinion; pride will be aroused, thought quick
ened, and genius won from its solitudes. Then
poetry, politics, religion and beauty will meet
and commingle.
In less than five minutes Sir Walter Raleigh
did more to mould the manners of the world
than all the women of that reign. Do you think
he threw his cloak into the mud to please Eliza
beth ? Was she the primary and secret cause of
the act ? No; it was to advance his position at
court. It was self-interested desire dressed in
the garb of chivalry. So it is with much of the
conversationalism—conveniently adopted as the
only road to success with the fair queens of so
ciety. It is done either to pamper the vanity
of women or to further some selfish design.
Why do women dress ? Why do they flirt ? Why
are there so many incessant and senseless talk
ers? Why are these “airy nothings without a
local habitation or a name?” It is to please yon,
gentlemen! Then if you do not approve such
things, why encourage them? Why allow a
weak creature, a gew-gaw, a pretty plaything, to
deprive you of your individuality? Cease to
admire, and they cease to exist. But after you
yield and take part in these follies, it is ignoble
to slip out and join in the cry, “ O ! the vanities,
the extravagances, the follies of women !” l'ou
who are strong should bear the infirmities of the
weak. It is said that men are seldom so ungen
erous as when they have been colleagues in an
affair that has turned out unfortunately. Let
manly honesty come to the rescue and say that
the faults and foibles of society shall not be in :
an unscrupulous and unqualified manner laid
at the door of the weaker sex. Come forward, I
though Cato-like you fall on your own sword.
She does not ask such a champion as Mr. Mill; ,
she is too tenacious of that purity and loftiness
of soul that marks the true order of womanhood.
“young, lovely, richly-dressed and jewelled.
Prince James appears to have been completely
charmed by the many attractive graces of the
young lady, and the passionate love with which
his manly bosom swelled inspired him with new
life and energy. It was Joan Beaufort he had
discovered promenading in the “garden thick
with May leaves, and musical with the liquid
song of nightingales;” and. “while all life was
bright with the rosy hue of a new-blown pas
sion, he sung his sweetest song:"
“Cast I down mine eyes again.
Where, as I saw. walking under the tower.
Fill secretly new comen here to plain
The fairest or the freshest young flower
That ever I saw, methought. before that hour,
For which sudden abote. anon astart.
The blood of all my body to my heart.
Of her array the farm if I shall write.
Towards her golden hair and rich attire.
In fretwise conchit (inlaid) with poarlis white,
The great balas learning as the fire.
With mony ane emeraut and fair sapphire:
And on her head a chaplet fresh of hue.
Of pluniis parted red, and white and blue.
they had kept themselves under a bushel all the
w hile their husbands and sons were fighting for
liberty. But this tendency is not peculiar to the
people of that day, nor is it peculiar to any one
country.
Sir Walter Scott was regarded as a great cham
pion of the fair sex. It is easy to forgive his
saying:
“O, woman, in our hours of ease,
Uncertain, coy and hard to please,
Variable as the shade
By the light quivering aspen made;”
since conscience stirred him to round it with
the beautiful melody,—
“ But when pain and anguish wring the brow,
A ministering angel thou.”
But one of the best stories of this same cham
pion was taken from the life of a man who aban
doned ids wife and five cbildvqjd-tao-awecarious
living, cut out on a romantic mission. Yet
shun him as a politician. The inequality she
suffers is not imposed by law, not even by con
vention—it is imposed by nature. Women wield
a power, but that power is used most wisely
when used most cautiously. She holds a sceptre,
but that sceptre cannot be too deftly wreathed
with roses.
[For The Sunny South.]
THE ORIGIN AND DEVELOPMENT
—OF—
ENGLISH LITERATURE.
BY HENRY ETHEL WHITFIELD.
CHAPTER II.—Continued.
Next, in point of time, and first (up to his
time) in greatness, writer of true English before the cases of full type, tlie copy set up be-
-jfuulevio Jclla f ule liilil, Hlitl tlie gioowl hiick ix>» lrl.*~hail<!ly
aiocm tt . . . g ra( j ua Hy w ith type to form a line.
about his work nothing of that quick,
nip which marks the fingers of the
And when she walked had a little thraw
Under the sweet greene boughis bent.
Her fair fresh face, as white as any snow.
She turned has. and furth her wayis went:
But tho began mine aches and torment
To see her part, and follow I no might:
Methought the day was turned into night.”
The royal poet afterwards became King of
Scotland, and husband of the woman he so pas
sionately loved, and of whom he so sweetly
sang.
It is sad to relate that this noble sovereign was
cruelly murdered by a factious nobleman and
his bloody accomplices.
Although only thirty-seven years elapsed be
tween the death of Chaucer and that of King
James the First, yet the change that had taken
place in the character of the English language
was very great. The wording of the verses
above quoted is almost sufficiently modem to be
readily understood by one who may never have
made the old English a close study. In the age
of which I am now writing, the language was
fast assuming a better form: and this was not all,
for a bright era for English literature was near
at hand.
Yes, it may be again remarked that a new and
brighter era was about to dawn upon rustic old
England.
Never, since the creation of the world, had
such a thing as a printing press been seen in
Britain; but the man who was destined to be
come the great founder of the English printing
! industry was born in a rural district, about
1412.
William Caxton, the “Father of the English
Press,” had traveled and lived many years in
Germany. Whilst in that country, he learned
the art of printing, and, in the year 1474, he
conveyed his materials across the narrow waters,
and established himself at Westminster for the
purpose of making real English hooks. It was a
novel sight, no doubt, to behold this old man,
already in the “sear and yellow leaf,” working
earnestly at his press, surrounded by a crowd of
awe-struck admirers, or, perhaps, sneerers.
But Caxton worked on, and in 1474 the first
English book was printed. The work was en
titled “The Game and Playe of the Chesse.”
It must be a matter of deep interest to know
how this indefatigable pioneer managed to pros
ecute his great work to a successful issue; and
this first attempt at printing in England is
graphically remarked upon by a distinguished
author as follows:
“ Let us pass into liis work-shop and see the
early friends at their toil. Two huge frames of
wood support the thick screws which work the
pressing slabs. There sits the grave compositor
“You give up your hold on life so easily,” j recollected how proud both teacher and pupil i captivated by the scene inthe church-vard,—’the He also waged a life-time contest with the cor- modern* onmositor“as they fly amongithe* type
she said; • you should have hope; you are yet were when he was able fo read his first chapter white palfrey browsing, the old man bending cler K.v, and did much to expose them in nn ,i se ize the very letter wanted in a trice. With
in flip Tpstnnipnf WIipti 1 onmio on A OVQV flvzx 1 * . „ 1: • a_ tllPif fmil stftt.P of IlilSPTlPSS ivnrl pnrrnnlinn • i u a. . i __ _ ,1 xl. .i.in.i
young
“If you reckon age by years; but I take it we
have all our track measured off. I’ve gone over
mine: I've passed all the mile-stones,—love, and
happiness, and hope even. There’s but one left
for me, and that’s one we’ve all got to pass. It
don’t matter how or when I get to that. There’s
nobody to care but Manch and my dumb family
here: they’d miss me a little—wouldn’t you,
Bunch ?" he said, stroking the slick head of the
in the Testament. When she could command | over the obliterated epitaphs, chiseling into new
life the faded emblems of the courage and suffer
ings of his warrior forefathers. A beautiful de-
] votion! one sacred in the eyes of posterity; but
i doubtless could we have looked upon the strug- atl °n.”
herself, she turned to Ishmael.
“Is not this a tell-tale?” she asked, gently.
“ Ought you not to tear out the leaf?”
He caught up the book passionately.
“Never!” he cried; “I’ll never tear out that.
It'll be buried with me just like it is.”
He put it in his bosom and clasped his arms
over it; his mouth quivered with emotion.
Melieent could not have spoken after this. She j a laurel leaf upon the grave of her
their foul state of baseness and corruption.
His great and noble acts, through a long, la
borious life, have caused him to be very justly
called “the morning star of our English Reform-
gling mother and needy children, our enthusi-
i asm would have been divided between the living
and the dead. We, who have a keen vision and
first
In 1328 was born Geoffrey Chaucer, the
great writer of English verse.”
It cannot be ascertained in what part of En
quiet and steady pace, and many a thoughtful
pause, his fingers travel through their task. The
master printer, in his furred gown, moves
through the room, directs the wedging of a
page or sheet, and then resumes his high stool,
to complete the reading of a proof pulled freshly
from the press. The worker of the press has
found the balls or dabbers, with which the form
feeling of ordinary human life, would fain drop ^ ,0 . rn: no F * s much known about 0 f type is inked, unfit for use. He must make
.. . , , -j , , . , ;— - -r [ «**». gni't he. who faithfully ! ''here anil how he received his early education, fresh ones, so down he sits with
intle ground-squirrel, that had first slyly peeped shook hands with him in silence. When she i stood in his place, discharging the duties in- | It; ^ however, quite certain that lie, somehow' an( j corded wool to stuff the ball
parted with Manch, he said to her:
Go back by the road you came.
out of his coat pocket, then ran up his arm and
crouched upon his shoulder, eyeing him with
head on one side.
“How will I rouse him?” Melieent thought.
“He is sunk in a kind of helpless apathy. He | thinking to find you.”
will not realize the danger until it is too late. ”
“ I thought to find you more prudent,” she
said, after a pause.
raw sheep-skin
and tie it round
He come
“ I thought I could make
you feel the necessity of going away; and if you
had not the means, I would furnish it.”
“l"ou?” he said, looking up wonderinglv at
her; “ why should you give anything to me ?"
Melieent was glad of the friendly shield of lace
that half screened her face from the scrutiny of
those truth-compelling eyes; but she answered
earnestly:
“Why should one human being do anything
for another? Are we not bound to feel for and
to help each other by our very nature of human
ity?” Then glancing around and seeing that
Manch, who had gone off, had not returned, she
continued: “The boy Manch interested me in
your fate. I liked him: he is true-hearted. I
found out from him, inadvertently, that you
was his best friend. I had heard your story—a
portion of it at least—from another source; I can
not tell you about it now.”
“l'ou did not hear it all,” he said, slowly
shaking his head, “oi you wouldn’t interest
yourself about me. You didn't hear what a
wretch I was—a—a murderer ?”
“Yes.”
“That I killed an old man for his money?”
“Yes, I have heard it all—and I believe you
innocent.”
“You believe me innocent? No, nobody be- !
lieves that unless it's Manch—not my own mother
and brother. No, that can’t be.”
“Yes, it is,” said Melieent; “I do not believe
yon guilty—and I have heard it all.”
He was silent: his lips moved, but he did not
speak audibly. A change seemed to pass over .
him. He lifted his head more erectlv than he
that way just now; but he’s gone back by the i season for the women of the present day.
other road —round by granny’s house. He’s j Woman is such a fine theme for satire" that few
" inking to find you.” ! writers of genius have had the generosity to re-
“ He must have seen me come out of town,” | sist it. If she had not existed, Byron would
Melieent thought, as she gave free rein to her 1 have been consumed of his own bitterness,
horse and went homeward at a rapid rate. As ; “Women mould the manners of the world,” is a
she was turning into the street on which she i saying as honored as it is ancient. Like many
tended for a stronger arm. But these examples | ° r °Hier, managed to acquire much and varied the handle of the dab. Till this is done, the
belong to the past. We wish to speak a word in | knowledge. Part of his chequered life was j press-work is at a stand. But there is no hurry
lived, a horseman turned the opposite corner,
crossed over and rode up beside her.
‘ ‘ My fair runaway. ” said Colonel Archer, bend
ing lightly in his saddle, “how did you manage
to elude me this morning?”
“Did I make an appointment to ride with you,
Colonel ?” she asked haughtily.
‘Not exactly: but when I suggested the disa
wise sayings, we accept it, and never stop to
| question the soundness of its philosophy, or in- |
j quire into the customs of the age in which the
author lived, or the circumstances bv which he
spent in courtly ease, for he soon gained the
favor of his royal master, King Edward the
Third. In the troubles which took place not
long after the decease of that monarch, misfor
tunes overtook the poet, and he led, for awhile,
an unhappy existence as exile in France and
Zeeland. At the expiration of eighteen months,
he returned to England, and, on the accession
of Henry the Fourth, he was again taken into
royal favor. His death occurred in 1400.
The famous “Canterbury Tales” were the
press-
in the Almonry; and all the better this, for the
imperfection of the machinery makes great care
necessary on the part of the workmen. Then,
suppose the proofs corrected, and the sheets,
or pages rather, printed off, the binder’s work
begins. Strong and solid was this old binding.
When the leaves were sowed together in a frame
(a rude original of that still used), they were
hammered well to make them flat, and the back
was thickly overlaid with paste and glue. Then
came the enclosing of the paper in boards—ver-
may have been surrounded. Some people are | chief productions of this author; and upon (table boards — thick pieces of wood like the
• ii _• i i i til pm Ins “ramp ne n writer coomu mainlir 4-/-, 4/% , i i • i • i i
addicted to forming their own landscapes and
coloring their own skies. They look through a
self-tinted lens at everything. Who knows but
fame as a writer seems mainly to de-
greeableness, not to say impropriety, of your I that the author of this saying felt his conscience
riding alone, and coming back with headaches, ! a little weighty, and in a moment of devoted
you acquiesced—by your eloquent silence, if in | chivalry, tossed the burden on the weaker sex?
no other way.” 1 ' vr ’' 1 ■ ’ -
“I went out this morning with my husband.
“But returned without that useful"appendage,
and rode away at your own sweet will, in alto
gether another direction. ”
*' I am grateful for the interest you manifest
in my movements. Y'ou must take great pains
to watch them.”
“A little bird told me of them this time, how
ever; but when I mounted my horse and hast
ened to overtake you, in the fulness of good in
tentions, you spirited yourself away—vanished,
horse and rider, like a lady in a fairy tale.”
“I have the gift of being invisible when I
wish,” said Melieent, pointedly.
“ Which means that you desire to be invisible
to me?”
Melieent, in her heart, wished she could turn
upon him and frankly answer “Yes;” but how
them his
pend.”
In giving his opinion of him, Spenser writes
thus:
“That renowned poet.
Dan Chaucer, weU of England undefyled,
On Fame’s eternal beadroll worthy to be tyled.”
And, while Hallum ranks him with Dante and
1 Never did a scratch from the gray goose quill so
’ | tickle the fancy of the world as this. However t> . .
i true it may seem, experience bears proof that J, etr , areh ’ ( ^ I ol . 1 if r ., says „ t ^, at ,• proudly wears
men act a very important part in this great drama. * 16 honored Father ot English Poetry: nor can
Woman looks upon man as something stronger the most brilliant of his successors feel ashamed
and wiser than herself. Nature intended great
ness for man, although she sometimes makes sad
oversights in carrying out her intentions. But
however great and wise they may be, there is
one mistake too common among them, and this
mistake occurs in that very arena where women
are said to be most potent in moulding the man- !
ners of the world. The mistake is that they
judge women'in the aggregate. Let the following I
instance illustrate:
At a small evening party, two gentlemen of
note were conversing on subjects of public in
terest, touching as well the women who love
their country as the men. Any one with a tol
could she with poor Ishmael’s face fresh in her erable knowledge of the English language could
mind, and her knowledge that his safety might
depend on her keeping friendly with this man ?
She lifted her eyes to Colonel Archer—proud
had done before: a flush mounted to his pale eyes, but soft with unshed tears—and made her
cheek: his eye brightened. It was as though
hope, and the energy of life that is bom of hope,
had been suddenly kindled in his breast by the
knowledge that one being believed in him. He
seemed about to speak, but before he did so
Manch came running up and went close to Mel
ieent.
“Did you ever see a heron’s egg?” he asked,
putting one into her hand. As she took it, he
said, in a rapid whisper:
“ There’s somebody coming down the road
they'll come here, maybe. Go into the house,
and I'll put your horse out of sight." Turning
round, he said aloud: "Ishmael, show the ladv
appeal:
“Colonel Archer, I entreat yon, as a gentle
man, to cease such trifling: it wounds my self-
respect. I do not want to offend you. I would
like you to be a friend to me in a straightfor
ward, honest way.” She stopped and added
impressively: “There are things I may do that
will seem singular—imprudent, perhaps: things
I would not do but for the force of circumstances.
Don't misinterpret them, please—and don't pre
sume upon them.”
A purer and less passionate man would have
appreciated this appeal, with its tone of mild
ness and its undertone of repressed but strong
the curious bones and rock things you brought displeasure. It clouded Colonel Archer's face
from Californy.
“Would she like to look at them?” Ishmael
said, and led the way into the house, Manch re
maining without.
They had hardly entered when a man on horse
back rode up to the door. Melieent trembled
with dread, while her cheeks burned with indig
nant feeling, for the voice was that of Colonel
Archer. He had actually followed her there.
“Hillo, bov!" he cried; “has a lady been
bere ?”
“What’s the row? - ’ drawled Manch. leisurely
turning round from the fishing line he was fixing.
one moment with chagrin and disappointment.
But her eves were so beautiful, flashing through
soft tearfulness, and his mind was so set upon
believing its own wishes to be truth, that he
consoled himself, and let vanity and cynicism
put their interpretation on Melieent s words.
“ She is trying to keep me at bay,” he thought.
"She is afraid of me—afraid of herself as well.
She is so firm because she is conscious of weak
ness.”
Still her words were not altogether without
effect, and he was not wholly insincere when he
bowed his head and murmured:
have understood that conversation. At least a
lady stood near listening with keen interest; but
when the gentleman turned to address her, he
changed his voice and manner, and suddenly-
dropped to the level of small talk. The first
thing he said was, “Y'ou are looking charming,
madam”—the poor woman standing there, faded
and jaded in the pitiless gaslight. He next
asked her how she was enjoying the evening; he
then remarked on the weather: then looked aw
fully bored. The lady felt instinctively that
this wise man thought her ignorant of every
subject of public and private weal, and dared
not destroy the supposition by broaching a sub
ject or expressing an opinion lest he might think
her strong-minded and unfeminine.
Dear sirs, ladies need not be formidably strong-
minded, or literary, or scientific, to talk sensibly
on general subjects. The newspapers enable
them to do that; with all our schools, the press
is an ever-present educator. And this gentle
man who was so acute and astute, and really so
obtuse as not to see that the lady was gauging
him all the while, and felt no fear in believing
of such a lineage.
Whilst only about forty years had intervened
between the time when Sir John De Mandeville
wrote his work of travels, and the period when
Chaucer composed the “Canterbury Tales,” yet
a considerable improvement had taken place in
the form and shape of the English language.
The reader should do full justice to the trans-
- cendent genius of this poet; and to do this, it
must be remembered that he had no model, per
haps, to guide him, but that he was forced to
grope his way, lonely and unassisted, through
the then dark and unexplored regions of the
| muses.
The following is from his greatest work:
“ A knight there was. and that a worthy man,
That fro the time he first began
To riden out. he loved chevalrie,
Trouthe and honour, fredom and courtesie.
Ful worthy was he in his lordes werre,
And thereto hadde be ridden, no man ferre,
As well in Christendom as in Hethenesse,
And ever honoured for his worthiness.
His ilke worthy knight hadde ben also
Sometime with the lard Palatie,
Agen another hethen in Turkie:
And evermore he hadde a sovereine fris.
And though that he was worthy he was wise,
And of his port as meke as is a mayde
He never yet no villanie ne sayde
In all his life, into a manere wight.
But for to tellen you of his arail.
His hors was good, but he ne was not gaie.
Of fustian he wered a gipon,
Alle besmotred with his habergeon,
For he was late grome from his viage,
And wente for to dom his pilgrimage.’*
In tlie year 1394, King James the Second, of
Scotland, was bom. His father, Robert the
Third, had become well-nigh heart-broken on
account of the murder of his son Rothesay, and, .
j panel of a door, covered outside with embossed
i and gilded leather, and thickly studded with
i brass nails, whose ornamental heads shone in
| manifold rows. Thick brass comers and solid
1 clasps completed the fortification of the book,
! which was made to last for centuries. Half a
dozen such volumes used then to form an exten
sive and valuable library.” •
We certainly owe much to William Caxton for
the great service he rendered civilization when
he took upon his aged shoulders the apparently
almost superhuman task of introducing, un
aided and with but scanty means, the grandest
of all the wonderful inventions that the wonder
ful genius of enterprising man has given birth to.
It could hardly have been long before the be
nign influence of the press was felt in England.
It is almost incredible how suddenly and mate
rially the price of books fell—a sure proof of
the benefit derived from the enterprise of those
pioneers; and it is pleasant to see, from the fol
lowing, that Englishmen are not altogether in
sensible of the gratitude they owe to the good
man—the light of whose genius shed a cheering
raj - of brightness over the hitherto dark and
gloomy field of English literature:
“ These were the men who printed our earliest
English books. Their types have been multi
plied by millions, and their pages by hundreds.
A little silver coin can now buy the book for
which Caxton charged a piece of gold. The
British cottage is indeed a poor one which can
not show some volumes as well printed and as
finely bound as his finest works. Rejoicing, as
we do, in the countless blessings which the
press has given to Britain, let us not forget that
arched room in old Westminster, where our
earliest printer bent his silvered head over the
first proof-sheets of the ‘Game of Chesse.’”
(to be continued.)
An amateur journalist of Indianapolis has
made his fortune by his pen. His father-in-law
died of grief after reading one of his leaders, and
left him one hundred and thirty thousand dol
lars.
The Sanscrit class in Boston I niversity in-
in order that his other son, James, might be safe eludes two young ladies. So far as known, they
from the wicked wiles of certain rebellious no- are the first of their sex in America or Europe
and saying that if he had been called upon to blemen, he was sent from Scotland in a ship, to undertake this difficult study.
parse the constitution, Murray would have risen
from his grave.
There are many high-toned and chivalrous
gentlemen who have really read and thought
much, but their reading and meditation have
been confined to one class of subjects, and who,
consequently, though they possess much valua-
Nthich was to convey him to France. But the
vessel was captured "off the English coast, and
the young prince was detained as a captive.
The royal prisoner was confined in the Round
Tower of Windsor. One morning, upon looking
out of the window, he saw a beautiful woman
walking in a garden near by. This fair one was
St. Louis has a magazine, all the work of
which, editorial and mechanical, is said to be
done bv women.
Miss Alice Vickery is reported to be the first
and only registered pharmaceutist in England
INSTINCT PRINT