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tower of floating San Giorgio blazed, a superb figure and then on his face-a face slender, roseate shaft against the blue. so noticeable that I had never seen him Somewhere from up the Riva sounded a pass along the street without causing men fresh voice singing the Santa Lucia. And and women to turn and gaze at him with all this to our young barbarian meant involuntary admiration. But, to my surbanishment! My Venice, where these prise, the lad's expression was one of the many years I had pitched my happy tent! most intense pity. His straight brows However, the boy was blurting out some- were drawn as if in pain, and the hollow thing in my ear, and I could not but listen. eyes underneath had melted from search

“Choose, choose to look at it that way?” ing disapprobation to a singular warmth he exclaimed. Then, with a burst of the and glow. inborn German sentimentalism, grafted so " What !” he exclaimed, “he, too! oddly on his American speech, “ If some What keeps him here? How he must one had adopted you, a helpless, hungry suffer !" child ; taken you to her heart; warmed After all, the burst of compassion was you at her hearth ; set you at her table; as real a tribute as the usual more convenmade you free of her glorious birthright-. tional and somewhat envious admiration. would you speak of choosing to call her It was impossible, at a first glance, to mother? Is that not the wonder of it - imagine Robert Bradford constrained by her wide arms for all ? And you would any but noble motives. In a breath, this make of me that most despicable of human inflammable young hero-worshiper had beings—a man without a country ?” cast at the older man's feet a passionate

“Ruhig, ruhig, mein kind,” interrupted devotion, an unquestioning belief. Mrs. Meier, anxiously; but the lad, his “ Tell me about him,” he continued, glowing eyes fastened on my face, hurried eagerly. “What keeps him over here? on, and still the strain of the alien blood He looks so strong. Why can't he fight? tinged his speech with a passion that we, His heart, perhaps ?” and the American stock which springs “ Possibly his heart," I murmured. from us, are chary of expressing.

“What are you smiling at? How can " And now," he cried,“ that our mother you smile?" pressed the boy. “He's a needs her sons, now that she is struggling, Northerner, isn't he? He's on our side ?” bleeding, dying, it may be, you say, “ You “I suppose so," I answered. “He is are no American. She is not your what you call a New Englander. His mother!”

people went over in the Mayflower. One “Ruhig, ruhig, mein kind !” Again the of his ancestors was an early Governor. anxious contraction of Mrs. Meier's face. Bradford is the name.” Her son sank back as if exhausted; then, “ Governor Bradford ? Oh, that's all with a hesitancy half diffident, half un- in the history; I've read about that," couth, that formed a sharp contrast with interrupted the lad. “Oh, of course he's the overstrained, school-boy rhetoric of a on our side. That makes it all the harder, moment before

doesn't it? And just look at his shoulders “ If you were an American, I guess and the way he holds his head! That's you'd understand."

the kind of man we want; I don't mean There was something almost disconcert- merely to fight; of course that's all I could ing in the gaze, so direct, so disapproving, do—but to lead. Oh, how can he stand with which his eyes continued to measure it, being exiled here !" me. I felt an absurd desire to divert it. A curious sense of embarrassment kept

“ There comes a fellow-countryman of me silent, yet I knew it was little more yours," I said, “who makes his home over than "truant disposition ”—a desire to here.” It was Bradford, hat in hand, loi- escape from the narrow walls of a life tering along the Riva. “That is he, stop- which gave no play to an artistic natureping to talk to that pretty water-carrier that held Bradford in willing exile. with the splashing copper buckets. En- Should I disclose to this young worshiper gaging her for a model, perhaps. He is the clay feet of his idol? an artist.”

“ He is, here is some reason," I stamYoung Meier's glance followed my mered, finally. “It seems he is not free pointing finger, and rested on Bradford's to go. ”






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Young Meier drew a deep breath. “If “May I assist at the little comedy?” I he had been with the Army of the Poto- asked. mac, before Richmond," he said,

“What time will you take me there, should never have retreated."

Madonna ?” When I next met Bradford, the some- I laughed. · Well, come at eleven towhat uncomfortable impression left by my morrow morning. Oh, by the way,” as interview with the lad had vanished, and my gondola glided off, “ do you exhibit only a sense of the humor of the situation this year?” remained.

He glanced at me with a slight lift of It was at a reception given by the his eyebrows.

his eyebrows. “So you have not forgiven beauty of the season, a Russian countess. me ?” he said. Excited by the brilliancy of the assem- For we still were vainly waiting for blage, Bradford had been in one of his Robert Bradford to take up his idle brush most audacious and captivating moods. and give the world his masterpiece. From across the room he had observed One of the rooms of our palazzo-penmy amused attention, and made his way sion yet boasted the remains of a faded to me through the throng. We fresco. A fair St. Catherine stood with always good friends. A woman of “in. bowed, golden head, awaiting martyrdom. finite taste,” he was pleased to call me. The rounded throat, the virginal draperies

Greeting me with the chivalrous note of the breast, were handled with a pecuin his voice always so grateful to a liar charm and subtlety. From its deco

no longer young, “I perceive, ration the room was called the “ Sala Madonna,” he said, “a particularly quiz- Santa Catarina.” In previous years I zical quality in your glance. You have had occupied it, and Bradford, on his something to tell me.

visits to me, had always taken great de“That you are an object of compas- light in the delicacy of the dim outlines sion,” I returned ; and then, with some and the hints of a warm and masterly colembellishments, I told my tale.

oring. As, therefore, on the next day we To my surprise, he stood impassive, and knocked at the door of the Meiers' apartneither smiled nor spoke.

ments, he exclaimed, " Whai ! the Sala “You seem to miss the humor of it," I Santa Catarina ? I shall be glad to meet exclaimed, somewhat tartly, for I had her saintship again." made so good a story of it that an ever The door was opened, and we entered. widening group had gathered about us, The Meiers, mother and son, were and ripples of laughter had followed each eagerly awaiting us. On a lounge near reference to Bradford as an exile, a hero, the window lay Theodore. His glance a possible savior of his country.

swept me aside and fastened on my com“ To each nation its (il sense of panion. A flush overspread his pale humor," he remarked, dryly.

cheeks. He half rose, but Bradford hurAre you not of all nations ?” I re- ried forward to prevent him. torted. Then I turned to the more appre- “ How kind of you to let me come to ciative group around me, and he moved see you!” said Bradford. “Fellow-counaway.

trymen, you know !"

The invalid sat An hour later, as I was stepping into tongue-tied. “ And you couldn't have a my gondola, he hurried up to me. “I jollier place to be laid up in than Venice, was rude,” he said, in charming mock could you, now? And your windows, penitence, " but, indeed, your story inter- why, they sweep the whole lagoon! And ested me. Take me to see the boy.” as for company, our little St. Catherine

I looked at him incredulously. “ Now here ”—he stopped suddenly, with an odd I fail to see the humor,” I exclaimed. break in his voice. I turned from Mrs. “ He is ill ; dying. He has conceived for Meier to see what it meant. you one of those romantic infatuations a Where from his lounge young Meier's young lad often feels for an older man. eyes could rest on it, and full across the I let him rest in his illusions; why should lovely head and breast of St. Catherine, not you?”

was stretched a huge, glaring map done “ I will not disillusionize him," replied in the crudest of primary blue, orange, Bradford.

and red. I am not too well acquainted

with the topography of the States, but I of fear, though there was nobody pursuing could not fail to recognize, printed in them.””

them.'' He sank back with a deep-drawn laborious capitals, the names of places sigh. “Oh, to have to live among people grown familiar in the war news: Wash- who know no better than that! Oh, even ington, Fort Sumter, Bull Run, Richmond, though I can't fight, if I could only be at It was a war map. Bradford went up to home !" it. “ Did you make this ?” he asked with Bradford sat silent and looked at the apparent sympathy, while at the same overwrought lad. moment he deftly extracted a pin that was “ It is the face," I said to myself. " The impaling St. Catherine and glanced behind artist sees a subject there. Repellent as the paper to see what mischief had been this hysterical emotion must be to him, wrought.

something doubtless strikes him in the " Yes,” replied the lad, for the first time square chin, the wide eyes, that singular breaking his silence.

light transfusing the irregular peasant "Gott, ja !” added his mother, with her features, as does a flame clouded glass.” eyes on Bradford's face. She, too, seemed It was evident, however, that young oblivious of my presence. “ It is always Meier had read the searching, almost the war, the war. He must make maps. somber, gaze quite differently. He seized He follow every battle. Sometimes he the sensitive artist-fingers in his own think he know better than the generals broad but wasted hands. “If it's hard themselves.”

for me,” he said, brokenly, “ what must “Well, but haven't there been terrible it be for you who could do so much if mistakes ?" burst out the boy, turning to you were there! Oh, but some of these Bradford as one in authority. “ That Americans over here! Americans! Why, storming the height, now, at Bull Run! they are just drifting seaweed. They See where I have put the black dots ? don't belong anywhere. They haven't If McDowell had only led his forces along any roots.” that line"

Bradford laid a light touch on the lad's “Ruhig, ruhig, mein kind !" murmured throbbing temples. "I know," he said. Mrs. Meier.

Then he rose. “ I shall come again soon Bradford returned to the lounge and if I may." sat down on it. “ Is there room for me? When we had reached my drawingDo I crowd you ?” he asked. He knew room, I looked at him inquiringly. “Now that to be so crowded was joy unspeak- why did you get me to take you?” I asked. able; that his close presence, his firm, He was gazing moodily out of the wincool touch, were sending waves of delight dow, but at my question he broke into through the veins of the half-abashed boy. vehement speech. “ The dreariness of it What do you read all day ?” he continued. all, over there!” he exclaimed, as if in “Ah, the papers, of course. What piles answer to some outspoken protest. “How you have there, and of all dates and coun- I hated it! No beauty, no distinction. tries!"

The dead level of the commonplace. Oh, The feverish Aush in the lad's face you can't fancy it! The hideousness of deepened. He fumbled among the scat- the straight brick streets; the hard, keen tered papers and drew one out. “ The light; the rushing, insensate, moneyway they look at things over here!” he making life, or hardly better; the meager, cried, vehemently. "Listen, listen colorless, puritanical content; the dearth this!" He half rose on his elbow, grasp- of incentive; the barbaric taste! Who ing the sheet with quivering fingers. could produce anything worth while ! ". The North has lost all—even military Then I came over here.” honor; her people were bellowing behind “ Then you came over here," I rethe army. It is a complete victory for peated, for he had relapsed into a frownthe South--as complete a victory as Aus- ing silence, and I seemed forgotten. terlitz. But an American battle is not as “ Then I came over here,” continued dangerous as an American steamboat. Bradford, slowly.

Bradford, slowly. - Beauty enough, or It is carried on upon strict humanitarian the wreck of it. At first I was intoxiprinciples. Seventy thousand American cated, I dreamed dreams—till—” He patriots have fled twenty miles in an agony lifted his shoulders and Aung out his go.”

hands, palms up, as the more expressive same fixed idea. Crude and provincial Continentals had taught him. “ What had as it all was, it had, at odd moments, an I new to say? It had all been said insistent trick of recurring to my thought. centuries ago far better than we futile And America herself! Was the lad's moderns could conceive of. I tell you, fervor of patriotism due solely to his exthis Past you and your kind so worship, treme and impressionable 'temperament, it ties the hands, numbs the powers. or might there be, in that raw new world, For a moment you struggle, then submit. some element potent to lay hold of the The critics cry: Something original! heart and fire it with a devotion even You are an American: give us a message unto death? from the New World !' The New World This was the beginning of the inex has no message." He quickened his rest- plicable intimacy between Robert Bradless pacing up and down the room, then ford and his devotee.

ford and his devotee. Weeks passed by burst out irritably, “ That boy fancies it and there was no change. None of his has.”

old friends saw, at this time, anything of “ That boy will make havoc of the Santa the older man. When he was not with Catarina," I returned, hotly. “I shall Theodore he was at his studio. Whentell the Signora to have his war maps ever I saw the lad with Bradford, his promptly taken down."

eyes still spoke a passionate worship. “ You will do no such thing," exclaimed Bradford, with a roughness quite unusual A death among near relatives took me to him. Then, checking himself, he for a time to England. While there I waved his hand as if to dismiss the ques- heard rumors about Bradford ; it was tion. “A shadow," he added ; “let it reported that he had at last “arrived ;"

had produced his masterpiece. I reAnd again I looked at him critically. called our many talks and his conviction After all, one can never really know these of the futility of effort. What had finally Americans. They continually treat one seemed to him worth while ? On my reto surprises.

turn journey to Venice, I resolved to stop My intercourse with young Meier was over a felv days in Paris and attend the always slight. He never fancied me; Salon. but his mother, who could not speak with- In the American colony in Paris I had out his name on her lips, came often to many acquaintances, and on the night of claim my sympathy.

my arrival I dropped in to an “at home" The day after our visit she stopped me of one of them. My question as to Bradby the water-gate, in the narrow garden, ford's subject was received with a burst first to thank me for the joy I had given of merriment. her son by bringing “ den schönen You have not heard ?” they laughed. Herrn," and then, with credulous eyes and “ Yes, he has a medal. No, you shall not bated breath, to tell me that the boy had be told the subject; you shall see for had a dream.

yourself. It is a matter of Saul among " Three time in the one night he dream the prophets.' Why, with a certain set of it," she said. “He think it mean he gets his compatriots he is the hero of the hour.” well and fight for his country. He dream Then followed the reluctant admission, he find lying on his breast a great shining “But it is good work. He has shown medal of honor."

he can do something if he chooses. A “ How curious !" I answered.

trifle theatrical, perhaps, but really very Yes, a medal of honor. Ach, Himmel! cleverly composed. Notice the foreshortBut to-day is he happy with the beautiful ening of the left arm.” new friend and the wonderful dream.” On the following morning I went to the

“What new friend?" I asked. Has Salon and made my way to the knot of Mr. Bradford been here again ?"

people before Bradford's picture. “He is here now,” replied Mrs. Meier. Dulce et decorum est pro patriâ mori,He talks, he laughs, Theodore smiles. ran the legend. Of a truth, Saul among Du lieber Gott, what for a man! Mein the prophets ! sohn tell him his dream.”

A lad, in the uniform of the Northern His dream! Sleeping or waking the States, lay dying on the field of battle.

He had half risen on his arm. One hand Americans of some of your compatriots clutched his wounded breast, but in his and sent them back to fight. And the face, the face not of the native but of the people who know say it is good.” foreign born, and struggling with the “Yes, I believe it is good," he assented, agony and palior of death, shone an un- moodily. speakable joy. His lips were parted, his “ It was even rumored you had gone wide eyes fixed and bright. One could back.” see they were following the triumphant His face lighted up with its old whimsicharge of his own victorious side. It cal smile. was the face of Theodore Meier. Dulce “I am nct sure I didn't for a moment et decorum est pro patriâ mori.

half form a resolve to go,” he said. Through the weary hours of my journey "You might have won another medal, the picture haunted me. Bradford was

or a cross, or whatever kind of decoraagain in Venice when I arrived, and one tion they bestow over there for bravery morning, as I was about to step into my on the field of battle. By the way, you gondola, I ran across him. At my invi- must show me your medal.” tation he joined me, and we were soon “One doesn't wear them, you know,” gliding out towards the Lido.

said Bradford, throwing open his coat, as “Well, I have been to Paris," I said. if to corroborate his assertion. After a He nodded.

pause he added, gravely, “I sent it here Dulce et decorum," I continued. to the boy. I told him that it belonged “ Your picture has certainly created a stir. to him. His mother wrote me it was Why, they told me it had actually made buried with him.”

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The Borrow Revival


T is hardly probable that any English journeys into Russia, Portugal, and Spain. critic, not even excepting Augustine While his faithfulness in performing his

Birrell, who is a notorious Borrow- duty as colporteur is not to be questioned, lover, would place George Borrow's works! it must be confessed that his enthusiasm on a list of the most important contribu- for observing how men and women live tions to the English literature of the and think and talk beyond the borders of nineteenth century; but all critics agree English conventional society was quite as that the author of “ Lavengro” and “ The great as his enthusiasm for the cause of Bible in Spain " is one of the singular and religion; so it happens that “ The Bible interesting personalities in the literary in Spain," notwithstanding its gentle title, history of the last hundred years in Eng- is about as robust a story of adventure as land. Borrow was a curious mixture of one could ask for. Borrow's life may be the adventurer and religious fanatic. He outlined in a few words: he wandered in sprang from a family of humble position various parts of the world studying nature and circumstances, and was without edu- and human nature ; became a linguist of cation in the modern sense of the word; some renown in his time; made himself but he was born with an extraordinary an expert in Gypsy life and lore; and in a gift for acquiring abstruse and difficult mass of writing, some of it incoherent and languages. Owing partly to this gift and ordinary, has left many things that form partly to his love of wandering, he obtained a permanent contribution to literature. the position of agent of the Bible Society, There is just now a Borrow revival, and and in this capacity made some remarkable along with it the inevitable small band of

extravagant admirers-Borrovians, let us 1 Georgę Borrow: Life and Correspondence. By call them, just as there are Browningites, William 1. Knapp, Ph.D., LL.D. 2 vols. G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York.

Wagnerians, Stevensonians, Brahmsites, The Works of George Borrow: The Bible in Spain, Lavengro, Romany Rye. The Gypsies of Spain. Edited Meredithians, Omarists, and the like. It by William 1. Knapp: Ph.D., LL.D. 4 vols. G. P. is a pity that the extravagance of the few Putnam's Sons, New York.

The Works of George Borrow:, Lavengro, The often prejudices the many, thus turning Romany Rye, The Bible in Spain, The Zincali. I vol. each. John Lane, New York.

the enthusiasm of the disciple into a hin

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