"Mandarins don't rise from the dead, and a man can't kill another by simply lifting his finger. So my philosopher talked like one who knows nothing of moral experience. If the fancy of an unreal crime almost drove me mad, what must be the remorse of an actual criminal?"

The same evening Felix ordered post horses and set out for France.

Some months later, Monsieur Montmorot, chevalier of the legion of honor, gave a grand dinner to celebrate his daughter's betrothal with the Marquis Felix d'Aubremel, one of the noblest names in France, as he styled it. The contract settling a part of his fortune on his daughter Ernestine was signed at nine in the evening. The Monday following the pair presented themselves before the civil officials to solemnize their marriage by due legal ceremonies.

Felix, a prey to the strange hallucination that incessantly pursued him, saw a likeness between the official and the Chinese figure he had awkwardly thrown down and broken one night long ago. Presently his face darkened, and his eyes began to burn. Behind the magistrate's blue spectacles he caught the gleam and roll of the tawny eyes belonging to Mr. Harrison's clerk, to Li, son of Mung, son of Tseu.

When at length the magistrate put the formal question, "Felix Etienne d'Aubremel, do you take for your wife Ernestine Juliette Montmorot," Felix heard a shrill ringing voice say, "Felix, I give you your wife with my hand—my hand."

The official repeated the question more loudly. "With my hand—my hand," whispered a thousand mocking little voices.

"No!" Felix shouted rather than answered, and rushed away from the spot like a lunatic.

Once more at home, he shut out everyone and flung himself on his bed, in a state of stupor that weighed him down till night—a sort of dull torpor of brain, with utter exhaustion of physical strength—a misery of formless thought. Towards evening one persistent idea aroused him from this strange lethargy.

"I am a cowardly murderer," he groaned. "I wished for my fellow-being's death. God punishes me—I will execute his sentence." He stretched out his hand in the dark, groping for a dagger that hung from the wall. Then a mild brightness filtered through the curtains and irradiated the bed. Felix distinctly saw the grotesque figure of Mandarin Li standing a few steps away. The shadow of death darkened his face, and without seeming movement of his lips, Felix heard these words, uttered by that shrill ringing voice so hated, now mellowed into divine music.

"Felix d'Aubremel, God does not will that you should die, and I, his servant, am sent to tell you his decree. You have been cruel and covetous—you have wished an innocent man's death, and his death caused that of a multitude of victims to the barbarous passions of a great western nation. Man's life must be sacred for every man. God only can take what he gave. Live, then, if you would not add a great crime to a great error. And if forgiveness from one dead can restore in part your strength and courage to endure, Felix, I forgive you."

The vision vanished.

Felix religiously obeyed the instructions of Li, and consecrated his life by a vow to the relief of human misery wherever he found it. He devoted Richard Malden's vast fortune to founding charitable establishments. Ernestine Montmorot would never consent to see him again.

Two years ago, yielding to an impulse easy to understand, he requested the English consul at Chiusang to make inquiries as to the family of Li, who might perhaps be suffering in poverty. Nothing more could be discovered than that the gracious sovereign of the Middle Kingdom had confiscated the property of Li's family, that his wife had died of sorrow, in misery, and that his son, Li, having taken the liberty to complain of the glorious emperor's severity, suffered death by the bowstring, as is proper and reasonable in all well-governed states.

MOTHER IS HERE!—A little fawn in the clutches of a fox bleats loudly for help. The mother appears quickly on the scene, and Renard retires, foiled and chagrined at the loss of his dinner. He stays not upon the order of his going, but goes at once. The artist Deiker is a well-known German painter, whose success with these pictures of animal life ranks him with such men as Beckmann and Hammer, whose names are familiar to the friends of THE ALDINE.

A TROPIC FOREST.

—Montgomery's Pelican Island.

What makes us like new acquaintances is not so much any weariness of our old ones, or the pleasure of change, as disgust at not being sufficiently admired by those who know us too well, and the hope of being more so by those who do not know so much of us.—La Rochefoucauld.

AMONG THE DAISIES.

—Shakspeare.

"Belle et douce Marguerite, aimable soeur du roi Kingcup," enthusiastically exclaims genial Leigh Hunt, "we would tilt for thee with a hundred pens against the stoutest poet that did not find perfection in thy cheek." And yet, who would have the heart to slander the daisy, or cause a blush of shame to tint its whiteness? Tastes vary, and poets may value the flower differently; but a rash, deliberate condemnation of the daisy is as likely to become realized as is a harsh condemnation of the innocence and simplicity of childhood. So the chivalric Hunt need not fear being invoked from the silence of the grave to take part in a lively tournament for "belle et douce Marguerite."

Subjectively, the daisy is a theme upon which we love to linger. In our natural state, when flesh and spirit are both models of meekness, two objects are wont to throw us into a kind of ecstasy: a row of nicely painted white railings, and a bunch of fresh daisies. These waft us back along a vista of years, peopled with scenes the most entrancing, and fancies the most pleasing. They call up at once the old country home: the honeysuckle clasping the thatched cottage, contrasting so prettily with the white fence in front: the sloping fields of green painted with daisies, through which, unshackled, the buoyant breeze swept so peacefully. It was an invariable rule, in those days, to troop through the meadows at early morn and, like a young knight-errant, bear home in triumph "Marguerite," the peerless daisy, rescued from the clutches of unmentionable dragons, and now to beam brightly on us for the rest of the day from a neighboring mantel-piece. And it was with great reluctance that we refrained from decapitating the whole field of daisies at one fell sweep, when we were once allowed to touch their upturned faces. A contract was then made on the spot: we were permitted to pluck the daisies on condition that we plucked but one every day. The field was not large, and long before the blasts of autumn had hushed the voices of the flowers, not a single daisy remained. Advancing spring threw lavish handfuls once more on the grass, and on these we sported anew with all the ardor of boyhood.

Our enthusiasm for the daisy then is only equaled by the gratitude it now awakens. Too soon does the busy world, with unwarrantable liberty, allure us from boyish scenes. Too soon are the buoyant fancies of youth succeeded by the feverish anxieties of age, happy innocence by the consciousness of evil, confidence by doubt, faith by despair. We must chill our demonstrativeness, restrain our affections, blunt our sensibilities. We must cultivate conscience until we have too much of it, and become monkish, savage and misanthropic. The asceticism of manhood is apparent from the studied air with which everybody is on his guard against his neighbor. In a crowded car, men instinctively clutch their pockets, and fancy a pickpocket in a benevolent-looking old gentleman opposite. When we see men so distrustful, we shun them. They then call us selfish when we feel only solitary. We protest against such manhood as would lower golden ideals of youth to its own contemptible Avernus. And now as our daisy, which is blooming before us, sagely nods its white crest as it is swayed by the passing breeze, it seems to bring back of itself decades gone forever. We never intend to become a man. We keep our boy's heart ever fresh and ever warm. We don't care if the whole human race, from the Ascidians to Darwin himself, assail us and fiercely thrust us once more into short jackets and knickerbockers, provided they allow an indefinite vacation in a daisy field. The joy of childhood is said to be vague. It was all satisfying to us once, and we do not intend to allow it to waste in unconscious effervescence among the gaudier though less gratifying delights of manhood.

It is, however, of daisies among the poets we would speak at more length. In fact, to the imaginative mind, the daisy in poetry is as suggestive as the daisy in nature. Philosophically, they are identical; in the absence of the one you can commune with the other. Thus unconsciously the daisy undergoes a metempsychosis; its soul is transferred at will from meadow to book and from book to meadow, without losing a particle of its vitality.

To premise with the daisy historically: Among the Romans it was called Bellis, or "pretty one;" in modern Greece, it is star-flower. In France, Spain, and Italy, it was named "Marguerita," or pearl, a term which, being of Greek origin, doubtless was brought from Constantinople by the Franks. From the word "Marguerita," poems in praise of the daisy were termed "Bargerets." Warton calls them "Bergerets," or "songs du Berger," that is, shepherd songs. These were pastorals, lauding fair mistresses and maidens of the day under the familiar title of the daisy. Froissart has written a characteristic Bargeret; and Chaucer, in his "Flower and the Leaf," sings:

Speght supposes that Chaucer here intends to pay a compliment to Lady Margaret, King Edward's daughter, Countess of Pembroke, one of his patronesses. But Warton hesitates to express a decided opinion as to the reference. Chaucer shows his love for the daisy in other places. In his "Prologue to the Legend of Good Women," alluding to the power with which the flowers drive him from his books, he says that

To see it early in the morn, the poet continues:

Chaucer says that to him it is ever fresh, that he will cherish it till his heart dies; and then he describes himself resting on the grass, gazing on the daisy:

Chaucer gives us the true etymology of the word in the last line. Ben Jonson, to confirm it, writes with more force than elegance,

that is, cowslips; a "disentanglement of compounds,"—Leigh Hunt says, in the style of the parodists:

The poets abound in allusions to the daisy. It serves both for a moral and for an epithet. The morality is adduced more by our later poets, who have written whole poems in its honor. The earlier poets content themselves generally with the daisy in description, and leave the daisy in ethics to such a philosophico-poetical Titan as Wordsworth. Douglas (1471), in his description of the month of May, writes:

And Lyndesay (1496), in the prologue to his "Dreme," describes June

The eccentric Skelton, who wrote about the close of the 15th century, in a sonnet, says:

Thomas Westwood, in an agreeable little madrigal, pictures the daisies:

Thomas Nash (1592), in another of similar quality, exclaims:

Suckling, in his famous "Wedding," in his description of the bride, confesses:

Spenser, in his "Prothalamion," alludes to

George Wither speaks of the power of his imagination:

Poor Chatterton, in his "Tragedy of Ella," refers to the daisy in the line:

Hervey, in his "May," describes

And Hood, in his fanciful "Midsummer Fairies," sings of

Burns, whose "Ode to a Mountain Daisy" is so universally admired, gives, besides, a few brief notices of the daisy:

Tennyson has made the daisy a subject of one of his most unsatisfactory poems. In "Maud," he writes:

To Wordsworth, the poet of nature, the daisy seems perfectly intelligible. Scattered throughout the lowly places, with meekness it seems to shed beauty over its surroundings, and compensate for gaudy vesture by cheerful contentment. Wordsworth calls the daisy "the poet's darling," "a nun demure," "a little Cyclops," "an unassuming commonplace of nature," and sums up its excellences in a verse which may fitly conclude our attempt to pluck a bouquet of fresh daisies from the poets:

—A.S. Isaacs.

COLERIDGE AS A PLAGIARIST.

SOMETHING CHILDISH BUT VERY NATURAL.

Written in Germany 1798-99.

Thus much for Coleridge. Now for his original:

"This," says Mr. Bayard Taylor, in the Notes to his translation of Faust, "this is an old song of the people of Germany. Herder published it in his Volkslieder, in 1779, but it was no doubt familiar to Goethe in his childhood. The original melody, to which it is still sung, is as simple and sweet as the words."

AMONG THE PERUVIANS.

The extremes of civilization and barbarism are nearer together in those countries which the Spaniards have wrested from their native inhabitants, than in any other portion of the globe. Before other European races, aboriginal tribes, even the fiercest, gradually disappear. They hold their own before the descendants of the conquistadores, who conquered the New World only to be conquered by it. Out of Spain the Spaniard deteriorates, and nowhere so much as in South America. Of course he is superior there to the best of the Indian tribes with which he is thrown in contact; but we doubt whether he is superior to the intelligent, but forgotten, races which peopled the regions around him centuries before Pizzaro set foot therein, and which built enormous cities whose ruins have long been overgrown by forests. To compare the Spaniard of to-day, in Peru, with its ancient Incas is to do him no honor. To be sure, he is a good Catholic, which the Incas were not, but he is indolent, enervated, and enslaved by his own passions. His religion has not done much for him—at least in this world, whatever it may do in the next. It has done still less, if that be possible, for the aboriginal Peruvians.

"In all parts of Peru," says a recent traveler, "except amongst the savage Indian tribes, Christianity, at least nominally prevails. The aborigines, however, converted by the sword in the old days of Spanish persecution, do not, as a rule, seem to have more notion of that faith in the country parts, than such as may be obtained from stray visits of some errant, image-bearing friar, whose principal object is to obtain sundry reals in consideration of prayers offered to his little idols. These wandering ministers also distribute execrably colored prints of various saints, besides having indulgences for sale. As to the nature of the pious offerings from their disciples, they are not at all particular. They go upon the easy principle that all is fish that comes into their net. If the ignorant and superstitious givers have not 'filthy lucre' wherewithal to propitiate the ugly represented saints, wax candles, silver ore, cacao, sugar, and any other description of property is as readily received. Thus, it often happens that these peripatetic friars have a long convoy of heavily-laden mules with which to gladden the members of their monastery when they return home.

"The priests in all parts of Peru dress in a very extraordinary, not to say outlandish manner. One of the lower grade wears a very capacious shovel hat, projecting as much in front as behind, and looking very like a double-ended coal-heaver's hat. A loose black serge robe covers him all over, as with a funereal pall, and being fastened together only at the neck, gives to his often obese figure an appearance the very reverse of grave or serious: The superior of a monastery, or the priest in charge of a parish, wears a more stately clerical costume. His hat is of formidable dimensions—a huge, flat, Chinese-umbrella-shaped sort of a concern, which cannot be compared to anything else in creation. He also affects ruffles and lace, a long cassock, and a voluminous cloak like many of those of Geneva combined together; black silk stockings and low shoes complete the clerical array of the higher ecclesiastics."

Quite as odd, in their way, as these good padres, are the Peruvian loungers, the "lions" of Lima—a long-haired, becloaked, truculent-looking set of fellows, whose proper place would seem to be among operatic banditti. A greater contrast and disparity than exists between them and the beautiful brunettes to whom they are fain to devote themselves, cannot well be imagined. That the latter generally prefer European gentlemen to these ill-favored beaux, follows as a matter of course. That the discarded "lion" resents this preference of his fair countrywomen, we have the testimony of the traveler already quoted from.

"Instinctively, as it were, a feeling of dislike and rivalry seemed to prevail between ourselves and such of these truculent gentry as it was our fortune to come into contact with. They were jealous, no doubt, of the wandering foreigners, whom they chose contemptuously to term gringos, but who, they know well enough, are infinitely preferred to themselves by their handsome coquettish countrywomen. It is, indeed, notoriously the fact, that any respectable man of European birth can marry well, and even far above his own social position, amongst the dark-eyed donnas of Peru. The men don't seem exactly to like it. Judging by their appearance, we found but little difficulty in believing the character which report had given them—namely, their proneness to assassination, especially in love affairs, either personally, or, more frequently, by deputy. If the brilliant creole and half-caste women of this warm, tropical country, are some of the most beautiful and lovable of the sex, their sallow, sinister-looking, natural protectors are just the very opposite. The singular difference in the moral and physical characteristics of the two sexes is something really remarkable, and I, for one, cannot satisfactorily explain it to my own mind. That such is the case I venture to affirm; the why and the wherefore I must fain leave to wiser ethnological heads."

Not less curious, as regards costume, are the Peruvian ladies. And, as they are equestriennes, we will describe their riding-habits in the words of the same traveler:

"To commence at the top. This riding dress consisted of a huge felt hat, both tall and broad, and generally ornamented with a plume of three great feathers sticking up in front. Next came an all-round sort of a cape, of no shape in particular, with a wide collar, several rows of fringe, much needle-work (and corresponding waste of time upon so hideous a garment), and of a length sufficient to reach below the waist, and so completely hide and spoil the wearer's generally fine figure. Then came a short overskirt, extending a little below the knees, and beneath which appeared the fair senora or senorita's most unfeminine pantaloons, which, being carefully tied above the ankle in a frill, were allowed to fully display that treasure of treasures, that most valued of charms, the beautiful little foot and ankle. In addition to this absurd dress, which conceals the graceful form of perhaps the handsomest race of women in the world, the fair creatures have a style of riding which, to Europeans accustomed to the side-saddle, certainly seems more peculiar than elegant; that is to say, they ride á la Duchesse de Berri—Anglicè, like a man.

"The full dress, or evening costume, in the provinces, seemed simply an exaggeration upon that of the towns—the crinoline being more extensive, the petticoats shorter, and the dressing of the hair still more wonderful and elaborate."

Among the mestizos, half-castes, of white and Indian origin the women are often very beautiful, especially when the blood of the latter prevails. They are, we are told, the best-looking of all the Peruvian women, possessing brilliantly fair complexions, magnificent long black tresses, lithe and graceful figures of exquisite proportions, regular and classic features, and the most superb great black eyes.

"Though often glorious in youth, these dark-skinned, passionate daughters of the sunny Pacific shore soon begin to fade. Although their scant costume and the manto y saya—the dress favored at night—serve only to expose and display the charming contour of their youthful form, as the years roll on and rob them of these alluring attractions, the simple array becomes ugly and ridiculous. Often did we laugh at the absurd figure presented by some stout, middle-aged half-caste, or a good many more caste, lady, clad in her manto y saya. Especially ludicrous did these staid females appear when viewed from behind."

The Peruvian negress, of elderly years, compares not unfavorably with her whiter Spanish sister of the same age. Both display inordinate vanity, which consorts ill with the brawny calves and large feet they cannot help showing on account of their short though voluminous skirts, and both have a womanly love of jewelry.

"They manifest a very apparent weakness for all sorts of glittering ornaments, especially in the way of numerous rings, huge ear-rings, and mighty necklaces. Indeed, it is not at all uncommon to see pearls (their favorite gem) of great value, rising and falling, and gleaming with incongruous lustre, upon their bare, black, and massive bosoms; whilst ear-rings of solid gold hang glittering from their large ears, in singular contrast to their common and dirty clothing.

"Except for the occasional excitement of theatre, cock-fight, or bull-fight, and the regular attendance at mass and vespers, the life of the higher class Limena is a dreamy existence of languor, amidst siestas, cigarettes, agua-rica, and jasmine perfumes, the tinkling of guitars, and the melody of song. Alas! that I must record it; she is, too, a terrible intriguante. The manto y saya, the bête noir of many a poor jealous husband, seems a garment for disguise, invented on purpose to oblige her. It is the very thing for an intriguing dame; and, by a stringent custom, bears a sacred inviolate right, for no man dare profane it by a touch, although he may even suspect the bright black eye, it may alone allow to be seen, to be that of his own wife! He can follow, if he likes, the graceful, muffled up figure that he dreads to be so familiar, but woe to the wretch who dares to pull aside a fair Limena's manto! If seen, he would surely experience the resentment of the crowd, and become a regular laughing-stock to all who knew him."

But let us be just to the women of Peru, who, in the matter of flirting and fondness for finery, are probably not worse than the sex elsewhere. They love where they love with a fervor unknown to the women of Europe, their Spanish sisters, perhaps, excepted, and they are capable of profound patriotism.

There is an element of real strength in the wild, stormy nature of these beautiful and impassioned creatures: it is their misfortune not to know how to hide their weaknesses as well as their more sophisticated sisters. The tide of time flows so smoothly with them, through such level summer landscapes steeped in tropical repose, that the desire for excitement naturally arises, and excitement itself becomes a necessity. Lacking many of the indoor employments of the women of colder climates, time hangs heavy on their hands, idleness wearies, and they cast about for a way in which to amuse, enjoy, and distract themselves. They find it in love. If no European is near upon whom they can bestow their smiles and the lustre of their magnificent eyes, they have to be content with their own countrymen, who woo them after the fashion of their Spanish ancestors, by serenades at night, in which the strumming of guitars generally plays a more important part than the words it accompanies.

While we are among the Peruvians, we must not entirely overlook their country, and the features of its varied landscapes. It is divided by the Andes into three different lands, so to speak, La Costa, the region between the coast and the Andes; La Sierra, the mountain region, and La Montaña, or the wooded region east of the Andes. La Costa, in which Lima is situated, at the distance of about six miles from the sea, may be briefly described as a sandy desert, interspersed with fertile valleys, and watered by several rivers of no great magnitude. It seldom or never rains there, but there are heavy dews at night which freshen and preserve the vegetation. The magnificence of the mountain region baffles all attempts at word-painting, as it baffles the art of the painter. Church, the artist, gives us what is, perhaps, the best representation we are ever likely to have of it, but it is only a glimpse after all. Still more indescribable, if that be possible, are the enormous wildernesses which stretch from the Andes to the vast pampas to the eastward. "Here everything is on Nature's great scale. The whole country is one continuous forest, which, beginning at very different heights, presents an undulating aspect. One moves on his way with trees before, above, and beneath him, in a deep abyss like the ocean. And in these woods, as on the immensity of the waters, the mind is bewildered; whatever way it directs the eye there it meets the majesty of the Infinite. The marvels of Nature are in these regions so common that one becomes accustomed to behold, without emotion, trees whose tops exceed the height of 100 varas (290 English feet), with a proportionate thickness, beyond the belief of such as never saw them; and, supporting on their trunks a hundred different plants, they, individually, present rather the appearance of a small plantation than one great tree. It is only after you leave the woods, and ordinary objects of comparison present themselves to the mind, that you can realize in thought the colossal stature of these samples of Montana vegetation."

Peru is a fitting theatre for the great dramas which have been played upon its wild, mountainous stage. The dark background of its past is haunted by the shadows of the unknown race who built its ruined cities and temples. Then come the beneficent, heavenly Incas, and the mild, pastoral people over whom they rule. Last, the cruel, treacherous Spaniard, slaughtering his friendly hosts with one hand, while the other holds the Bible to their lips!

THE OLD MAID'S VILLAGE.

I had been passing the summer on the banks of the Hudson—in that charmed region which lies about what was once the home of Diedrich Knickerbocker, with the enchanted ground of Sleepy Hollow on the one hand, and the shrine of Sunnyside on the other. In many happy morning walks and peaceful twilight rambles, I had made the acquaintance of every winding lane, every shaded avenue, every bosky dell and sunny glade for miles around. I had wandered hither and thither, through all the golden season, and fairly steeped my soul in the beauty, the languor, the poetry of the "Irving country;" and now, filled, as it were, with rare wine, content and happy, I was ready to return to the town, and take up the matter-of-fact habit of life again.

But even on the last day of my sojourn, when my trunks stood packed and corded, and the loins of my spirit were girt for departure on the morrow; as I stood at my window somewhat pensively contemplating, for the last time, the peculiarly delicious river-bit which it framed, the door opened suddenly, and Nannette, my fidus Achates, and the companion of my summer, ran in.

"Do you know," she cried, "I have just learned that we were about to leave the place without visiting one of its greatest curiosities? We have narrowly escaped going without having seen the 'Old Maid's Village!'"

"The 'Old Maid's Village!'" I echoed, stupidly. "But what village is not the peculiar property of the race?"

"Yes, I know; but this village is really built on an old maid's property, and by her own hands. And there is the 'Cat's Monument,' too. Come! don't stop to talk about it, but let us go and see it. It will be just the thing for a last evening; in memoriam, you know, and all that. Get on your hat, and come, and we shall see the sunset meeting the moonrise on the river once more, as we return."

That, at least, was always worth seeing, I reflected; and so, without more ado, I put on my wraps as I was bid, and reported myself under marching orders.

How lovely, how indescribably lovely, the world was that September afternoon, as we strolled along the shaded sidewalk where the maples were already laying a mosaic of gold and garnet, and looked off toward the river and the hills beyond—the far blue hills—all veiled in tenderest amber mist! The very air was full of soft, warm color; the sunbeams, mild and level now, played with the shadows across our path, and every now and then a leaf, flecked with orange or crimson, fluttered to our feet. The blue-birds sang in the goldening boughs, unaffrighted by the constant roll of elegant equipages in which, at this hour, the residents of the stately mansions on either side the road were taking the air; and the crickets hopped about undisturbed in the crevices of the gray stone walls.

We walked leisurely on, past one and another lofty gateway, until presently reaching an entrance rather less assuming than its neighbors, but, like them, hospitably open, Nannette said, with promptness:

"This is the place, I am sure. Square white house; black railing; next to the printing-press man's great gate. Come right in; all are welcome, and not even thank you to pay, for one never sees anyone to speak to here."

It seemed to my modesty rather an audacious proceeding, but trusting to my companion's superior information, I followed her in, and we walked up a circular carriage-drive through smooth shaven lawns dotted with brilliant clumps of salvia and gladiolus, towards the house—a square, solid structure, white, and with broad verandas running across its front.

At its northern side, sloping towards the wall, was visible what looked like an ordinary terrace, rather low, and ornamented with small shrubs and grotto-work; but which, on nearer approach, proved to be a veritable village in miniature, constructed with a verisimilitude of design, and a fidelity to detail, which was at once in the highest degree amazing and amusing. As Nannette had been assured, no one appeared to interfere with us in any way, and full of a curious wonder at such a manifestation of eccentric ingenuity, we seated ourselves upon a wooden box, evidently kept more for the purpose of protecting the odd out-of-door plaything in bad weather, and proceeded to give it the minute inspection which it merited; the result of which I chronicle here for the benefit of the like curious minded.

The terrace, which forms the site of this doll-baby city, is low and semi-circular in shape, and separated from the graveled drive by a close border of box. Within this protecting hedge the ground is laid out in the most picturesque and fantastic manner compatible with a scale of extreme minuteness. Winding roads, shady bye-paths ending in rustic stiles, willow-bordered ponds, streams with fairy bridges, rocky ravines and sunny meadows, ferny dells, and steep hills clambered over with a wilderness of tangled vines, and strewn with lichen-covered stones—all are there, and all reproduced with the most conscientious fidelity to nature, and with Lilliputian diminutiveness. Regular streets, "macadamized" with a gray cement which gives very much the effect of asphaltum, separate one demesne from another; and each meadow, lawn, field, and barn-yard has its own proper fence or wall, constructed in the most workmanlike manner. The streets are bordered by trees, principally evergreens, which, though rigidly kept down to the height of mere shrubs, appear stately by the side of the miniature mansions they overlook; and, in every dooryard, or more pretentious greensward, tiny larches, pines yet in their babyhood, and dwarfed cedars, cast a mimic shade, and bestow an air of dignity and venerableness to the place.

The first object upon which the eye is apt to rest on approaching this modern Lilliput is the squire's house, the residence of the landed proprietor. This is a handsome edifice of some eight by ten inches in breadth and height. It stands upon an eminence in the midst of ornamented grounds, and with its white walls, its lofty cupola, and high, square portico, presents a properly imposing appearance. There are signs of social life about the mansion befitting its own style of conscious superiority. In the wide arched entrance hall stands a high-born dame attired in gay Watteau costume—red-heeled slippers, brocaded petticoat, and bodice and train of puce-colored satin. She is receiving the adieux of an elegant gentleman, hatted, booted, and spurred, who, with whip in hand and dog by his side, is about to descend the steps and mount his horse for a ride over his estate. A bird-cage swings by an open window, and, on the lawn, a group of children, in charge of their nurse, are engaged in the time-honored game of "Ring-around-a-rosy." Winding walks, bordered with shrubbery, disappear among fantastic mounds of rock-work, moss-grown grottoes, and tiny dells of fern; and under a ruined arch, gray with lichen and green with vines, flows a placid streamlet, spanned by a rustic bridge. In the meadow beyond, flocks of sheep are cropping the grass, and an old negro is busily engaged in repairing a breach in the stone wall.

Hard by this stately demesne is a humbler tenement, built of wattled logs, but showing signs of comfort and thrift all about it. The old grandsire sits in a high-backed chair, sunning himself in front of the door; on a bench, at the side of the house, stand rows of washtubs filled with soiled linen, and a woman is busy wringing out clothes; while another, with a bucket on her head, goes to the well to supply her with a fresh thimbleful of water; and still a third milks a handsome dapple-gray cow in the yard where the dairy stands. There is a well-filled barn behind, with another cow and a horse, too, for that matter, in the stable attached, and the farmer, who is putting the last sheaf on his wheat-stack, looks contented enough with his lot.

Just beyond the stream, on whose bank the fisherman sits leisurely dropping his line, stands the village church; a fac-simile of the old Dutch Church which has stood near the entrance of Sleepy Hollow since long before the Revolution, and is hallowed now not only by the pious associations of centuries, but by the near vicinage of Irving's grave. In its little twelve-inch counterpart, every point of the ancient structure is preserved in exact detail. The dull red walls, the beetling roof, the narrow pointed windows and low, arched door; the quaint Dutch weathercock, and odd-shaped tower—aye, even the bell within, no bigger than a doll's thimble—and upon all a sentimental traveler in the person of a china figure perhaps three inches in height, is gazing half pensively, half curiously, as we suppose, at this relic of by-gone years!

On the other side of the stream the village school, likewise an ancient and steeple-crowned edifice, stands out in the midst of a bare and clean swept playground. It bears its signature upon its front:

"DISTRICT SCHOOL, NO. 2,"

and its worshipful character is otherwise indicated by the presence of the master, a venerable looking puppet in cocked hat and knee-breeches, in the doorway, and sundry china children playing rather stiffly about the stone steps.

Ascending by a steep, rocky path, one arrives at a rather pretentious looking wind-mill, which spreads its wide white arms protectingly over the cottages below. Barrels of flour and sacks of meal, well filled and plentiful in number, attest its thriving business, and the miller himself, in a properly dusty coat, looks about him with contented air. At the foot of the hill upon which the mill is perched, are several dwellings—all showing signs of more or less prosperous life, with the exception of one, which affords the orthodox "haunted house" belonging to every well-regulated village. The ruined walls of this old mansion, with lichen cropping out from every crevice; the unhinged doors and broken windows; the ladder rotting as it leans against the moss-grown roof, the broken well-sweep and deserted barn, offer an aspect of desolation and decay which should prove sufficient bait to tempt any ghost of moderate demands.

In direct contrast to the gloom which surrounds this now empty and forsaken home, one observes, in a shady grove surmounting a ridge of hills which rise somewhat steeply here from the roadway, a party of "pic-nickers" gaily attired and disporting themselves after the time-honored manner of such merry-makers; swinging, dancing, or, better still, strolling off arm in arm, in search of cooler shades, and of that company which is never a crowd.

At the base of this rocky ridge, the same stream which one meets above flowing darkly under arch and bridge, winds placidly along in sunshine and shadow until it loses itself in a clump of alders and willows quite at the edge of the box-bordered terrace; and here the village ends.

Not so my sketch: for I have purposely left it to the last to make mention of the great central idea round which all the rest is gathered, and which, doubtless, formed the germ of the whole oddly-conceived, but most admirably-executed plan. This is the "Cat's Monument" of which Nannette had made mention, and which is a structure so original and imposing that it deserves special and minute description.

About midway the terrace, and conspicuous from its size and height, rises a mound of earth shaped into the semblance of an urn or vase, crusted thickly with bits of rock, moss, and pebbles, and overgrown with a tangle of tiny vines. Surmounting this picturesque pedestal is an obelisk of black-veined marble on a granite base, the whole rising some seven feet from the ground. On the polished surface of this memorial pillar is inscribed, in large black capitals, the following classic and touching tribute to the venerable departed who sleeps in peace below:

IN MEMORIAM

TOMMY

FELINI GENERIS

OPTIMUS.

DECESSIT A VITA

MENSE NOVEMBRIS

ANNO ÆTATIS 19.

Quid me ploras? Nonne decessi gravis senectute? Nonne vivo amicorum ardentium memoria?

On the reverse side of the column appears an inscription even more pathetic and poetic, to yet another departed favorite, who seems, not like Tommy to have been gathered to his fathers ripe in years and honors but to have been cut down in the bloom of youth by some untimely and tragic fate. He is all the more felin'ly lamented:

HIC JACET

PUSSY

SUI GENERIS

PULCHERRIMUS.

OCCISUS EST

MENSE APRILIS

ÆTAT. 9.

"Vixi, et quum dederat cursum fortuna, peregi. Felix! heu nimium felix! si litora ista nunquam tetigissem!"

Thanks to certain by no means homoeopathic doses of the Latin grammar in my early years, I was able to gather the meaning of these elegiac effusions, and when the last stanza embodying poor Pussy's posthumous wail was discovered to be none other than the despairing death-cry of the "infelix Dido" as immortalized by Virgil—the one step from the sublime to the ridiculous seemed to have been passed.

I looked at Nannette, and Nannette looked at me, and we burst into silent but irrepressible laughter. Nannette was the first to recover herself.

"We ought to be ashamed of ourselves," said she severely: "Honest grief is always respectable; and a fitting tribute to departed worth, no more than what is due from the survivors. I have no doubt but that Tommy and Pussy were most esteemed members of society, and that their loss has left an aching void in the family of which they were the youngest and most petted darlings. I have heard the history of this monument, and the village that has grown up around it, and if you will comport yourself more as a Christian being should in the presence of a solemn memorial, I will relate to you the interesting facts in my possession."

I immediately signified a due contrition and full purpose of amendment; when Nannette continued, still speaking with the gravity befitting the subject.

"This estate then, this large and respectable mansion, and these pleasant grounds in which we now sit, are the property in common of three most estimable ladies, all past their first youth, and all possessed of sufficient good sense and strength of mind to remain their own mistresses, which has procured for the very remarkable specimen of ingenuity now before us, from some ignorant townspeople, the sobriquet of the 'Old Maid's Village.'

"There is only one of the ladies, however, I am informed, who interests herself in the construction of these most ingenious toys. Possessed of ample means, and more than ample leisure, she amuses herself in hours which might otherwise be devoted to gossip and tea, in putting together these various models of buildings, all differing in style, and of most singular materials. The church, for instance, is built of fragments of clinker, gathered from stove and grate, and held firmly together by cement. Nothing could have reproduced so exactly the rough reddish stone of which the old Sleepy Hollow Church is built. The window-glass is represented by carefully framed pieces of tin foil; the gray stone of the gate-posts is imitated by sand rubbed on wooden pillars with a coating of cement. The streets are paved in much the same clever fashion. The well, the pond, the stream, are filled with water each day by the chatelaine's own careful hands. Many of the mimic creatures, human and otherwise, are automata, manufactured to order; the others are wooden or china figures selected with extreme care as to their fitness for their purpose. So rare and so exceedingly pretty are some of these little figures, that they have become objects of unlawful desire to certain soulless curiosity-mongers, who have rewarded an open and confiding hospitality with base attempts at spoliation; and now a person is employed to live in the cottage just beyond us, and do little else than take care of these unique possessions.

"No, you need not start. The woman is probably there at her post, and surveying our operations from time to time. But we have behaved like decent people. We are taking away nothing but a remembrance of a singularly interesting hour, and an admiring impression of the originality, the ingenuity, the industry, and the independence of one of our own sex.

"Is it not so, my friend? And now, by the length of those cedar shadows, it is time for us to rise up and be gone. Else the moonlight will have met and parted with the sunset ere we reach home."

There was nothing to be said; the tale had been told, and with one last, lingering glance, one parting smile, half amused, half touched, I rose, and together we walked home in somewhat pensive mood. Was it not our last day in Fairyland?—Kate J. Hill.

WINE AND KISSES.

Translated from the Persian of Mirtsa Schaffy.