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ther, Sir William De Stancy, walking | So, as I was saying, just at the time the among the tombstones without. books came, I got an inkling of this important business, and literature went to the wall."

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Yes, indeed," said Dare, turning the key in the door. "It would look strange if he were to find us here."

As the old man seemed indisposed to leave the church-yard just yet, they sat down again.

"What a capital card-table this green cloth would make!" said Dare, as they waited. "You play, Captain, I suppose?" "Very seldom."

"The same with me.. But as I enjoy a hand of cards with a friend, I don't go unprovided." Saying which, Dare drew a pack from the tail of his coat. "Shall we while away this leisure with the witching things?"

'Really, Willy, I'd rather not." "But," coaxed the young man, "I am in the humor for it; so don't be unkind." "But, Willy, why do you care for these things? Cards are harmless enough in their way, but I don't like to see you carrying them in your pocket. It isn't good for you."

"It was by the merest chance I had them. Now come, just one hand, since we are prisoners. I want to show you how nicely I can play. I won't corrupt you."

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'Of course not, Willy," said De Stancy, as if ashamed of what his objection had implied. "You are not corrupt enough yourself to do that."

The cards were dealt, and they began to play, Captain De Stancy abstractedly, and with his eyes mostly straying out of the window upon the large yew, whose boughs as they moved were distorted by the old green window-panes.

"It is better than doing nothing," said Dare, cheerfully, as the game went on. "I hope you don't dislike it?"

"Not if it pleases you," said De Stancy, listlessly.

"And the consecration of this place does not extend further than the aisle wall."

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"Important business-what?"

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"The capture of this lady, to be sure." De Stancy sighed impatiently. wish you were less calculating, and had more of the impulse natural to your years."

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'Game-by God! You have lost again, Captain. That makes-let me see nine pounds fifteen to square us.

"I owe you that?" said De Stancy, startled. "It is more than I have in cash. I must write another check."

"Never mind. Make it payable to self, and it will be quite safe."

Captain De Stancy did as requested, and rose from his seat. Sir William, though further off, was still in the churchyard.

"How can you hesitate for a moment about this girl?" said Dare, pointing to the bent figure of the old man. "Think of the satisfaction it would be to him to see his son within the family walls again. It should be a religion with you to compass such a legitimate end as this."

"Well, well, I'll think of it," said the captain, with an impatient laugh. You are quite a Mephistopheles, Will-I say it to my sorrow."

"Would that I were in your place!" "Would that you were! Fifteen years ago I might have called the chance a magnificent one."

"But you are a young man still, and you look younger than you are. Nobody knows our relationship, and I am not such a fool as to divulge it. Of course, if through me you reclaim this splendid possession, I should leave it to your feelings what you would do for me."

Sir William had by this time cleared out of the church-yard, and the pair emerged from the vestry and departed. Proceeding toward Markton by the same by-path, they presently came to an eminence covered with bushes of blackthorn and tufts of yellowing fern. From this point a good view of the woods and glades about Stancy Castle could be obtained. Dare stood still on the top, and stretched out his finger; the captain's eye followed the direction, and he saw above the manyhued foliage in the middle distance the towering keep of Paula's castle.

"That's the goal of your ambition,

And it was necessary to have help from Havill, even if it involved letting him know all.

Perhaps he already knew all. Havill had had opportunities of reading his secret, particularly on the night they occupied the same room.

Captain-ambition, do I say?-most right- | return.
eous and dutiful endeavor! How the
hoary shape catches the sunlight-it is
the raison d'être of the landscape, and its
possession is coveted by a thousand hearts.
Surely it is a hereditary desire of yours?
You must make a point of returning to it,
and appearing in the map of the future as
in that of the past. I delight in this
work of encouraging you, and pushing
you forward toward your own. You are
really very clever, you know, but I say
it with respect-how comes it that you
want so much waking up?"

"Because I know the day is not so bright as it seems, my boy. However, you make a little mistake. If I care for anything on earth, I do care for that old fortress of my forefathers. I respect so little among the living that all my reverence is for my own dead. But manoeuvring even for my own, as you call it, is not in my line. It is distasteful-it is positively hateful to me."

"Well, well, let it stand thus for the present. But will you refuse me one little request-merely to see her? I'll contrive it so that she may not see you. Don't refuse me; it is the one thing I ask, and I shall think it hard if you deny me."

"Oh, Will!" said the captain, wearily. 'Why will you plead so? No, even though your mind is particularly set upon it, I can not see her, or bestow a thought upon her, much as I should like to gratify you."

CHAPTER VII.

WHEN they had parted, Dare walked along toward Markton, with resolve on his mouth, and an unscrupulous light in his prominent black eye. Could any person who had heard the previous conversation have seen him now, he would have found little difficulty in divining that, notwithstanding De Stancy's obduracy, the enrichment and re-instation of Captain De Stancy, and the possible legitimation of himself as successor to the castle,. was still the dream of his brain. Even should any legal settlement or offspring intervene to nip the extreme development of his project, there was abundant opportunity for his glorification.

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If so, by revealing it to Paula, Havill might utterly blast his project for the marriage. Havill, then, must at all risks be retained as an ally.

Yet Dare would have preferred a stronger check upon his confederate than was afforded by his own knowledge of that anonymous letter and the competition trick. For were the competition lost to him, Havill would have no further interest in conciliating Miss Power; would as soon as not let her know the secret of De Stancy's relation to himself, in retaliation for the snubbing and fright he had received by production of the revolver.

Fortune as usual helped him in his dilemma. Entering Havill's office, Dare found him sitting there; but the drawings had all disappeared from the boards. The architect held an open letter in his hand. "Well, what news?" said Dare.

"Miss Power has returned to the castle, Somerset is detained in London, and the competition is decided," said Havill, with a glance of quiet triumph.

"And you have won it?"

"No. We are bracketed-it's a tie. The judges say there is no choice between the designs-that they are singularly equal and singularly good. That she would do well to adopt either. Signed So-and-so, Fellows of the Royal Institute of British Architects. The result is that she will employ which she personally likes best. It is as if I had spun a guinea in the air, and it had alighted on its edge. The least false movement will make it tails; the least wise movement heads."

"Singularly equal. Well, we owe that to our nocturnal visit, which must not be known."

"Oh Lord, no!" said Havill, apprehensively.

Dare felt secure of him at those words. Havill had much at stake; the slightest rumor of his trick in bringing about the competition would be fatal to Havill's reputation; his own position was consequently safe.

"The permanent absence of Somerset is, then, desirable architecturally on your account, matrimonially on mine."

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"Matrimonially? By-the-way-who | the castle, and also of the old postern was that captain you pointed out to me as gate, now enlarged, and used as the your man when the artillery entered the tradesmen's entrance. It was half past town ?" six o'clock; the dressing-bell rang, and Dare saw a light-footed young woman hasten at the sound across the ward from the servants' quarter. A light appeared in a chamber which he knew to be Paula's dressing-room; and there it remained half an hour, a shadow passing and repassing on the blind in the style of head-dress

Captain De Stancy-son of Sir William De Stancy. He's the husband. Oh, you needn't look incredulous: it is practicable; but we won't argue that. In the first place, I want him to see her, and to see her in the most love-kindling, passionbegetting circumstances that can be thought of. And he must see her surrep-worn by the girl he had previously seen. titiously, for he refuses to meet her." "Let him see her going to church or chapel."

Dare shook his head.

"Driving out?"
"Commonplace."

"Walking in the gardens ?"
"Ditto."

"At her toilet?"

"Ah-if it were possible!"

'Which it hardly is. Well, you had better think it over, and make inquiries about her habits, and as to when she is in a favorable aspect for observation, as the almanacs say.

Shortly afterward Dare took his leave. In the evening he made it his business to sit smoking on the bole of a tree which commanded a view of the upper ward of

The dinner-bell sounded, and the light went out.

As yet it was scarcely dark out-of-doors, and in a few minutes Dare had the satisfaction of seeing the same young woman cross the ward and emerge upon the slope without. This time she was bonneted, and carried a little basket in her hand. A nearer view showed her to be, as he had expected, Milly Birch, Paula's maid, who had friends living in Markton, whom she was in the habit of visiting almost every evening during the three hours of leisure which intervened between Paula's retirement from the dressing-room and return thither at ten o'clock. When the young woman had descended the road and passed into the large drive, Dare rose and followed her.

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HE contrast between the inauguration of power. Both marked an incident which has

of Gar

field measures the increase of national feeling. According to the familiar story, Mr. Jefferson mounted his horse, rode along the avenne toward the Capitol, tied his horse to the paling, and went in to take the oath. This was a fitting proceeding for a Chief Magistrate who held that the national government was a mere department of foreign affairs. General Garfield proceeds to the Capitol with a splendid popular pageant, with triumphant peals of music, under flags and arches, amid a vast concourse of people, packed in the streets, crowding roofs and windows, shouting and rejoicing; and with every imposing form of popular acclamation, he enters upon his office. This also becomes a man who holds that the national government is very much more than a department of foreign affairs.

In both cases, however, there is a certain sublimity and significance in the spectacle which ought never to be forgotten. The ostentatious bareness of the first incident, the profuse magnificence of the second, alike attested the perfectly peaceful transfer of immense

|

always critical, and

some of the greatest civil convulsions in history. In the glittering procession of the other day two civilians sat side by side in a barouche. One lifted his hat constantly, and bowed in acknowledgment of the continuous and enthusiastic greeting. The other sat quietly, covered, and tranquilly watching the throng. The day before, the simple writing of his name by this last man had prevented the desire of a majority of the representatives of fifty millions of people from becoming a law, and not one person of the fifty millions thought of any course but entire acquiescence. Yet when, an hour or two later, he should return in that carriage, his word and his will would have no more power than those of any other individual of the fifty millions. The executive authority of all those millions would have passed without question or disturbance to the companion beside him, and all the vast and complicated system of government that controls a continent would proceed without a jar.

The simple but splendid ceremony of inau

guration, more impressive than that of an im- | sible in a country, but impossible in a State, or perial coronation, is an illustration of that a county, or a parish, do not diminish, they "law-abiding" instinct of the English-speaking | deepen, local love and pride.

race which is its glory. It will accomplish all good results, if allowed only to develop according to its nature. Speaker Lenthal, falling on his knee before the king, and saying, "Sire, I have no eyes or ears but by the will of the Honse whose servant I am," is the political genius of the race asserting its peaceful law of progress. If the king or any other body or thing should obstruct, the obstruction would be swept away. In the same way, the deeper and stronger national feeling which is shown by the recent inauguration, as compared with that of Jefferson, is but another growth and develment of the same genius. It includes that of Jefferson.

CARLYLE, although one of the great literary forces of his time, has not been, in the "selling" sense, a popular author. An English traveller said that he understood that the American workman began by building a house, and then proceeded to stock it with a piano and a set of Dickens. Carlyle was as remarkable a power as his famous contemporary, but his books are not so universally diffused. There is no doubt that the posthumous work, the Reminiscences, has already sold more largely than any of the works upon which his fame rests, and that there has been no such portrait gallery before. It is marked by that overpowering quality which distinguished everything that the author did, and which Emerson's noble lines upon Michael Angelo truly describe: "He wrought in sad sincerity;

Himself from God he could not free."

The active sentiment of nationality is a growth, and a growth so gradual and unconscious that its force, in our own case, was ascertained only by the severest test. The old ideal of a cluster of small, individually powerless communities, leagued against a possible common enemy, vanishes under certain condi- It is this earnest fidelity which prevents the tions as surely as dew dries when the sun rises. | Reminiscences from seeming to be all patronage Community of race, of language, of religion, of and pity; one poor mortal, as Carlyle himself tradition; immediate neighborhood, and con- might say, setting himself up in Rhadamanstant and necessary mingling of people, com- thus fashion to pass sentence of incapacity bination of interests and purposes, and the and failure upon the rest. Reading, for inwelding together of remoter parts by steam, stance, what he says of Charles Lamb, it is the telegraph, and space-annihilating inven- hardly possible in turn to avoid pitying Cartion and enterprise; and over all the instinct- lyle that he saw no more than feeble wit with ive knowledge that cohesion is life, and that a proclivity to gin. The reader who finds in separation is death-these make a nation of Elia and the letters something more than that, such neighbors, and a nation that can not be almost wishes to do what Lamb did upon a disintegrated. Jefferson's department-of-for- certain occasion-light a candle and ask to eign-affairs theory seems very grotesque now see the critic's bumps. that it is eighty years since he hitched his horse to the paling. He may have feared a consolidated empire, but although in his writings he constantly uses the word "nation" as descriptive of the Union, the inevitable de-ic. velopment of a nation, as distinguished from consolidation, did not occur to him.

It is a needless debate whether the Constitution contemplated a nation, because it was instinctively adapted to a nation, and a nation has arisen. The conditions for such a develment were very much more forcible and efficient here than in Great Britain. Yet even in Great Britain nobody believes that Scotland or Wales would vote itself free from the national connection were the opportunity offered. If Ireland would do so, the reason is obvious. It is that with no natural condition of national cohesion except neighborhood, every deterrent force has been invoked, and mutual hatred has been sedulously cultivated. | Among ourselves, at least, nobody need fear that the guarantees of local and personal liberty are relaxed because President Garfield proceeds to his inauguration in a triumphant and | resplendent procession, instead of solitary, in the saddle upon his old mare. The increase of national pride, the patriotism which is pos

But the sad sincerity, the fine insight, often, and the amazing vividness and picturesque felicity of the style, make the Reminiscences a remarkable book. It is in many ways iconoclast

Men are well, and, upon the whole, properly, judged, as the phrase is, "at their best." Those who speak with such force as to influence the thought of a generation are so satisfactorily seen in their books, and in them alone, that it is painful to hear possibly degrading personal details about them: that they were not scrupulous about money; that their finger-nails were dirty; that they were smeared with snuff, or gurgled and snorted over their food at table. Is it not part of Shakespeare's happy fortune that he was veiled by the goddess upon the field, that we do not know a series of disagreeable and repulsive personal peculiarities, and that our Shakespeare is the Shakespeare of The Tempest, of Hamlet, of As You Like It, of Lear, and The Winter's Tale?

Carlyle might have written as the motto of the Reminiscences Schiller's "Zwischen uns sei Wahrheit"-Be truth between us. He pours ont his soul's fond loyalty to his wife, and the result is a figure of one of the noblest of women. His father, too, rises before us worthy of such

opera and the fashion have changed often since this beautiful work was first played. We are now in the midst of a possible revolution led by Wagner. Since Mozart, there have been Weber and Rossini and Bellini, Donizetti and Verdi and Meyerbeer, not to speak of later names. Romantic and supernatural story has given way to idyls, and pastorals, and chapters of history, as the musical thread; but as a rose of June is always supremely beautiful, whatever the new shrubs and flowers may be, so, whatever the operatic fashion of the hour, Don Giovanni is always welcome and always de

a son's pride and reverence. Edward Irving,
his early friend, is drawn with soft pathos,
"My own high Irving”—a man who was evi-
dently very fascinating to Carlyle. But the
touch becomes destructive when it is laid upon
Coleridge, for instance, and Shelley and Lamb,
and even John Stuart Mill and Wordsworth.
Between these men, and many others as differ-
ent from each other as these, there was some
bond of union with Carlyle lacking. Cole-
ridge and Carlyle-Coleridge being the first-
introduced Germany to England, and there
was something in Coleridge's intellectual spir-
it which should seem to have been very sym-lightful.
pathetic with Carlyle's humor. But he was
old when Carlyle saw him. The vision had
vanished.

In the Life of John Sterling, Carlyle had already drawn a masterly vivid portrait of the sage of Highgate, as vigorous a picture of any literary Englishman as we have. He had no glamour for the younger man. He was no seer or saint. Indeed, in Carlyle's description of him in the Life of Sterling, there is in the impression something ludicrously like that of Dickens's bottle-green Patriarch. It was a terrible disenchantment to the enthusiast of the "Ancient Mariner," of "Christabel," and of the Biographia Literaria to encounter a snuffling, snuffy old man, prosing endlessly upon tiresome themes, with mournful iteration through his nose of the "summ-ject" and the "omm-ject" of the German philosophic phrase. Poor Coleridge re-appears in the same plight in the Reminiscences, "a puffy......fattish old man, talking with a kind of solemn emphasis upon matters which were of no interest." "Nothing came from him" that was of any use to Carlyle. There was nothing but "the sight and sound of a sage who was so venerated by those about me, and whom I too would willingly have venerated, but could not-this was all."

It is supposed to strain the resources of any company very heavily. There must be three chief ladies and several effective gentlemen, who must be able to deal with difficult stretches of recitative, and with a plot which makes little progress. Don Giovanni is simply a legendary story musically illustrated. It lacks cohesion and the concentrated and limited interest arising from the development of a single motive. The action scatters, and the interest of the audience with it. The curtain falls often in perfect silence, and probably during the last thirty or forty years there have been a large number of persons who thought, at the end of every representation, "this work is becoming antiquated, and will soon disappear." But the skeptics of every generation are disappointed. The opera is as fresh and charming and popular as ever. It is, indeed, always "cut," or shortened, for representation, but it might be wisely "cut" still farther. A vigorous excision and condensation would improve it greatly, and prevent the occasional drag. Something must be taken for granted upon the part of the audience, and the opera might be made a succession of ravishing melodies which would be their own justification against the taste which holds that melody is a kind of unpardonable sin against music.

Don Giovanni, also, is an opera which, for its complete presentation, needs great skill of acting. The music from the beginning has the wail of tragedy and of the supernatural sound

That Carlyle should have told us so much of his own life, is something for which we should be grateful. Nobody else could have told it. Nobody else could have given us, as if drawn upon our own consciousness, his vividing through it. This culminates in the graveimpressions of the famous people around him. Yet in this book, as in all that he wrote, there is that depthless melancholy which is more characteristic of Carlyle than of any great author.

THE hold of the opera of Don Giovanni upon public favor is due to the charm of its exquisite melody, and it is the more remarkable because the performance is always a little wearisome to the general audience. Handel's operas are forgotten. Gluck's are seldom played. Beethoven's Fidelio is sometimes produced as an interesting study. But the ordinary opera public requires Don Giovanni as it requires the newer works of living men. There is no opera which is more familiar, but there is none which seems less likely to lose favor. The theory of VOL. LXII.-No. 372.-60

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yard scene and at the banquet, and it is not often that there is the genius in the singers to cope with the situation. Leporello is a lyrical Sancho Panza; and when the magnificent chords fill the chilled air in the grave-yard, he should be appalled with terror, and cease to be a clown. But this treatment demands a talent which is not easily found. It is equally true of the Don. We have seen the last scene of the opera performed with an élan, a fire and grace, which made it exceedingly impressive. It was the imaginative conception of a poetic artist.

Carrying off the difficult supper scene with sparkling spirit, the Don treated Elvira with a fine mocking air of gayety and gallantry, and bowed her elaborately to the door, beyoud which she was to meet the Commenda

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