THEIR PILGRIMAGE

By Charles Dudley Warner

I. FORTRESS MONROE

When Irene looked out of her stateroom window early in the morning ofthe twentieth of March, there was a softness and luminous quality inthe horizon clouds that prophesied spring. The steamboat, which had leftBaltimore and an arctic temperature the night before, was drawing nearthe wharf at Fortress Monroe, and the passengers, most of whom wereseeking a mild climate, were crowding the guards, eagerly scanning thelong facade of the Hygeia Hotel. 

"It looks more like a conservatory than a hotel, " said Irene to herfather, as she joined him. 

"I expect that's about what it is. All those long corridors above andbelow enclosed in glass are to protect the hothouse plants of NewYork and Boston, who call it a Winter Resort, and I guess there'sconsiderable winter in it. "

"But how charming it is--the soft sea air, the low capes yonder, thesails in the opening shining in the haze, and the peaceful old fort! Ithink it's just enchanting. "

"I suppose it is. Get a thousand people crowded into one hotel underglass, and let 'em buzz around--that seems to be the present notion ofenjoyment. I guess your mother'll like it. "

And she did. Mrs. Benson, who appeared at the moment, a little flurriedwith her hasty toilet, a stout, matronly person, rather overdressedfor traveling, exclaimed: "What a homelike looking place! I do hope theStimpsons are here!"

"No doubt the Stimpsons are on hand, " said Mr. Benson. "Catch them notknowing what's the right thing to do in March! They know just as well asyou do that the Reynoldses and the Van Peagrims are here. "

The crowd of passengers, alert to register and secure rooms, hurriedup the windy wharf. The interior of the hotel kept the promise of theoutside for comfort. Behind the glass-defended verandas, in the spaciousoffice and general lounging-room, sea-coal fires glowed in the widegrates, tables were heaped with newspapers and the illustrated pamphletsin which railways and hotels set forth the advantages of leaving home;luxurious chairs invited the lazy and the tired, and the hotel-bureau, telegraph-office, railway-office, and post-office showed the new-comerthat even in this resort he was still in the centre of activity anduneasiness. The Bensons, who had fortunately secured rooms a month inadvance, sat quietly waiting while the crowd filed before the register, and took its fate from the courteous autocrat behind the counter. "No room, " was the nearly uniform answer, and the travelers had thesatisfaction of writing their names and going their way in search ofentertainment. "We've eight hundred people stowed away, " said the clerk, "and not a spot left for a hen to roost. "

At the end of the file Irene noticed a gentleman, clad in aperfectly-fitting rough traveling suit, with the inevitable crocodilehand-bag and tightly-rolled umbrella, who made no effort to enroll aheadof any one else, but having procured some letters from the post-officeclerk, patiently waited till the rest were turned away, and thenput down his name. He might as well have written it in his hat. Thedeliberation of the man, who appeared to be an old traveler, thoughprobably not more than thirty years of age, attracted Irene's attention, and she could not help hearing the dialogue that followed. 

"What can you do for me?"

"Nothing, " said the clerk. 

"Can't you stow me away anywhere? It is Saturday, and very inconvenientfor me to go any farther. "

"Cannot help that. We haven't an inch of room. "

"Well, where can I go?"

"You can go to Baltimore. You can go to Washington; or you can go toRichmond this afternoon. You can go anywhere. "

"Couldn't I, " said the stranger, with the same deliberation--"wouldn'tyou let me go to Charleston?"

"Why, " said the clerk, a little surprised, but disposed toaccommodate--"why, yes, you can go to Charleston. If you take atonce the boat you have just left, I guess you can catch the train atNorfolk. "

As the traveler turned and called a porter to reship his baggage, hewas met by a lady, who greeted him with the cordiality of an oldacquaintance and a volley of questions. 

"Why, Mr. King, this is good luck. When did you come? have you a goodroom? What, no, not going?"

Mr. King explained that he had been a resident of Hampton Roads justfifteen minutes, and that, having had a pretty good view of the place, he was then making his way out of the door to Charleston, without anybreakfast, because there was no room in the inn. 

"Oh, that never'll do. That cannot be permitted, " said his engagingfriend, with an air of determination. "Besides, I want you to go with uson an excursion today up the James and help me chaperon a lot of youngladies. No, you cannot go away. "

And before Mr. Stanhope King--for that was the name the traveler hadinscribed on the register--knew exactly what had happened, by somemysterious power which women can exercise even in a hotel, whenthey choose, he found himself in possession of a room, and wasgayly breakfasting with a merry party at a little round table in thedining-room. 

"He appears to know everybody, " was Mrs. Benson's comment to Irene, asshe observed his greeting of one and another as the guests tardily camedown to breakfast. "Anyway, he's a genteel-looking party. I wonder if hebelongs to Sotor, King and Co. , of New York?"

"Oh, mother, " began Irene, with a quick glance at the people at the nexttable; and then, "if he is a genteel party, very likely he's a drummer. The drummers know everybody. "

And Irene confined her attention strictly to her breakfast, and neverlooked up, although Mrs. Benson kept prattling away about the youngman's appearance, wondering if his eyes were dark blue or only darkgray, and why he didn't part his hair exactly in the middle and donewith it, and a full, close beard was becoming, and he had a good, frankface anyway, and why didn't the Stimpsons come down; and, "Oh, there'sthe Van Peagrims, " and Mrs. Benson bowed sweetly and repeatedly tosomebody across the room. 

To an angel, or even to that approach to an angel in this world, aperson who has satisfied his appetite, the spectacle of a crowd ofpeople feeding together in a large room must be a little humiliating. The fact is that no animal appears at its best in this necessaryoccupation. But a hotel breakfast-room is not without interest. The veryway in which people enter the room is a revelation of character. Mr. King, who was put in good humor by falling on his feet, as it were, insuch agreeable company, amused himself by studying the guests as theyentered. There was the portly, florid man, who "swelled" in, patronizingthe entire room, followed by a meek little wife and three timidchildren. There was the broad, dowager woman, preceded by a meek, shrinking little man, whose whole appearance was an apology. There was amodest young couple who looked exceedingly self-conscious and happy, andanother couple, not quite so young, who were not conscious of anybody, the gentleman giving a curt order to the waiter, and falling at onceto reading a newspaper, while his wife took a listless attitude, whichseemed to have become second nature. There were two very tall, verygraceful, very high-bred girls in semi-mourning, accompanied by anice lad in tight clothes, a model of propriety and slender physicalresources, who perfectly reflected the gracious elevation of hissisters. There was a preponderance of women, as is apt to be the casein such resorts. A fact explicable not on the theory that women are moredelicate than men, but that American men are too busy to take this sortof relaxation, and that the care of an establishment, with the demandsof society and the worry of servants, so draw upon the nervous energy ofwomen that they are glad to escape occasionally to the irresponsibilityof hotel life. Mr. King noticed that many of the women had theunmistakable air of familiarity with this sort of life, both in thedining-room and at the office, and were not nearly so timid as some ofthe men. And this was very observable in the case of the girls, who werechaperoning their mothers--shrinking women who seemed a littleconfused by the bustle, and a little awed by the machinery of the greatcaravansary. 

At length Mr. King's eye fell upon the Benson group. Usually it isunfortunate that a young lady should be observed for the first timeat table. The act of eating is apt to be disenchanting. It needsconsiderable infatuation and perhaps true love on the part of a youngman to make him see anything agreeable in this performance. Howeverattractive a girl may be, the man may be sure that he is not in loveif his admiration cannot stand this test. It is saying a great dealfor Irene that she did stand this test even under the observation ofa stranger, and that she handled her fork, not to put too fine a pointupon it, in a manner to make the fastidious Mr. King desirous to seemore of her. I am aware that this is a very unromantic view to take ofone of the sweetest subjects in life, and I am free to confess that Ishould prefer that Mr. King should first have seen Irene leaning on thebalustrade of the gallery, with a rose in her hand, gazing out over thesea with "that far-away look in her eyes. " It would have made it mucheasier for all of us. But it is better to tell the truth, and letthe girl appear in the heroic attitude of being superior to hercircumstances. 

Presently Mr. King said to his friend, Mrs. Cortlandt, "Who is thatclever-looking, graceful girl over there?"

"That, " said Mrs. Cortlandt, looking intently in the directionindicated--"why, so it is; that's just the thing, " and without anotherword she darted across the room, and Mr. King saw her in animatedconversation with the young lady. Returning with satisfaction expressedin her face, she continued, "Yes, she'll join our party--without hermother. How lucky you saw her!"

"Well! Is it the Princess of Paphlagonia?"

"Oh, I forgot you were not in Washington last winter. That's MissBenson; just charming; you'll see. Family came from Ohio somewhere. You'll see what they are--but Irene! Yes, you needn't ask; they'vegot money, made it honestly. Began at the bottom--as if they were intraining for the presidency, you know--the mother hasn't got used toit as much as the father. You know how it is. But Irene has had everyadvantage--the best schools, masters, foreign travel, everything. Poorgirl! I'm sorry for her. Sometimes I wish there wasn't any such thing aseducation in this country, except for the educated. She never shows it;but of course she must see what her relatives are. "

The Hotel Hygeia has this advantage, which is appreciated, at leastby the young ladies. The United States fort is close at hand, withits quota of young officers, who have the leisure in times of peaceto prepare for war, domestic or foreign; and there is a naval stationacross the bay, with vessels that need fashionable inspection. Considering the acknowledged scarcity of young men at watering-places, it is the duty of a paternal government to place its military and navalstations close to the fashionable resorts, so that the young women whoare studying the german [(dance) D. W. ] and other branches of the lifeof the period can have agreeable assistants. It is the charm of FortressMonroe that its heroes are kept from ennui by the company assembledthere, and that they can be of service to society. 

When Mrs. Cortlandt assembled her party on the steam-tug chartered byher for the excursion, the army was very well represented. With theexception of the chaperons and a bronzed veteran, who was inclined todirect the conversation to his Indian campaigns in the Black Hills, thecompany was young, and of the age and temper in which everything seemsfair in love and war, and one that gave Mr. King, if he desired it, anopportunity of studying the girl of the period--the girl who impressesthe foreigner with her extensive knowledge of life, her fearless freedomof manner, and about whom he is apt to make the mistake of supposingthat this freedom has not perfectly well-defined limits. It was adelightful day, such as often comes, even in winter, within the Capesof Virginia; the sun was genial, the bay was smooth, with only a lightbreeze that kept the water sparkling brilliantly, and just enough tonicin the air to excite the spirits. The little tug, which was prettywell packed with the merry company, was swift, and danced along in anexhilarating manner. The bay, as everybody knows, is one of the mostcommodious in the world, and would be one of the most beautiful if ithad hills to overlook it. There is, to be sure, a tranquil beauty inits wooded headlands and long capes, and it is no wonder that the earlyexplorers were charmed with it, or that they lost their way in itsinlets, rivers, and bays. The company at first made a pretense of tryingto understand its geography, and asked a hundred questions about thebatteries, and whence the Merrimac appeared, and where the Congresswas sunk, and from what place the Monitor darted out upon its bigantagonist. But everything was on a scale so vast that it was difficultto localize these petty incidents (big as they were in consequences), and the party soon abandoned history and geography for the enjoyment ofthe moment. Song began to take the place of conversation. A couple ofbanjos were produced, and both the facility and the repertoire of theyoung ladies who handled them astonished Irene. The songs were of loveand summer seas, chansons in French, minor melodies in Spanish, plaindeclarations of affection in distinct English, flung abroad with classicabandon, and caught up by the chorus in lilting strains that partook ofthe bounding, exhilarating motion of the little steamer. Why, here ismaterial, thought King, for a troupe of bacchantes, lighthearted leadersof a summer festival. What charming girls, quick of wit, dashing inrepartee, who can pick the strings, troll a song, and dance a brando!

"It's like sailing over the Bay of Naples, " Irene was saying toMr. King, who had found a seat beside her in the little cabin; "theguitar-strumming and the impassioned songs, only that always seems to mea manufactured gayety, an attempt to cheat the traveler into the beliefthat all life is a holiday. This is spontaneous. "

"Yes, and I suppose the ancient Roman gayety, of which the Neapolitanis an echo, was spontaneous once. I wonder if our society is getting todance and frolic along like that of old at Baiae!"

"Oh, Mr. King, this is an excursion. I assure you the American girl is aserious and practical person most of the time. You've been away so longthat your standards are wrong. She's not nearly so knowing as she seemsto be. "

The boat was preparing to land at Newport News--a sand bank, with arailway terminus, a big elevator, and a hotel. The party streamed alongin laughing and chatting groups, through the warehouse and over thetracks and the sandy hillocks to the hotel. On the way they captureda novel conveyance, a cart with an ox harnessed in the shafts, theproperty of an aged negro, whose white hair and variegated raimentproclaimed him an ancient Virginian, a survival of the war. The companychartered this establishment, and swarmed upon it till it looked like aNeapolitan 'calesso', and the procession might have been mistaken for aharvest-home--the harvest of beauty and fashion. The hotel was capturedwithout a struggle on the part of the regular occupants, a danceextemporized in the dining-room, and before the magnitude of theinvasion was realized by the garrison, the dancing feet and the laughinggirls were away again, and the little boat was leaping along in theElizabeth River towards the Portsmouth Navy-yard. 

It isn't a model war establishment this Portsmouth yard, but it isa pleasant resort, with its stately barracks and open square andoccasional trees. In nothing does the American woman better show herpatriotism than in her desire to inspect naval vessels and understanddry-docks under the guidance of naval officers. Besides some old warhulks at the station, there were a couple of training-ships gettingready for a cruise, and it made one proud of his country to see theinterest shown by our party in everything on board of them, patientlylistening to the explanation of the breech-loading guns, diving downinto the between-decks, crowded with the schoolboys, where it isimpossible for a man to stand upright and difficult to avoid the stainof paint and tar, or swarming in the cabin, eager to know the mode ofthe officers' life at sea. So these are the little places where theysleep? and here is where they dine, and here is a library--a haphazardcase of books in the saloon. 

It was in running her eyes over these that a young lady discoveredthat the novels of Zola were among the nautical works needed in thenavigation of a ship of war. 

On the return--and the twenty miles seemed short enough--lunch wasserved, and was the occasion of a good deal of hilarity and innocentbadinage. There were those who still sang, and insisted on sipping theheel-taps of the morning gayety; but was King mistaken in supposing thata little seriousness had stolen upon the party--a serious intention, namely, between one and another couple? The wind had risen, for onething, and the little boat was so tossed about by the vigorous wavesthat the skipper declared it would be imprudent to attempt to landon the Rip-Raps. Was it the thought that the day was over, and thatunderneath all chaff and hilarity there was the question of settling inlife to be met some time, which subdued a little the high spirits, andgave an air of protection and of tenderness to a couple here and there?Consciously, perhaps, this entered into the thought of nobody; but stillthe old story will go on, and perhaps all the more rapidly under a maskof raillery and merriment. 

There was great bustling about, hunting up wraps and lost parasols andmislaid gloves, and a chorus of agreement on the delight of the day, upon going ashore, and Mrs. Cortlandt, who looked the youngest andmost animated of the flock, was quite overwhelmed with thanks andcongratulations upon the success of her excursion. 

"Yes, it was perfect; you've given us all a great deal of pleasure, Mrs. Cortlandt, " Mr. King was saying, as he stood beside her, watching theexodus. 

Perhaps Mrs. Cortlandt fancied his eyes were following a particularfigure, for she responded, "And how did you like her?"

"Like her--Miss Benson? Why, I didn't see much of her. I thought she wasvery intelligent--seemed very much interested when Lieutenant Green wasexplaining to her what made the drydock dry--but they were all that. Didyou say her eyes were gray? I couldn't make out if they were not ratherblue after all--large, changeable sort of eyes, long lashes; eyes thatlook at you seriously and steadily, without the least bit of coquetryor worldliness; eyes expressing simplicity and interest in what you aresaying--not in you, but in what you are saying. So few women know howto listen; most women appear to be thinking of themselves and the effectthey are producing. "

Mrs. Cortlandt laughed. "Ah; I see. And a little 'sadness' in them, wasn't there? Those are the most dangerous eyes. The sort that followyou, that you see in the dark at night after the gas is turned off. "

"I haven't the faculty of seeing things in the dark, Mrs. Cortlandt. Oh, there's the mother!" And the shrill voice of Mrs. Benson was heard, "Wewas getting uneasy about you. Pa says a storm's coming, and that you'dbe as sick as sick. "

The weather was changing. But that evening the spacious hotel, luxurious, perfectly warmed, and well lighted, crowded with an agreeableif not a brilliant company--for Mr. King noted the fact that none ofthe gentlemen dressed for dinner--seemed all the more pleasant for thecontrast with the weather outside. Thus housed, it was pleasant tohear the waves dashing against the breakwater. Just by chance, in theballroom, Mr. King found himself seated by Mrs. Benson and a group ofelderly ladies, who had the perfunctory air of liking the mild gayety ofthe place. To one of them Mr. King was presented, Mrs. Stimpson--astout woman with a broad red face and fishy eyes, wearing an elaboratehead-dress with purple flowers, and attired as if she were expectingto take a prize. Mrs. Stimpson was loftily condescending, and askedMr. King if this was his first visit. She'd been coming here years andyears; never could get through the spring without a few weeks at theHygeia. Mr. King saw a good many people at this hotel who seemed toregard it as a home. 

"I hope your daughter, Mrs. Benson, was not tired out with the ratherlong voyage today. "

"Not a mite. I guess she enjoyed it. She don't seem to enjoy mostthings. She's got everything heart can wish at home. I don't know how itis. I was tellin' pa, Mr. Benson, today that girls ain't what they usedto be in my time. Takes more to satisfy 'em. Now my daughter, if I sayit as shouldn't, Mr. King, there ain't a better appearin, ' nor smarter, nor more dutiful girl anywhere--well, I just couldn't live without her;and she's had the best schools in the East and Europe; done all Europeand Rome and Italy; and after all, somehow, she don't seem contented inCyrusville--that's where we live in Ohio--one of the smartest places inthe state; grown right up to be a city since we was married. She neversays anything, but I can see. And we haven't spared anything on ourhouse. And society--there's a great deal more society than I ever had. "

Mr. King might have been astonished at this outpouring if he had notobserved that it is precisely in hotels and to entire strangers thatsome people are apt to talk with less reserve than to intimate friends. 

"I've no doubt, " he said, "you have a lovely home in Cyrusville. "

"Well, I guess it's got all the improvements. Pa, Mr. Benson, said thathe didn't know of anything that had been left out, and we had a man upfrom Cincinnati, who did all the furnishing before Irene came home. "

"Perhaps your daughter would have preferred to furnish it herself?"

"Mebbe so. She said it was splendid, but it looked like somebody else'shouse. She says the queerest things sometimes. I told Mr. Benson that Ithought it would be a good thing to go away from home a little while andtravel round. I've never been away much except in New York, where Mr. Benson has business a good deal. We've been in Washington this winter. "

"Are you going farther south?"

"Yes; we calculate to go down to the New Orleans Centennial. Pa wantsto see the Exposition, and Irene wants to see what the South looks like, and so do I. I suppose it's perfectly safe now, so long after the war?"

"Oh, I should say so. "

"That's what Mr. Benson says. He says it's all nonsense the talk aboutwhat the South 'll do now the Democrats are in. He says the South wantsto make money, and wants the country prosperous as much as anybody. Yes, we are going to take a regular tour all summer round to the differentplaces where people go. Irene calls it a pilgrimage to the holy placesof America. Pa thinks we'll get enough of it, and he's determined weshall have enough of it for once. I suppose we shall. I like to travel, but I haven't seen any place better than Cyrusville yet. "

As Irene did not make her appearance, Mr. King tore himself away fromthis interesting conversation and strolled about the parlors, madeengagements to take early coffee at the fort, to go to church with Mrs. Cortlandt and her friends, and afterwards to drive over to Hampton andsee the copper and other colored schools, talked a little politics overa late cigar, and then went to bed, rather curious to see if the eyesthat Mrs. Cortlandt regarded as so dangerous would appear to him in thedarkness. 

When he awoke, his first faint impressions were that the Hygeia haddrifted out to sea, and then that a dense fog had drifted in andenveloped it. But this illusion was speedily dispelled. The window-ledgewas piled high with snow. Snow filled the air, whirled about by a galethat was banging the window-shutters and raging exactly like a Northerntempest. 

It swirled the snow about in waves and dark masses interspersed withrifts of light, dark here and luminous there. The Rip-Raps were lost toview. Out at sea black clouds hung in the horizon, heavy reinforcementsfor the attacking storm. The ground was heaped with the stillfast-falling snow--ten inches deep he heard it said when he descended. The Baltimore boat had not arrived, and could not get in. The waves atthe wharf rolled in, black and heavy, with a sullen beat, and the skyshut down close to the water, except when a sudden stronger gust of windcleared a luminous space for an instant. Stormbound: that is what theHygeia was--a winter resort without any doubt. 

The hotel was put to a test of its qualities. There was no gettingabroad in such a storm. But the Hygeia appeared at its best in thisemergency. The long glass corridors, where no one could venture inthe arctic temperature, gave, nevertheless, an air of brightness andcheerfulness to the interior, where big fires blazed, and the companywere exalted into good-fellowship and gayety--a decorous Sundaygayety--by the elemental war from which they were securely housed. 

If the defenders of their country in the fortress mounted guard thatmorning, the guests at the Hygeia did not see them, but a good many ofthem mounted guard later at the hotel, and offered to the youngladies there that protection which the brave like to give the fair. Notwithstanding this, Mr. Stanhope King could not say the day was dull. After a morning presumably spent over works of a religious character, some of the young ladies, who had been the life of the excursion theday before, showed their versatility by devising serious amusementsbefitting the day, such as twenty questions on Scriptural subjects, palmistry, which on another day is an aid to mild flirtation, and anexhibition of mind-reading, not public--oh, dear, no--but with a favoredgroup in a private parlor. In none of these groups, however, did Mr. King find Miss Benson, and when he encountered her after dinner inthe reading-room, she confessed that she had declined an invitation toassist at the mind-reading, partly from a lack of interest, and partlyfrom a reluctance to dabble in such things. 

"Surely you are not uninterested in what is now called psychicalresearch?" he asked. 

"That depends, " said Irene. "If I were a physician, I should like towatch the operation of the minds of 'sensitives' as a pathologicalstudy. But the experiments I have seen are merely exciting andunsettling, without the least good result, with a haunting notion thatyou are being tricked or deluded. It is as much as I can do to try andknow my own mind, without reading the minds of others. "

"But you cannot help the endeavor to read the mind of a person with whomyou are talking. "

"Oh, that is different. That is really an encounter of wits, for youknow that the best part of a conversation is the things not said. Whatthey call mindreading is a vulgar business compared to this. Don't youthink so, Mr. King?"

What Mr. King was actually thinking was that Irene's eyes were the mostunfathomable blue he ever looked into, as they met his with perfectfrankness, and he was wondering if she were reading his present state ofmind; but what he said was, "I think your sort of mind-reading is agood deal more interesting than the other, " and he might have added, dangerous. For a man cannot attempt to find out what is in a woman'sheart without a certain disturbance of his own. He added, "So you thinkour society is getting too sensitive and nervous, and inclined to makedangerous mental excursions?"

"I'm afraid I do not think much about such things, " Irene replied, looking out of the window into the storm. "I'm content with a verysimple faith, even if it is called ignorance. "

Mr. King was thinking, as he watched the clear, spirited profile of thegirl shown against the white tumult in the air, that he should like tobelong to the party of ignorance himself, and he thought so long aboutit that the subject dropped, and the conversation fell into ordinarychannels, and Mrs. Benson appeared. She thought they would move on assoon as the storm was over. Mr. King himself was going south in themorning, if travel were possible. When he said good-by, Mrs. Bensonexpressed the pleasure his acquaintance had given them, and hoped theyshould see him in Cyrusville. Mr. King looked to see if this invitationwas seconded in Irene's eyes; but they made no sign, although she gavehim her hand frankly, and wished him a good journey. 

The next morning he crossed to Norfolk, was transported through thesnow-covered streets on a sledge, and took his seat in the cars for themost monotonous ride in the country, that down the coast-line. 

When next Stanhope King saw Fortress Monroe it was in the first days ofJune. The summer which he had left in the interior of the Hygeia was nowout-of-doors. The winter birds had gone north; the summer birds had notyet come. It was the interregnum, for the Hygeia, like Venice, has twoseasons, one for the inhabitants of colder climes, and the other fornatives of the country. No spot, thought our traveler, could be morelovely. Perhaps certain memories gave it a charm, not well defined, but still gracious. If the house had been empty, which it was far frombeing, it would still have been peopled for him. Were they all suchagreeable people whom he had seen there in March, or has one girl thepower to throw a charm over a whole watering-place? At any rate, theplace was full of delightful repose. There was movement enough uponthe water to satisfy one's lazy longing for life, the waves lappedsoothingly along the shore, and the broad bay, sparkling in the sun, wasanimated with boats, which all had a holiday air. Was it not enough tocome down to breakfast and sit at the low, broad windows and watch theshifting panorama? All about the harbor slanted the white sails; atintervals a steamer was landing at the wharf or backing away from it;on the wharf itself there was always a little bustle, but no noise, somepretense of business, and much actual transaction in the way of idleattitudinizing, the colored man in castoff clothes, and the coloredsister in sun-bonnet or turban, lending themselves readily to thepicturesque; the scene changed every minute, the sail of a tiny boat washoisted or lowered under the window, a dashing cutter with its uniformedcrew was pulling off to the German man-of-war, a puffing little tugdragged along a line of barges in the distance, and on the horizon afleet of coasters was working out between the capes to sea. In the openwindow came the fresh morning breeze, and only the softened sounds ofthe life outside. The ladies came down in cool muslin dresses, and addedthe needed grace to the picture as they sat breakfasting by the windows, their figures in silhouette against the blue water. 

No wonder our traveler lingered there a little! Humanity called him, forone thing, to drive often with humanely disposed young ladies roundthe beautiful shore curve to visit the schools for various colors atHampton. Then there was the evening promenading on the broad verandasand out upon the miniature pier, or at sunset by the water-batteriesof the old fort--such a peaceful old fortress as it is. All the morningthere were "inspections" to be attended, and nowhere could there beseen a more agreeable mingling of war and love than the spacious, tree-planted interior of the fort presented on such occasions. Theshifting figures of the troops on parade; the martial and daringmanoeuvres of the regimental band; the groups of ladies seated onbenches under the trees, attended by gallants in uniform, momentarilyoff duty and full of information, and by gallants not in uniform andnever off duty and desirous to learn; the ancient guns with French armsand English arms, reminiscences of Yorktown, on one of which a prettygirl was apt to be perched in the act of being photographed--all thiswas enough to inspire any man to be a countryman and a lover. It isbeautiful to see how fearless the gentle sex is in the presence ofactual war; the prettiest girls occupied the front and most exposedseats; and never flinched when the determined columns marched down onthem with drums beating and colors flying, nor showed much relief whenthey suddenly wheeled and marched to another part of the parade insearch of glory. And the officers' quarters in the casemates--what willnot women endure to serve their country! These quarters are mere tunnelsunder a dozen feet of earth, with a door on the parade side and acasement window on the outside--a damp cellar, said to be cool in theheight of summer. The only excuse for such quarters is that thewomen and children will be comparatively safe in case the fortress isbombarded. 

The hotel and the fortress at this enchanting season, to say nothing ofother attractions, with laughing eyes and slender figures, might wellhave detained Mr. Stanhope King, but he had determined upon a sort ofroving summer among the resorts of fashion and pleasure. After a longsojourn abroad, it seemed becoming that he should know something ofthe floating life of his own country. His determination may have beenstrengthened by the confession of Mrs. Benson that her family wereintending an extensive summer tour. It gives a zest to pleasure to haveeven an indefinite object, and though the prospect of meeting Ireneagain was not definite, it was nevertheless alluring. There wassomething about her, he could not tell what, different from the women hehad met in France. Indeed, he went so far as to make a general formulaas to the impression the American women made on him at FortressMonroe--they all appeared to be innocent. 

II. CAPE MAY, ATLANTIC CITY

"Of course you will not go to Cape May till the season opens. Youmight as well go to a race-track the day there is no race. " It was Mrs. Cortlandt who was speaking, and the remonstrance was addressed to Mr. Stanhope King, and a young gentleman, Mr. Graham Forbes, who hadjust been presented to her as an artist, in the railway stationat Philadelphia, that comfortable home of the tired and bewilderedtraveler. Mr. Forbes, with his fresh complexion, closely cropped hair, and London clothes, did not look at all like the traditional artist, although the sharp eyes of Mrs. Cortlandt detected a small sketch-bookpeeping out of his side pocket. 

"On the contrary, that is why we go, " said Mr. King. "I've a fancy thatI should like to open a season once myself. "

"Besides, " added Mr. Forbes, "we want to see nature unadorned. You know, Mrs. Cortlandt, how people sometimes spoil a place. "

"I'm not sure, " answered the lady, laughing, "that people have notspoiled you two and you need a rest. Where else do you go?"

"Well, I thought, " replied Mr. King, "from what I heard, that AtlanticCity might appear best with nobody there. "

"Oh, there's always some one there. You know, it is a winter resortnow. And, by the way--But there's my train, and the young ladies arebeckoning to me. " (Mrs. Cortlandt was never seen anywhere without aparty of young ladies. ) "Yes, the Bensons passed through Washington theother day from the South, and spoke of going to Atlantic City to tone upa little before the season, and perhaps you know that Mrs. Benson took agreat fancy to you, Mr. King. Good-by, au revoir, " and the lady was gonewith her bevy of girls, struggling in the stream that poured towards oneof the wicket-gates. 

"Atlantic City? Why, Stanhope, you don't think of going there also?"

"I didn't think of it, but, hang it all, my dear fellow, duty isduty. There are some places you must see in order to be well informed. Atlantic City is an important place; a great many of its inhabitantsspend their winters in Philadelphia. "

"And this Mrs. Benson?"

"No, I'm not going down there to see Mrs. Benson. "

Expectancy was the word when our travelers stepped out of the car atCape May station. Except for some people who seemed to have businessthere, they were the only passengers. It was the ninth of June. Everything was ready--the sea, the sky, the delicious air, the long lineof gray-colored coast, the omnibuses, the array of hotel tooters. Asthey stood waiting in irresolution a grave man of middle age and adisinterested manner sauntered up to the travelers, and slipped intofriendly relations with them. It was impossible not to incline to aperson so obliging and well stocked with local information. Yes, therewere several good hotels open. It didn't make much difference; there wasone near at hand, not pretentious, but probably as comfortable as any. People liked the table; last summer used to come there from other hotelsto get a meal. He was going that way, and would walk along with them. He did, and conversed most interestingly on the way. Our travelersfelicitated themselves upon falling into such good hands, but whenthey reached the hotel designated it had such a gloomy and in factboardinghouse air that they hesitated, and thought they would like towalk on a little farther and see the town before settling. And theirfriend appeared to feel rather grieved about it, not for himself, butfor them. He had moreover, the expression of a fisherman who has lost afish after he supposed it was securely hooked. But our young friends hadbeen angled for in a good many waters, and they told the landlord, forit was the landlord, that while they had no doubt his was the best hotelin the place, they would like to look at some not so good. The one thatattracted them, though they could not see in what the attraction lay, was a tall building gay with fresh paint in many colors, some prettywindow balconies, and a portico supported by high striped columns thatrose to the fourth story. They were fond of color, and were taken bysix little geraniums planted in a circle amid the sand in front of thehouse, which were waiting for the season to open before they began togrow. With hesitation they stepped upon the newly varnished piazza andthe newly varnished office floor, for every step left a footprint. Thechairs, disposed in a long line on the piazza, waiting for guests, werealso varnished, as the artist discovered when he sat in one of them andwas held fast. It was all fresh and delightful. The landlord and theclerks had smiles as wide as the open doors; the waiters exhibited intheir eagerness a good imitation of unselfish service. 

It was very pleasant to be alone in the house, and to be thefirst-fruits of such great expectations. The first man of the seasonis in such a different position from the last. He is like the King ofBavaria alone in his royal theatre. The ushers give him the best seat inthe house, he hears the tuning of the instruments, the curtain is aboutto rise, and all for him. It is a very cheerful desolation, for it has afuture, and everything quivers with the expectation of life and gayety. Whereas the last man is like one who stumbles out among the emptybenches when the curtain has fallen and the play is done. Nothing isso melancholy as the shabbiness of a watering-place at the end of theseason, where is left only the echo of past gayety, the last guests arescurrying away like leaves before the cold, rising wind, the varnishhas worn off, shutters are put up, booths are dismantled, the shows arepacking up their tawdry ornaments, and the autumn leaves collect in thecorners of the gaunt buildings. 

Could this be the Cape May about which hung so many traditions ofsummer romance? Where were those crowds of Southerners, with slaves andchariots, and the haughtiness of a caste civilization, and the bellesfrom Baltimore and Philadelphia and Charleston and Richmond, whosesmiles turned the heads of the last generation? Had that gay societydanced itself off into the sea, and left not even a phantom of itselfbehind? As he sat upon the veranda, King could not rid himself ofthe impression that this must be a mocking dream, this appearance ofemptiness and solitude. Why, yes, he was certainly in a delusion, atleast in a reverie. The place was alive. An omnibus drove to the door(though no sound of wheels was heard); the waiters rushed out, a fat mandescended, a little girl was lifted down, a pretty woman jumped fromthe steps with that little extra bound on the ground which all womenconfessedly under forty always give when they alight from a vehicle, alarge woman lowered herself cautiously out, with an anxious look, anda file of men stooped and emerged, poking their umbrellas and canes ineach other's backs. Mr. King plainly saw the whole party hurry into theoffice and register their names, and saw the clerk repeatedly touch abell and throw back his head and extend his hand to a servant. Curiousto see who the arrivals were, he went to the register. No names werewritten there. But there were other carriages at the door, there was apile of trunks on the veranda, which he nearly stumbled over, althoughhis foot struck nothing, and the chairs were full, and people werestrolling up and down the piazza. He noticed particularly one couplepromenading--a slender brunette, with a brilliant complexion; large darkeyes that made constant play--could it be the belle of Macon?--anda gentleman of thirty-five, in black frock-coat, unbuttoned, with awide-brimmed soft hat-clothes not quite the latest style--who had a gooddeal of manner, and walked apart from the young lady, bending towardsher with an air of devotion. Mr. King stood one side and watched theendless procession up and down, up and down, the strollers, the mincers, the languid, the nervous steppers; noted the eye-shots, the flashing orthe languishing look that kills, and never can be called to account forthe mischief it does; but not a sound did he hear of the repartee andthe laughter. The place certainly was thronged. The avenue in front wascrowded with vehicles of all sorts; there were groups strolling on thebroad beach-children with their tiny pails and shovels digging pitsclose to the advancing tide, nursery-maids in fast colors, boys inknickerbockers racing on the beach, people lying on the sand, resolutewalkers, whose figures loomed tall in the evening light, doing theirconstitutional. People were passing to and fro on the long iron pierthat spider-legged itself out into the sea; the two rooms midway werefilled with sitters taking the evening breeze; and the large ball andmusic room at the end, with its spacious outside promenade-yes, therewere dancers there, and the band was playing. Mr. King could see thefiddlers draw their bows, and the corneters lift up their horns and getred in the face, and the lean man slide his trombone, and the drummerflourish his sticks, but not a note of music reached him. It might havebeen a performance of ghosts for all the effect at this distance. Mr. King remarked upon this dumb-show to a gentleman in a blue coatand white vest and gray hat, leaning against a column near him. Thegentleman made no response. It was most singular. Mr. King stepped backto be out of the way of some children racing down the piazza, and, halfstumbling, sat down in the lap of a dowager--no, not quite; the chairwas empty, and he sat down in the fresh varnish, to which his clothesstuck fast. Was this a delusion? No. The tables were filled in thedining-room, the waiters were scurrying about, there were ladies on thebalconies looking dreamily down upon the animated scene below; all themovements of gayety and hilarity in the height of a season. Mr. Kingapproached a group who were standing waiting for a carriage, but theydid not see him, and did not respond to his trumped-up question aboutthe next train. Were these, then, shadows, or was he a spirit himself?Were these empty omnibuses and carriages that discharged ghostlypassengers? And all this promenading and flirting and languishing andlove-making, would it come to nothing-nothing more than usual? There wasa charm about it all--the movement, the color, the gray sand, and therosy blush on the sea--a lovely place, an enchanted place. Were thesethrongs the guests that were to come, or those that had been hereinother seasons? Why could not the former "materialize" as well as thelatter? Is it not as easy to make nothing out of what never yet existedas out of what has ceased to exist? The landlord, by faith, sees allthis array which is prefigured so strangely to Mr. King; and his comelyyoung wife sees it and is ready for it; and the fat son at the suppertable--a living example of the good eating to be had here--is serene, and has the air of being polite and knowing to a houseful. This scrapof a child, with the aplomb of a man of fifty, wise beyond his fatness, imparts information to the travelers about the wine, speaks to thewaiter with quiet authority, and makes these mature men feel like boysbefore the gravity of our perfect flower of American youth who has knownno childhood. This boy at least is no phantom; the landlord is real, andthe waiters, and the food they bring. 

"I suppose, " said Mr. King to his friend, "that we are opening theseason. Did you see anything outdoors?"

"Yes; a horseshoe-crab about a mile below here on the smooth sand, witha long dotted trail behind him, a couple of girls in a pony-cartwho nearly drove over me, and a tall young lady with a red parasol, accompanied by a big black-and-white dog, walking rapidly, close to theedge of the sea, towards the sunset. It's just lovely, the silvery sweepof coast in this light. "

"It seems a refined sort of place in its outlines, and quietlyrespectable. They tell me here that they don't want the excursion crowdsthat overrun Atlantic City, but an Atlantic City man, whom I met at thepier, said that Cape May used to be the boss, but that Atlantic City hadgot the bulge on it now--had thousands to the hundreds here. To get thebulge seems a desirable thing in America, and I think we'd better seewhat a place is like that is popular, whether fashion recognizes it ornot. "

The place lost nothing in the morning light, and it was a sparklingmorning with a fresh breeze. Nature, with its love of simple, sweepinglines, and its feeling for atmospheric effect, has done everything forthe place, and bad taste has not quite spoiled it. There is a sloping, shallow beach, very broad, of fine, hard sand, excellent for drivingor for walking, extending unbroken three miles down to Cape May Point, which has hotels and cottages of its own, and lifesaving and signalstations. Off to the west from this point is the long sand line to CapeHenlopen, fourteen miles away, and the Delaware shore. At Cape May Pointthere is a little village of painted wood houses, mostly cottages tolet, and a permanent population of a few hundred inhabitants. From thepier one sees a mile and a half of hotels and cottages, fronting south, all flaming, tasteless, carpenter's architecture, gay with paint. The sea expanse is magnificent, and the sweep of beach is fortunatelyunencumbered, and vulgarized by no bath-houses or show-shanties. Thebath-houses are in front of the hotels and in their enclosures; thencome the broad drive, and the sand beach, and the sea. The line isbroken below by the lighthouse and a point of land, whereon stands theelephant. This elephant is not indigenous, and he stands alone in thesand, a wooden sham without an explanation. Why the hotel-keeper's mindalong the coast regards this grotesque structure as a summer attractionit is difficult to see. But when one resort had him, he became anecessity everywhere. The travelers walked down to this monster, climbedthe stairs in one of his legs, explored the rooms, looked out from thesaddle, and pondered on the problem. This beast was unfinished withinand unpainted without, and already falling into decay. An elephant onthe desert, fronting the Atlantic Ocean, had, after all, a picturesqueaspect, and all the more so because he was a deserted ruin. 

The elephant was, however, no emptier than the cottages about whichour friends strolled. But the cottages were all ready, the rows of newchairs stood on the fresh piazzas, the windows were invitingly open, thepathetic little patches of flowers in front tried hard to look festivein the dry sands, and the stout landladies in their rocking-chairscalmly knitted and endeavored to appear as if they expected nobody, buthad almost a houseful. 

Yes, the place was undeniably attractive. The sea had the blue of Nice;why must we always go to the Mediterranean for an aqua marina, forpoetic lines, for delicate shades? What charming gradations had thispicture-gray sand, blue waves, a line of white sails against the paleblue sky! By the pier railing is a bevy of little girls grouped about anancient colored man, the very ideal old Uncle Ned, in ragged, baggy, anddisreputable clothes, lazy good-nature oozing out of every pore ofhim, kneeling by a telescope pointed to a bunch of white sails on thehorizon; a dainty little maiden, in a stiff white skirt and golden hair, leans against him and tiptoes up to the object-glass, shutting first oneeye and then the other, and making nothing out of it all. "Why, ov co'seyou can't see nuffln, honey, " said Uncle Ned, taking a peep, "wid the'scope p'inted up in the sky. "

In order to pass from Cape May to Atlantic City one takes a long circuitby rail through the Jersey sands. Jersey is a very prolific State, butthe railway traveler by this route is excellently prepared for AtlanticCity, for he sees little but sand, stunted pines, scrub oaks, smallframe houses, sometimes trying to hide in the clumps of scrub oaks, and the villages are just collections of the same small frame houseshopelessly decorated with scroll-work and obtrusively painted, standingin lines on sandy streets, adorned with lean shade-trees. The handsomeJersey people were not traveling that day--the two friends had a theoryabout the relation of a sandy soil to female beauty--and when theartist got out his pencil to catch the types of the country, he waswell rewarded. There were the fat old women in holiday market costumes, strong-featured, positive, who shook their heads at each other andnodded violently and incessantly, and all talked at once; the old men inrusty suits, thin, with a deprecatory manner, as if they had heard thatclatter for fifty years, and perky, sharp-faced girls in vegetable hats, all long-nosed and thin-lipped. And though the day was cool, mosquitoeshad the bad taste to invade the train. At the junction, a smallcollection of wooden shanties, where the travelers waited an hour, theyheard much of the glories of Atlantic City from the postmistress, whowas waiting for an excursion some time to go there (the passion forexcursions seems to be a growing one), and they made the acquaintance ofa cow tied in the room next the ticket-office, probably also waiting fora passage to the city by the sea. 

And a city it is. If many houses, endless avenues, sand, paint, make acity, the artist confessed that this was one. Everything is on a largescale. It covers a large territory, the streets run at right angles, theavenues to the ocean take the names of the states. If the town had beenmade to order and sawed out by one man, it could not be more beautifullyregular and more satisfactorily monotonous. There is nothing about it togive the most commonplace mind in the world a throb of disturbance. Thehotels, the cheap shops, the cottages, are all of wood, and, with threeor four exceptions in the thousands, they are all practically alike, allornamented with scroll-work, as if cut out by the jig-saw, all vividlypainted, all appealing to a primitive taste just awakening to theappreciation of the gaudy chromo and the illuminated and consolinghousehold motto. Most of the hotels are in the town, at considerabledistance from the ocean, and the majestic old sea, which can bemonotonous but never vulgar, is barricaded from the town by five or sixmiles of stark-naked plank walk, rows on rows of bath closets, leaguesof flimsy carpentry-work, in the way of cheap-John shops, tin-typebooths, peep-shows, go-rounds, shooting-galleries, pop-beer and cigarshops, restaurants, barber shops, photograph galleries, summer theatres. Sometimes the plank walk runs for a mile or two, on its piles, betweenrows of these shops and booths, and again it drops off down by thewaves. Here and there is a gayly-painted wooden canopy by the shore, with chairs where idlers can sit and watch the frolicking in the water, or a space railed off, where the select of the hotels lie or loungein the sand under red umbrellas. The calculating mind wonders how manymillion feet of lumber there are in this unpicturesque barricade, andwhat gigantic forests have fallen to make this timber front to the sea. But there is one thing man cannot do. He has made this show to suithimself, he has pushed out several iron piers into the sea, and erected, of course, a skating rink on the end of one of them. But the seaitself, untamed, restless, shining, dancing, raging, rolls in from thesouthward, tossing the white sails on its vast expanse, green, blue, leaden, white-capped, many-colored, never two minutes the same, soundingwith its eternal voice I knew not what rebuke to man. 

When Mr. King wrote his and his friend's name in the book at the MansionHouse, he had the curiosity to turn over the leaves, and it was not withmuch surprise that he read there the names of A. J. Benson, wife, anddaughter, Cyrusville, Ohio. 

"Oh, I see!" said the artist; "you came down here to see Mr. Benson!"

That gentleman was presently discovered tilted back in a chair onthe piazza, gazing vacantly into the vacant street with that air ofendurance that fathers of families put on at such resorts. But hebrightened up when Mr. King made himself known. 

"I'm right glad to see you, sir. And my wife and daughter will be. Iwas saying to my wife yesterday that I couldn't stand this sort of thingmuch longer. "

"You don't find it lively?"

"Well, the livelier it is the less I shall like it, I reckon. The townis well enough. It's one of the smartest places on the coast. I shouldlike to have owned the ground and sold out and retired. This sand is allgold. They say they sell the lots by the bushel and count every sand. You can see what it is, boards and paint and sand. Fine houses, too;miles of them. "

"And what do you do?"

"Oh, they say there's plenty to do. You can ride around in the sand; youcan wade in it if you want to, and go down to the beach and walk up anddown the plank walk--walk up and down--walk up and down. They like it. You can't bathe yet without getting pneumonia. They have gone there now. Irene goes because she says she can't stand the gayety of the parlor. "

From the parlor came the sound of music. A young girl who had the airof not being afraid of a public parlor was drumming out waltzes on thepiano, more for the entertainment of herself than of the half-dozenladies who yawned over their worsted-work. As she brought her piece toan end with a bang, a pretty, sentimental miss with a novel in her hand, who may not have seen Mr. King looking in at the door, ran over to theplayer and gave her a hug. "That's beautiful! that's perfectly lovely, Mamie!"--"This, " said the player, taking up another sheet, "has not beenplayed much in New York. " Probably not, in that style, thought Mr. King, as the girl clattered through it. 

There was no lack of people on the promenade, tramping the boards, orhanging about the booths where the carpenters and painters were at work, and the shop men and women were unpacking the corals and the sea-shells, and the cheap jewelry, and the Swiss wood-carving, the toys, the tinselbrooches, and agate ornaments, and arranging the soda fountains, andputting up the shelves for the permanent pie. The sort of preparationgoing on indicated the kind of crowd expected. If everything had a cheapand vulgar look, our wandering critics remembered that it is never fairto look behind the scenes of a show, and that things would wear a braverappearance by and by. And if the women on the promenade were homely andill-dressed, even the bonnes in unpicturesque costumes, and all the menwere slouchy and stolid, how could any one tell what an effect of gayetyand enjoyment there might be when there were thousands of such people, and the sea was full of bathers, and the flags were flying, and thebands were tooting, and all the theatres were opened, and acrobats andspangled women and painted red-men offered those attractions which, likegovernment, are for the good of the greatest number? What will youhave? Shall vulgarity be left just vulgar, and have no apotheosis andglorification? This is very fine of its kind, and a resort for themillion. The million come here to enjoy themselves. Would you have anart-gallery here, and high-priced New York and Paris shops lining theway?

"Look at the town, " exclaimed the artist, "and see what money can do, and satisfy the average taste without the least aid from art. It's justwonderful. I've tramped round the place, and, taking out a cottage ortwo, there isn't a picturesque or pleasing view anywhere. I tell youpeople know what they want, and enjoy it when they get it. "

"You needn't get excited about it, " said Mr. King. "Nobody said itwasn't commonplace, and glaringly vulgar if you like, and if you liketo consider it representative of a certain stage in national culture, Ihope it is not necessary to remind you that the United States can beatany other people in any direction they choose to expand themselves. You'll own it when you've seen watering-places enough. "

After this defense of the place, Mr. King owned it might be difficultfor Mr. Forbes to find anything picturesque to sketch. What figures, tobe sure! As if people were obliged to be shapely or picturesque for thesake of a wandering artist! "I could do a tree, " growled Mr. Forbes, "ora pile of boards; but these shanties!"

When they were well away from the booths and bath-houses, Mr. King sawin the distance two ladies. There was no mistaking one of them--the easycarriage, the grace of movement. No such figure had been afield all day. The artist was quick to see that. Presently they came up with them, andfound them seated on a bench, looking off upon Brigantine Island, a lowsand dune with some houses and a few trees against the sky, the mostpleasing object in view. 

Mrs. Benson did not conceal the pleasure she felt in seeing Mr. Kingagain, and was delighted to know his friend; and, to say the truth, MissIrene gave him a very cordial greeting. 

"I'm 'most tired to death, " said Mrs. Benson, when they were all seated. "But this air does me good. Don't you like Atlantic City?"

"I like it better than I did at first. " If the remark was intended forIrene, she paid no attention to it, being absorbed in explaining to Mr. Forbes why she preferred the deserted end of the promenade. 

"It's a place that grows on you. I guess it's grown the wrong way onIrene and father; but I like the air--after the South. They say we oughtto see it in August, when all Philadelphia is here. "

"I should think it might be very lively. "

"Yes; but the promiscuous bathing. I don't think I should like that. Weare not brought up to that sort of thing in Ohio. "

"No? Ohio is more like France, I suppose?"

"Like France!" exclaimed the old lady, looking at him inamazement--"like France! Why, France is the wickedest place in theworld. "

"No doubt it is, Mrs. Benson. But at the sea resorts the sexes batheseparately. "

"Well, now! I suppose they have to there. "

"Yes; the older nations grow, the more self-conscious they become. "

"I don't believe, for all you say, Mr. King, the French have any moreconscience than we have. "

"Nor do I, Mrs. Benson. I was only trying to say that they pay moreattention to appearances. "

"Well, I was brought up to think it's one thing to appear, and anotherthing to be, " said Mrs. Benson, as dismissing the subject. "So yourfriend's an artist? Does he paint? Does he take portraits? There wasan artist at Cyrusville last winter who painted portraits, but Irenewouldn't let him do hers. I'm glad we've met Mr. Forbes. I've alwayswanted to have--"

"Oh, mother, " exclaimed Irene, who always appeared to keep one ear forher mother's conversation, "I was just saying to Mr. Forbes that heought to see the art exhibitions down at the other end of the promenade, and the pictures of the people who come here in August. Are you rested?"

The party moved along, and Mr. King, by a movement that seemed to himmore natural than it did to Mr. Forbes, walked with Irene, and the twofell to talking about the last spring's trip in the South. 

"Yes, we enjoyed the exhibition, but I am not sure but I should haveenjoyed New Orleans more without the exhibition. That took so much time. There is nothing so wearisome as an exhibition. But New Orleans wascharming. I don't know why, for it's the flattest, dirtiest, dampestcity in the world; but it is charming. Perhaps it's the people, or theFrenchiness of it, or the tumble-down, picturesque old creole quarter, or the roses; I didn't suppose there were in the world so many roses;the town was just wreathed and smothered with them. And you did not seeit?"

"No; I have been to exhibitions, and I thought I should prefer to takeNew Orleans by itself some other time. You found the people hospitable?"

"Well, they were not simply hospitable; they were that, to be sure, forfather had letters to some of the leading men; but it was the generalair of friendliness and good-nature everywhere, of agreeableness--itwent along with the roses and the easy-going life. You didn't feelall the time on a strain. I don't suppose they are any better thanour people, and I've no doubt I should miss a good deal there aftera while--a certain tonic and purpose in life. But, do you know, it ispleasant sometimes to be with people who haven't so many corners as ourpeople have. But you went south from Fortress Monroe?"

"Yes; I went to Florida. "

"Oh, that must be a delightful country!"

"Yes, it's a very delightful land, or will be when it is finished. Itneeds advertising now. It needs somebody to call attention to it. Themodest Northerners who have got hold of it, and staked it all out intocity lots, seem to want to keep it all to themselves. "

"How do you mean 'finished'?"

"Why, the State is big enough, and a considerable portion of it has agood foundation. What it wants is building up. There's plenty of waterand sand, and palmetto roots and palmetto trees, and swamps, and aperfectly wonderful vegetation of vines and plants and flowers. What itneeds is land--at least what the Yankees call land. But it is coming on. A good deal of the State below Jacksonville is already ten to fifteenfeet above the ocean. "

"But it's such a place for invalids!"

"Yes, it is a place for invalids. There are two kinds of peoplethere--invalids and speculators. Thousands of people in the bleak North, and especially in the Northwest, cannot live in the winter anywhere elsethan in Florida. It's a great blessing to this country to have such asanitarium. As I said, all it needs is building up, and then it wouldn'tbe so monotonous and malarious. "

"But I had such a different idea of it!"

"Well, your idea is probably right. You cannot do justice to a place bydescribing it literally. Most people are fascinated by Florida: the factis that anything is preferable to our Northern climate from February toMay. "

"And you didn't buy an orange plantation, or a town?"

"No; I was discouraged. Almost any one can have a town who will take aboat and go off somewhere with a surveyor, and make a map. "

The truth is--the present writer had it from Major Blifill, who runs alittle steamboat upon one of the inland creeks where the alligator isstill numerous enough to be an entertainment--that Mr. King was no doubtmalarious himself when he sailed over Florida. Blifill says he offendeda whole boatfull one day when they were sailing up the St. John's. Probably he was tired of water, and swamp and water, and scraggytrees and water. The captain was on the bow, expatiating to a crowd oflisteners on the fertility of the soil and the salubrity of the climate. He had himself bought a piece of ground away up there somewhere for twohundred dollars, cleared it up, and put in orange-trees, and thousandswouldn't buy it now. And Mr. King, who listened attentively, finallyjoined in with the questioners, and said, "Captain, what is the averageprice of land down in this part of Florida by the--gallon?"

They had come down to the booths, and Mrs. Benson was showing the artistthe shells, piles of conchs, and other outlandish sea-fabricationsin which it is said the roar of the ocean can be heard when they arehundreds of miles away from the sea. It was a pretty thought, Mr. Forbes said, and he admired the open shells that were painted on theinside--painted in bright blues and greens, with dabs of white sails anda lighthouse, or a boat with a bare-armed, resolute young woman in it, sending her bark spinning over waves mountain-high. 

"Yes, " said the artist, "what cheerfulness those works of art will giveto the little parlors up in the country, when they are set up with othershells on the what-not in the corner! These shells always used to remindme of missionaries and the cause of the heathen; but when I see them nowI shall think of Atlantic City. "

"But the representative things here, " interrupted Irene, "are thephotographs, the tintypes. To see them is just as good as staying hereto see the people when they come. "

"Yes, " responded Mr. King, "I think art cannot go much further in thisdirection. "

If there were not miles of these show-cases of tintypes, there were atleast acres of them. Occasionally an instantaneous photograph gave alively picture of the beach, when the water was full of bathers-men, women, children, in the most extraordinary costumes for revealing ordeforming the human figure--all tossing about in the surf. But most ofthe pictures were taken on dry land, of single persons, couples, andgroups in their bathing suits. Perhaps such an extraordinary collectionof humanity cannot be seen elsewhere in the world, such a uniformityof one depressing type reduced to its last analysis by the sea-toilet. Sometimes it was a young man and a maiden, handed down to posterity indresses that would have caused their arrest in the street, sentimentallyreclining on a canvas rock. Again it was a maiden with flowing hair, raised hands clasped, eyes upturned, on top of a crag, at the baseof which the waves were breaking in foam. Or it was the same stalwartmaiden, or another as good, in a boat which stood on end, pullingthrough the surf with one oar, and dragging a drowning man (in a bathingsuit also) into the boat with her free hand. The legend was, "Saved. "There never was such heroism exhibited by young women before, with suchraiment, as was shown in these rare works of art. 

As they walked back to the hotel through a sandy avenue lined withjig-saw architecture, Miss Benson pointed out to them some things thatshe said had touched her a good deal. In the patches of sand before eachhouse there was generally an oblong little mound set about with a rim ofstones, or, when something more artistic could be afforded, with shells. On each of these little graves was a flower, a sickly geranium, or ahumble marigold, or some other floral token of affection. 

Mr. Forbes said he never was at a watering-place before where theyburied the summer boarders in the front yard. Mrs. Benson didn't likejoking on such subjects, and Mr. King turned the direction of theconversation by remarking that these seeming trifles were really of muchaccount in these days, and he took from his pocket a copy of the citynewspaper, 'The Summer Sea-Song, ' and read some of the leading items:"S. , our eye is on you. " "The Slopers have come to their cottage onQ Street, and come to stay. " "Mr. E. P. Borum has painted his frontsteps. " "Mr. Diffendorfer's marigold is on the blow. " And so on, and soon. This was probably the marigold mentioned that they were looking at. 

The most vivid impression, however, made upon the visitor in this walkwas that of paint. It seemed unreal that there could be so much paint inthe world and so many swearing colors. But it ceased to be a dream, and they were taken back into the hard, practical world, when, as theyturned the corner, Irene pointed out her favorite sign:

 Silas Lapham, mineral paint. Branch Office. 

The artist said, a couple of days after this morning, that he had enoughof it. "Of course, " he added, "it is a great pleasure to me to sit andtalk with Mrs. Benson, while you and that pretty girl walk up and downthe piazza all the evening; but I'm easily satisfied, and two eveningsdid for me. "

So that, much as Mr. King was charmed with Atlantic City, and much as heregretted not awaiting the arrival of the originals of the tintypes, he gave in to the restlessness of the artist for other scenes; but notbefore he had impressed Mrs. Benson with a notion of the delights ofNewport in July. 

III. THE CATSKILLS

The view of the Catskills from a certain hospitable mansion on the eastside of the Hudson is better than any mew from those delectable hills. The artist said so one morning late in June, and Mr. King agreed withhim, as a matter of fact, but would have no philosophizing about it, asthat anticipation is always better than realization; and when Mr. Forbes went on to say that climbing a mountain was a good deal likemarriage--the world was likely to look a little flat once that ceruleanheight was attained--Mr. King only remarked that that was a low view totake of the subject, but he would confess that it was unreasonable toexpect that any rational object could fulfill, or even approach, thepromise held out by such an exquisite prospect as that before them. 

The friends were standing where the Catskill hills lay before themin echelon towards the river, the ridges lapping over each other andreceding in the distance, a gradation of lines most artistically drawn, still further refined by shades of violet, which always have the effectupon the contemplative mind of either religious exaltation or thekindling of a sentiment which is in the young akin to the emotion oflove. While the artist was making some memoranda of these outlines, andMr. King was drawing I know not what auguries of hope from these purpleheights, a young lady seated upon a rock near by--a young lady juststepping over the border-line of womanhood--had her eyes also fixed uponthose dreamy distances, with that look we all know so well, betrayingthat shy expectancy of life which is unconfessed, that tendency tomaidenly reverie which it were cruel to interpret literally. At themoment she is more interesting than the Catskills--the brown hair, thelarge eyes unconscious of anything but the most natural emotion, theshapely waist just beginning to respond to the call of the future--itis a pity that we shall never see her again, and that she has nothingwhatever to do with our journey. She also will have her romance;fate will meet her in the way some day, and set her pure heart wildlybeating, and she will know what those purple distances mean. Happiness, tragedy, anguish--who can tell what is in store for her? I cannot butfeel profound sadness at meeting her in this casual way and never seeingher again. Who says that the world is not full of romance and pathos andregret as we go our daily way in it? You meet her at a railway station;there is the flutter of a veil, the gleam of a scarlet bird, the liftingof a pair of eyes--she is gone; she is entering a drawing-room, andstops a moment and turns away; she is looking from a window as youpass--it is only a glance out of eternity; she stands for a second upona rock looking seaward; she passes you at the church door--is that all?It is discovered that instantaneous photographs can be taken. They aretaken all the time; some of them are never developed, but I supposethese impressions are all there on the sensitive plate, and that theplate is permanently affected by the impressions. The pity of it is thatthe world is so full of these undeveloped knowledges of people worthknowing and friendships worth making. 

The comfort of leaving same things to the imagination was impressed uponour travelers when they left the narrow-gauge railway at the mountainstation, and identified themselves with other tourists by entering atwo-horse wagon to be dragged wearily up the hill through the woods. Theascent would be more tolerable if any vistas were cut in the forest togive views by the way; as it was, the monotony of the pull upward wasonly relieved by the society of the passengers. There were two brightlittle girls off for a holiday with their Western uncle, a big, good-natured man with a diamond breast-pin, and his voluble son, a ladabout the age of his little cousins, whom he constantly pestered byhis rude and dominating behavior. The boy was a product which it is thedespair of all Europe to produce, and our travelers had great delight inhim as an epitome of American "smartness. " He led all the conversation, had confident opinions about everything, easily put down his deferentialpapa, and pleased the other passengers by his self-sufficient, know-it-all air. To a boy who had traveled in California and seen theAlps it was not to be expected that this humble mountain could affordmuch entertainment, and he did not attempt to conceal his contempt forit. When the stage reached the Rip Van Winkle House, half-way, the shyschoolgirls were for indulging a little sentiment over the old legend, but the boy, who concealed his ignorance of the Irving romance until hiscousins had prattled the outlines of it, was not to be taken in by anysuch chaff, and though he was a little staggered by Rip's own cottage, and by the sight of the cave above it which is labeled as the veryspot where the vagabond took his long nap, he attempted to bullythe attendant and drink-mixer in the hut, and openly flaunted hisincredulity until the bar-tender showed him a long bunch of Rip's hair, which hung like a scalp on a nail, and the rusty barrel and stock of themusket. The cabin is, indeed, full of old guns, pistols, locks of hair, buttons, cartridge-boxes, bullets, knives, and other undoubted relicsof Rip and the Revolution. This cabin, with its facilities for slakingthirst on a hot day, which Rip would have appreciated, over a hundredyears old according to information to be obtained on the spot, isreally of unknown antiquity, the old boards and timber of which it isconstructed having been brought down from the Mountain House some fortyyears ago. 

The old Mountain House, standing upon its ledge of rock, from whichone looks down upon a map of a considerable portion of New York and NewEngland, with the lake in the rear, and heights on each side that offercharming walks to those who have in contemplation views of nature orof matrimony, has somewhat lost its importance since the vast Catskillregion has come to the knowledge of the world. A generation ago itwas the centre of attraction, and it was understood that going to theCatskills was going there. Generations of searchers after immortalityhave chiseled their names in the rock platform, and one who sits therenow falls to musing on the vanity of human nature and the transitorinessof fashion. Now New York has found that it has very convenient to ita great mountain pleasure-ground; railways and excellent roads havepierced it, the varied beauties of rocks, ravines, and charming retreatsare revealed, excellent hotels capable of entertaining a thousand guestsare planted on heights and slopes commanding mountain as well as lowlandprospects, great and small boarding-houses cluster in the high valleysand on the hillsides, and cottages more thickly every year dot thewild region. Year by year these accommodations will increase, newroads around the gorges will open more enchanting views, and it is notimprobable that the species of American known as the "summer boarder"will have his highest development and apotheosis in these mountains. 

Nevertheless Mr. King was not uninterested in renewing his memoriesof the old house. He could recall without difficulty, and also withoutemotion now, a scene on this upper veranda and a moonlight night longago, and he had no doubt he could find her name carved on a beech-treein the wood near by; but it was useless to look for it, for her name hadbeen changed. The place was, indeed, full of memories, but all chastenedand subdued by the indoor atmosphere, which impressed him as that ofa faded Sunday. He was very careful not to disturb the decorum by anyfrivolity of demeanor, and he cautioned the artist on this point; butMr. Forbes declared that the dining-room fare kept his spirits at aproper level. There was an old-time satisfaction in wandering into theparlor, and resting on the haircloth sofa, and looking at the hair-clothchairs, and pensively imagining a meeting there, with songs out ofthe Moody and Sankey book; and he did not tire of dropping into thereposeful reception-room, where he never by any chance met anybody, and sitting with the melodeon and big Bible Society edition of theScriptures, and a chance copy of the Christian at Play. These amusementswere varied by sympathetic listening to the complaints of the proprietorabout the vandalism of visitors who wrote with diamonds on thewindow-panes, so that the glass had to be renewed, or scratched theirnames on the pillars of the piazza, so that the whole front had to berepainted, or broke off the azalea blossoms, or in other ways desecratedthe premises. In order to fit himself for a sojourn here, Mr. King triedto commit to memory a placard that was neatly framed and hung on theveranda, wherein it was stated that the owner cheerfully submits to allnecessary use of the premises, "but will not permit any unnecessary use, or the exercise of a depraved taste or vandalism. " There were not as yetmany guests, and those who were there seemed to have conned this placardto their improvement, for there was not much exercise of any sort oftaste. Of course there were two or three brides, and there was theinevitable English nice middle-class tourist with his wife, the latterram-roddy and uncompromising, in big boots and botanical, who, inresponse to a gentleman who was giving her information about travel, constantly ejaculated, in broad English, "Yas, yas; ow, ow, ow, really!"

And there was the young bride from Kankazoo, who frightened Mr. Kingback into his chamber one morning when he opened his door and beheld thevision of a woman going towards the breakfast-room in what he took to bea robe de nuit, but which turned out to be one of the "Mother-Hubbards"which have had a certain celebrity as street dresses in some parts ofthe West. But these gayeties palled after a time, and one afternoonour travelers, with their vandalism all subdued, walked a mile over therocks to the Kaaterskill House, and took up their abode there to watchthe opening of the season. Naturally they expected some difficulty intransferring their two trunks round by the road, where there had beennothing but a wilderness forty years ago; but their change of base wasfacilitated by the obliging hotelkeeper in the most friendly manner, andwhen he insisted on charging only four dollars for moving the trunks, the two friends said that, considering the wear and tear of the mountaininvolved, they did not see how he could afford to do it for such a sum, and they went away, as they said, well pleased. 

It happened to be at the Kaaterskill House--it might have been atthe Grand, or the Overlook--that the young gentlemen in search ofinformation saw the Catskill season get under way. The phase of Americanlife is much the same at all these great caravansaries. It seems to thewriter, who has the greatest admiration for the military genius that canfeed and fight an army in the field, that not enough account is madeof the greater genius that can organize and carry on a great Americanhotel, with a thousand or fifteen hundred guests, in a short, sharp, and decisive campaign of two months, at the end of which the substantialfruits of victory are in the hands of the landlord, and the guests areallowed to depart with only their personal baggage and side-arms, but sowell pleased that they are inclined to renew the contest next year. Thisis a triumph of mind over mind. It is not merely the organization andthe management of the army under the immediate command of the landlord, the accumulation and distribution of supplies upon this mountain-top, inthe uncertainty whether the garrison on a given day will be one hundredor one thousand, not merely the lodging, rationing and amusing of thisshifting host, but the satisfying of as many whims and prejudicesas there are people who leave home on purpose to grumble and enjoythemselves in the exercise of a criticism they dare not indulge in theirown houses. Our friends had an opportunity of seeing the machinery setin motion in one of these great establishments. Here was a vast balloonstructure, founded on a rock, but built in the air, and anchored withcables, with towers and a high pillared veranda, capable, with itsannex, of lodging fifteen hundred people. The army of waiters andchamber-maids, of bellboys, and scullions and porters and laundry-folk, was arriving; the stalwart scrubbers were at work, the store-rooms werefilled, the big kitchen shone with its burnished coppers, and an arrayof white-capped and aproned cooks stood in line under their chef; thetelegraph operator was waiting at her desk, the drug clerk was arranginghis bottles, the newspaper stand was furnished, the post-office was openfor letters. It needed but the arrival of a guest to set the machineryin motion. And as soon as the guest came the band would be there tolaunch him into the maddening gayety of the season. It would welcome hisarrival in triumphant strains; it would pursue him at dinner, and drownhis conversation; it will fill his siesta with martial dreams, and itwould seize his legs in the evening, and entreat him to caper in theparlor. Everything was ready. And this was what happened. It was theevening of the opening day. The train wagons might be expectedany moment. The electric lights were blazing. All the clerks stoodexpectant, the porters were by the door, the trim, uniformed bell-boyswere all in waiting line, the register clerk stood fingering the leavesof the register with a gracious air. A noise is heard outside, the bigdoor opens, there is a rush forward, and four people flock in a man in alinen duster, a stout woman, a lad of ten, a smartly dressed young lady, and a dog. Movement, welcome, ringing of bells, tramping of feet--thewhole machinery has started. It was adjusted to crack an egg-shell orsmash an iron-bound trunk. The few drops presaged a shower. The next daythere were a hundred on the register; the day after, two hundred; andthe day following, an excursion. 

With increasing arrivals opportunity was offered for the study ofcharacter. Away from his occupation, away from the cares of thehousehold and the demands of society, what is the self-sustainingcapacity of the ordinary American man or woman? It was interesting tonote the enthusiasm of the first arrival, the delight in the view--RoundTop, the deep gorges, the charming vista of the lowlands, a world andwilderness of beauty; the inspiration of the air, the alertness toexplore in all directions, to see the lake, the falls, the mountainpaths. But is a mountain sooner found out than a valley, or is there awant of internal resources, away from business, that the men presentlybecome rather listless, take perfunctory walks for exercise, and are soeager for meal-time and mail-time? Why do they depend so much uponthe newspapers, when they all despise the newspapers? Mr. King usedto listen of an evening to the commonplace talk about the fire, all ofwhich was a dilution of what they had just got out of the newspapers, but what a lively assent there was to a glib talker who wound up hisremarks with a denunciation of the newspapers! The man was no doubtquite right, but did he reflect on the public loss of his valuableconversation the next night if his newspaper should chance to fail? Andthe women, after their first feeling of relief, did they fall presentlyinto petty gossip, complaints about the table, criticisms of eachother's dress, small discontents with nearly everything? Not all ofthem. 

An excursion is always resented by the regular occupants of a summerresort, who look down upon the excursionists, while they condescendto be amused by them. It is perhaps only the common attitude of thewholesale to the retail dealer, although it is undeniable that a personseems temporarily to change his nature when he becomes part of anexcursion; whether it is from the elation at the purchase of a dayof gayety below the market price, or the escape from personalresponsibility under a conductor, or the love of being conspicuous as apart of a sort of organization, the excursionist is not on his ordinarybehavior. 

An excursion numbering several hundreds, gathered along the rivertowns by the benevolent enterprise of railway officials, came up to themountain one day. The officials seemed to have run a drag-net throughfactories, workshops, Sunday-schools, and churches, and scooped inthe weary workers at homes and in shops unaccustomed to a holiday. Ourfriends formed a part of a group on the hotel piazza who watched thestraggling arrival of this band of pleasure. For by this time ourtwo friends had found a circle of acquaintances, with the facility ofwatering-place life, which in its way represented certain phases ofAmerican life as well as the excursion. A great many writers have soughtto classify and label and put into a paragraph a description of theAmerican girl. She is not to be disposed of by any such easy process. Undoubtedly she has some common marks of nationality that distinguishher from the English girl, but in variety she is practically infinite, and likely to assume almost any form, and the characteristics of a dozennationalities. No one type represents her. What, indeed, would one sayof this little group on the hotel piazza, making its comments uponthe excursionists? Here is a young lady of, say, twenty-three years, inclining already to stoutness, domestic, placid, with matron written onevery line of her unselfish face, capable of being, if necessity were, anotable housekeeper, learned in preserves and jellies and cordials, sureto have her closets in order, and a place for every remnant, piece oftwine, and all odds and ends. Not a person to read Browning with, but tocall on if one needed a nurse, or a good dinner, or a charitable deed. Beside her, in an invalid's chair, a young girl, scarcely eighteen, ofquite another sort, pale, slight, delicate, with a lovely face and largesentimental eyes, all nerves, the product, perhaps, of a fashionableschool, who in one season in New York, her first, had utterly brokendown into what is called nervous prostration. In striking contrast wasMiss Nettie Sumner, perhaps twenty-one, who corresponded more nearly towhat the internationalists call the American type; had evidently takenschool education as a duck takes water, and danced along in society intoapparent robustness of person and knowledge of the world. A handsomegirl, she would be a comely woman, good-natured, quick at repartee, confining her knowledge of books to popular novels, too naturaland frank to be a flirt, an adept in all the nice slang current infashionable life, caught up from collegians and brokers, accustomed tomeet men in public life, in hotels, a very "jolly" companion, with afund of good sense that made her entirely capable of managing her ownaffairs. Mr. King was at the moment conversing with still another younglady, who had more years than the last-named-short, compact figure, round girlish face, good, strong, dark eyes, modest in bearing, self-possessed in manner, sensible-who made ready and incisive comments, and seemed to have thought deeply on a large range of topics, but hada sort of downright practicality and cool independence, with allher femininity of bearing, that rather, puzzled her interlocutor. Itoccurred to Mr. King to guess that Miss Selina Morton might be fromBoston, which she was not, but it was with a sort of shock of surprisethat he learned later that this young girl, moving about in society inthe innocent panoply of girlhood, was a young doctor, who had no doubtlooked through and through him with her keen eyes, studied him in thelight of heredity, constitutional tendencies, habits, and environment, as a possible patient. It almost made him ill to think of it. Here weretypes enough for one morning; but there was still another. 

The artist had seated himself on a rock a little distance from thehouse, and was trying to catch some of the figures as they appeared upthe path, and a young girl was looking over his shoulder with an amusedface, just as he was getting an elderly man in a long flowing duster, straggling gray hair, hat on the back of his head, large iron-rimmedspectacles, with a baggy umbrella, who stopped breathless at the summit, with a wild glare of astonishment at the view. This young girl, whom thecareless observer might pass without a second glance, was discovered onbetter acquaintance to express in her face and the lines of her figuresome subtle intellectual quality not easily interpreted. Marion Lamont, let us say at once, was of Southern origin, born in London during thetemporary residence of her parents there, and while very young deprivedby death of her natural protectors. She had a small, low voice, finehair of a light color, which contrasted with dark eyes, waved back fromher forehead, delicate, sensitive features--indeed, her face, especiallyin conversation with any one, almost always had a wistful, appealinglook; in figure short and very slight, lithe and graceful, full ofunconscious artistic poses, fearless and sure-footed as a gazelle inclimbing about the rocks, leaping from stone to stone, and even makingher way up a tree that had convenient branches, if the whim took her, using her hands and arms like a gymnast, and performing whatever featof. Daring or dexterity as if the exquisitely molded form was allinstinct with her indomitable will, and obeyed it, and always with anair of refinement and spirited breeding. A child of nature in seeming, but yet a woman who was not to be fathomed by a chance acquaintance. 

The old man with the spectacles was presently overtaken by a stout, elderly woman, who landed in the exhausted condition of a porpoise thathas come ashore, and stood regardless of everything but her own weight, while member after member of the party straggled up. No sooner didthis group espy the artist than they moved in his direction. "There's apainter. " "I wonder what he's painting. " "Maybe he'll paint us. " "Let'ssee what he's doing. " "I should like to see a man paint. " And the crowdflowed on, getting in front of the sketcher, and creeping round behindhim for a peep over his shoulder. The artist closed his sketch-bookand retreated, and the stout woman, balked of that prey, turned rounda moment to the view, exclaimed, "Ain't that elegant!" and then waddledoff to the hotel. 

"I wonder, " Mr. King was saying, "if these excursionists arerepresentative of general American life?"

"If they are, " said the artist, "there's little here for my purpose. Agood many of them seem to be foreigners, or of foreign origin. Just assoon as these people get naturalized, they lose the picturesqueness theyhad abroad. "

"Did it never occur to your highness that they may prefer to becomfortable rather than picturesque, and that they may be ignorant thatthey were born for artistic purposes?" It was the low voice of MissLamont, and that demure person looked up as if she really wantedinformation. 

"I doubt about the comfort, " the artist began to reply. 

"And so do I, " said Miss Sumner. "What on earth do you suppose madethose girls come up here in white dresses, blowing about in the wind, and already drabbled? Did you ever see such a lot of cheap millinery? Ihaven't seen a woman yet with the least bit of style. "

"Poor things, they look as if they'd never had a holiday before in theirlives, and didn't exactly know what to do with it, " apologized MissLamont. 

"Don't you believe it. They've been to more church and Sunday-schoolpicnics than you ever attended. Look over there!"

It was a group seated about their lunch-baskets. A young gentleman, thecomedian of the patty, the life of the church sociable, had put on thehat of one of the girls, and was making himself so irresistibly funnyin it that all the girls tittered, and their mothers looked a littleshamefaced and pleased. 

"Well, " said Mr. King, "that's the only festive sign I've seen. It'smore like a funeral procession than a pleasure excursion. What impressesme is the extreme gravity of these people--no fun, no hilarity, noletting themselves loose for a good time, as they say. Probably theylike it, but they seem to have no capacity for enjoying themselves; theyhave no vivacity, no gayety--what a contrast to a party in France orGermany off for a day's pleasure--no devices, no resources. "

"Yes, it's all sad, respectable, confoundedly uninteresting. What doesthe doctor say?" asked the artist. 

"I know what the doctor will say, " put in Miss Summer, "but I tell youthat what this crowd needs is missionary dressmakers and tailors. IfI were dressed that way I should feel and act just as they do. Well, Selina?"

"It's pretty melancholy. The trouble is constant grinding work and badfood. I've been studying these people. The women are all--"

"Ugly, " suggested the artist. 

"Well, ill-favored, scrimped; that means ill-nurtured simply. Out of thethree hundred there are not half a dozen well-conditioned, filled outphysically in comfortable proportions. Most of the women look as if theyhad been dragged out with indoor work and little intellectual life, butthe real cause of physical degeneration is bad cooking. If they livedmore out-of-doors, as women do in Italy, the food might not make so muchdifference, but in our climate it is the prime thing. This poor physicalstate accounts for the want of gayety and the lack of beauty. The men, on the whole, are better than the women, that is, the young men. I don'tknow as these people are overworked, as the world goes. I dare say, Nettie, there's not a girl in this crowd who could dance with youthrough a season. They need to be better fed, and to have more elevatingrecreations-something to educate their taste. "

"I've been educating the taste of one excursionist this morning, agood-faced workman, who was prying about everywhere with a curious air, and said he never'd been on an excursion before. He came up to me in theoffice, deferentially asked me if I would go into the parlor with him, and, pointing to something hanging on the wall, asked, 'What is that?''That, ' I said, 'is a view from Sunset Rock, and a very good one. ''Yes, ' he continued, walking close up to it, 'but what is it?' 'Why, it's a painting. ' 'Oh, it isn't the place?' 'No, no; it's a painting inoil, done with a brush on a piece of canvas--don't you see--, made tolook like the view over there from the rock, colors and all. ' 'Yes, Ithought, perhaps--you can see a good ways in it. It's pooty. ' 'There'sanother one, ' I said--'falls, water coming down, and trees. ' 'Well, Ideclare, so it is! And that's jest a make-believe? I s'pose I can goround and look?' 'Certainly. ' And the old fellow tiptoed round theparlor, peering at all the pictures in a confused state of mind, andwith a guilty look of enjoyment. It seems incredible that a personshould attain his age with such freshness of mind. But I think he is theonly one of the party who even looked at the paintings. "

"I think it's just pathetic, " said Miss Lamont. "Don't you, Mr. Forbes?"

"No; I think it's encouraging. It's a sign of an art appreciation inthis country. That man will know a painting next time he sees one, andthen he won't rest till he has bought a chromo, and so he will go on. "

"And if he lives long enough, he will buy one of Mr. Forbes'spaintings. "

"But not the one that Miss Lamont is going to sit for. "

When Mr. King met the party at the dinner-table, the places of MissLamont and Mr. Forbes were still vacant. The other ladies lookedsignificantly at them, and one of them said, "Don't you think there'ssomething in it? don't you think they are interested in each other?" Mr. King put down his soup-spoon, too much amazed to reply. Do women neverthink of anything but mating people who happen to be thrown together?Here were this young lady and his friend, who had known each other forthree days, perhaps, in the most casual way, and her friends had heralready as good as married to him and off on a wedding journey. All thatMr. King said, after apparent deep cogitation, was, "I suppose if itwere here it would have to be in a traveling-dress, " which the womenthought frivolous. 

Yet it was undeniable that the artist and Marion had a common taste forhunting out picturesque places in the wood-paths, among the rocks, andon the edges of precipices, and they dragged the rest of the party manya mile through wildernesses of beauty. Sketching was the object of allthese expeditions, but it always happened--there seemed a fatality in itthat whenever they halted anywhere for a rest or a view, the Lamont girlwas sure to take an artistic pose, which the artist couldn't resist, andhis whole occupation seemed to be drawing her, with the Catskills for abackground. "There, " he would say, "stay just as you are; yes, leaning alittle so"--it was wonderful how the lithe figure adapted itself to anybackground--"and turn your head this way, looking at me. " The artistbegan to draw, and every time he gave a quick glance upwards from hisbook, there were the wistful face and those eyes. "Confound it! I begyour pardon-the light. Will you please turn your eyes a little off, thatway-so. " There was no reason why the artist should be nervous, theface was perfectly demure; but the fact is that art will have only onemistress. So the drawing limped on from day to day, and the excursionsbecame a matter of course. Sometimes the party drove, extending theirexplorations miles among the hills, exhilarated by the sparkling air, excited by the succession of lovely changing prospects, bestowingtheir compassion upon the summer boarders in the smartly paintedboarding-houses, and comparing the other big hotels with their own. They couldn't help looking down on the summer boarders, any more thancottagers at other places can help a feeling of superiority to people inhotels. It is a natural desire to make an aristocratic line somewhere. Of course they saw the Kaaterskill Falls, and bought twenty-five cents'worth of water to pour over them, and they came very near seeing theHaines Falls, but were a little too late. 

"Have the falls been taken in today?" asked Marion, seriously. 

"I'm real sorry, miss, " said the proprietor, "but there's just been aparty here and taken the water. But you can go down and look if you wantto, and it won't cost you a cent. "

They went down, and saw where the falls ought to be. The artist said itwas a sort of dry-plate process, to be developed in the mind afterwards;Mr. King likened it to a dry smoke without lighting the cigar; and thedoctor said it certainly had the sanitary advantage of not being damp. The party even penetrated the Platerskill Cove, and were well rewardedby its exceeding beauty, as is every one who goes there. There aresketches of all these lovely places in a certain artist's book, alllooking, however, very much alike, and consisting principally of agraceful figure in a great variety of unstudied attitudes. 

"Isn't this a nervous sort of a place?" the artist asked his friend, asthey sat in his chamber overlooking the world. 

"Perhaps it is. I have a fancy that some people are born to enjoy thevalley, and some the mountains. "

"I think it makes a person nervous to live on a high place. This feelingof constant elevation tires one; it gives a fellow no such sense ofbodily repose as he has in a valley. And the wind, it's constantlynagging, rattling the windows and banging the doors. I can't escape theunrest of it. " The artist was turning the leaves and contemplating thepoverty of his sketch-book. "The fact is, I get better subjects on theseashore. "

"Probably the sea would suit us better. By the way, did I tell you thatMiss Lamont's uncle came last night from Richmond? Mr. De Long, uncle onthe mother's side. I thought there was French blood in her. "

"What is he like?"

"Oh, a comfortable bachelor, past middle age; business man; Southern;just a little touch of the 'cyar' for 'car. ' Said he was going to takehis niece to Newport next week. Has Miss Lamont said anything aboutgoing there?"

"Well, she did mention it the other day. "

The house was filling up, and, King thought, losing its family aspect. He had taken quite a liking for the society of the pretty invalid girl, and was fond of sitting by her, seeing the delicate color come backto her cheeks, and listening to her shrewd little society comments. Hethought she took pleasure in having him push her wheel-chair up and downthe piazza at least she rewarded him by grateful looks, and complimentedhim by asking his advice about reading and about being useful to others. Like most young girls whose career of gayety is arrested as hers was, she felt an inclination to coquet a little with the serious side oflife. All this had been pleasant to Mr. King, but now that so many moreguests had come, he found himself most of the time out of business. Thegirl's chariot was always surrounded by admirers and sympathizers. Allthe young men were anxious to wheel her up and down by the hour; therewas always a strife for this sweet office; and at night, when thevehicle had been lifted up the first flight, it was beautiful to seethe eagerness of sacrifice exhibited by these young fellows to wheelher down the long corridor to her chamber. After all, it is a kindly, unselfish world, full of tenderness for women, and especially forinvalid women who are pretty. There was all day long a competition ofdudes and elderly widowers and bachelors to wait on her. One thought sheneeded a little more wheeling; another volunteered to bring her a glassof water; there was always some one to pick up her fan, to recover herhandkerchief (why is it that the fans and handkerchiefs of ugly womenseldom go astray?), to fetch her shawl--was there anything they coulddo? The charming little heiress accepted all the attentions with mostengaging sweetness. Say what you will, men have good hearts. 

Yes, they were going to Newport. King and Forbes, who had not had aFourth of July for some time, wanted to see what it was like at Newport. Mr. De Long would like their company. But before they went the artistmust make one more trial at a sketch-must get the local color. It was alarge party that went one morning to see it done under the famous ledgeof rocks on the Red Path. It is a fascinating spot, with its coolness, sense of seclusion, mosses, wild flowers, and ferns. In a small grottounder the frowning wall of the precipice is said to be a spring, but itis difficult to find, and lovers need to go a great many times in searchof it. People not in love can sometimes find a damp place in the sand. The question was where Miss Lamont should pose. Should she nestle underthe great ledge, or sit on a projecting rock with her figure againstthe sky? The artist could not satisfy himself, and the girl, alwaysadventurous, kept shifting her position, climbing about on the juttingledge, until she stood at last on the top of the precipice, which wassome thirty or forty feet high. Against the top leaned a dead balsam, just as some tempest had cast it, its dead branches bleached andscraggy. Down this impossible ladder the girl announced her intentionof coming. "No, no, " shouted a chorus of voices; "go round; it's unsafe;the limbs will break; you can't get through them; you'll break yourneck. " The girl stood calculating the possibility. The more difficultthe feat seemed, the more she longed to try it. 

"For Heaven's sake don't try it, Miss Lamont, " cried the artist. 

"But I want to. I think I must. You can sketch me in the act. It will besomething new. "

And before any one could interpose, the resolute girl caught hold of thebalsam and swung off. A boy or a squirrel would have made nothing ofthe feat. But for a young lady in long skirts to make her way down thatbalsam, squirming about and through the stubs and dead limbs, testingeach one before she trusted her weight to it, was another affair. Itneeded a very cool head and the skill of a gymnast. To transfer her holdfrom one limb to another, and work downward, keeping her skirts neatlygathered about her feet, was an achievement that the spectators couldappreciate; the presence of spectators made it much more difficult. Andthe lookers-on were a good deal more excited than the girl. The artisthad his book ready, and when the little figure was half-way down, clinging in a position at once artistic and painful, he began. "Workfast, " said the girl. "It's hard hanging on. " But the pencil wouldn'twork. The artist made a lot of wild marks. He would have given theworld to sketch in that exquisite figure, but every time he cast his eyeupward the peril was so evident that his hand shook. It was no use. Thedanger increased as she descended, and with it the excitement of thespectators. All the young gentlemen declared they would catch her if shefell, and some of them seemed to hope she might drop into their arms. Swing off she certainly must when the lowest limb was reached. But thatwas ten feet above the ground and the alighting-place was sharp rock andbroken bowlders. The artist kept up a pretense of drawing. He felt everymovement of her supple figure and the strain upon the slender arms, butthis could not be transferred to the book. It was nervous work. The girlwas evidently getting weary, but not losing her pluck. The young fellowswere very anxious that the artist should keep at his work; they wouldcatch her. There was a pause; the girl had come to the last limb; shewas warily meditating a slide or a leap; the young men were quite readyto sacrifice themselves; but somehow, no one could tell exactly how, thegirl swung low, held herself suspended by her hands for an instant, and then dropped into the right place--trust a woman for that; andthe artist, his face flushed, set her down upon the nearest flat rock. Chorus from the party, "She is saved!"

"And my sketch is gone up again. "

"I'm sorry, Mr. Forbes. " The girl looked full of innocent regret. "Butwhen I was up there I had to come down that tree. I couldn't help it, really. "

IV. NEWPORT

On the Fourth of July, at five o'clock in the morning, the porterscalled the sleepers out of their berths at Wickford Junction. Moderncivilization offers no such test to the temper and to personalappearance as this early preparation to meet the inspection of societyafter a night in the stuffy and luxuriously upholstered tombs of asleeping-car. To get into them at night one must sacrifice dignity; toget out of them in the morning, clad for the day, gives the proprietorsa hard rub. It is wonderful, however, considering the twisting andscrambling in the berth and the miscellaneous and ludicrous presentationof humanity in the washroom at the end of the car, how presentablepeople make themselves in a short space of time. One realizes the debtof the ordinary man to clothes, and how fortunate it is for society thatcommonly people do not see each other in the morning until art hasdone its best for them. To meet the public eye, cross and tousledand disarranged, requires either indifference or courage. It isdisenchanting to some of our cherished ideals. Even the trig, irreproachable commercial drummer actually looks banged-up, and nothingof a man; but after a few moments, boot-blacked and paper-collared, hecomes out as fresh as a daisy, and all ready to drum. 

Our travelers came out quite as well as could be expected, the artistsleepy and a trifle disorganized, Mr. King in a sort of facetioushumor that is more dangerous than grumbling, Mr. De Long yawning andstretching and declaring that he had not slept a wink, while Marionalighted upon the platform unruffled in plumage, greeting the morninglike a bird. There were the usual early loafers at the station, handsdeep in pockets, ruminant, listlessly observant. No matter at what hourof day or night a train may arrive or depart at a country station inAmerica, the loafers are so invariably there in waiting that they seemto be a part of our railway system. There is something in the life andmovement that seems to satisfy all the desire for activity they have. 

Even the most sleepy tourist could not fail to be impressed with theexquisite beauty of the scene at Wickford Harbor, where the boat wastaken for Newport. The slow awaking of morning life scarcely disturbedits tranquillity. Sky and sea and land blended in a tone of refinedgray. The shores were silvery, a silvery light came out of the east, streamed through the entrance of the harbor, and lay molten and glowingon the water. The steamer's deck and chairs and benches were wet withdew, the noises in transferring the baggage and getting the boatunder way were all muffled and echoed in the surrounding silence. Thesail-boats that lay at anchor on the still silver surface sent down longshadows, and the slim masts seemed driven down into the water to holdthe boats in place. The little village was still asleep. It was sucha contrast; the artist was saying to Marion, as they leaned over thetaffrail, to the new raw villages in the Catskills. The houses werelarge, and looked solid and respectable, many of them were shingled onthe sides, a spire peeped out over the green trees, and the hamletwas at once homelike and picturesque. Refinement is the note of thelandscape. Even the old warehouses dropping into the water, and thedecaying piles of the wharves, have a certain grace. How graciously thewater makes into the land, following the indentations, and flowing inlittle streams, going in and withdrawing gently and regretfully, andhow the shore puts itself out in low points, wooing the embrace of thesea--a lovely union. There is no haze, but all outlines are softened inthe silver light. It is like a dream, and there is no disturbance of therepose when a family party, a woman, a child, and a man come down to theshore, slip into a boat, and scull away out by the lighthouse and therocky entrance of the harbor, off, perhaps, for a day's pleasure. Theartist has whipped out his sketch-book to take some outlines of theview, and his comrade, looking that way, thinks this group a pleasingpart of the scene, and notes how the salt, dewy morning air has broughtthe color into the sensitive face of the girl. There are not many suchhours in a lifetime, he is also thinking, when nature can be seen insuch a charming mood, and for the moment it compensates for the nightride. 

The party indulged this feeling when they landed, still early, at theNewport wharf, and decided to walk through the old town up to the hotel, perfectly well aware that after this no money would hire them to leavetheir beds and enjoy this novel sensation at such an hour. They had thestreet to themselves, and the promenade was one of discovery, and hadmuch the interest of a landing in a foreign city. 

"It is so English, " said the artist. 

"It is so colonial, " said Mr. King, "though I've no doubt that any oneof the sleeping occupants of these houses would be wide-awake instantly, and come out and ask you to breakfast, if they heard you say it is soEnglish. "

"If they were not restrained, " Marion suggested, "by the feeling thatthat would not be English. How fine the shade trees, and what brilliantbanks of flowers!"

"And such lawns! We cannot make this turf in Virginia, " was thereflection of Mr. De Long. 

"Well, colonial if you like, " the artist replied to Mr. King. "What isbest is in the colonial style; but you notice that all the new housesare built to look old, and that they have had Queen Anne pretty bad, though the colors are good. "

"That's the way with some towns. Queen Anne seems to strike them allof a sudden, and become epidemic. The only way to prevent it is tovaccinate, so to speak, with two or three houses, and wait; then it isnot so likely to spread. "

Laughing and criticising and admiring, the party strolled along theshaded avenue to the Ocean House. There were as yet no signs of lifeat the Club, or the Library, or the Casino; but the shops were gettingopen, and the richness and elegance of the goods displayed in thewindows were the best evidence of the wealth and refinement of theexpected customers--culture and taste always show themselves in theshops of a town. The long gray-brown front of the Casino, with itsshingled sides and hooded balconies and galleries, added to the alreadystrong foreign impression of the place. But the artist was dissatisfied. It was not at all his idea of Independence Day; it was like Sunday, andSunday without any foreign gayety. He had expected firing of cannonand ringing of bells--there was not even a flag out anywhere; thecelebration of the Fourth seemed to have shrunk into a dull and decorousavoidance of all excitement. "Perhaps, " suggested Miss Lamont, "if theNew-Englanders keep the Fourth of July like Sunday, they will by and bykeep Sunday like the Fourth of July. I hear it is the day for excursionson this coast. "

Mr. King was perfectly well aware that in going to a hotel in Newporthe was putting himself out of the pale of the best society; but he hada fancy for viewing this society from the outside, having often enoughseen it from the inside. And perhaps he had other reasons for thiseccentric conduct. He had, at any rate, declined the invitation of hiscousin, Mrs. Bartlett Glow, to her cottage on the Point of Rocks. It wasnot without regret that he did this, for his cousin was a very charmingwoman, and devoted exclusively to the most exclusive social life. Herhusband had been something in the oil line in New York, and King hadwatched with interest his evolution from the business man into thefull-blown existence of a man of fashion. The process is perfectlycharted. Success in business, membership in a good club, tandem in thePark, introduction to a good house, marriage to a pretty girl of familyand not much money, a yacht, a four-in-hand, a Newport villa. His namehad undergone a like evolution. It used to be written on his businesscard, Jacob B. Glow. It was entered at the club as J. Bartlett Glow. Onthe wedding invitations it was Mr. Bartlett Glow, and the dashing pairwere always spoken of at Newport as the Bartlett-Glows. 

When Mr. King descended from his room at the Ocean House, although itwas not yet eight o'clock, he was not surprised to see Mr. Benson tiltedback in one of the chairs on the long piazza, out of the way of thescrubbers, with his air of patient waiting and observation. Irene usedto say that her father ought to write a book--"Life as Seen from HotelPiazzas. " His only idea of recreation when away from business seemed tobe sitting about on them. 

"The women-folks, " he explained to Mr. King, who took a chair besidehim, "won't be down for an hour yet. I like, myself, to see the showopen. "

"Are there many people here?"

"I guess the house is full enough. But I can't find out that anybody isactually stopping here, except ourselves and a lot of schoolmarms cometo attend a convention. They seem to enjoy it. The rest, those I'vetalked with, just happen to be here for a day or so, never have beento a hotel in Newport before, always stayed in a cottage, merely put uphere now to visit friends in cottages. You'll see that none of them actlike they belonged to the hotel. Folks are queer. "

At a place we were last summer all the summer boarders, inboarding-houses round, tried to act like they were staying at the bighotel, and the hotel people swelled about on the fact of being at ahotel. Here you're nobody. I hired a carriage by the week, driver inbuttons, and all that. It don't make any difference. I'll bet a golddollar every cottager knows it's hired, and probably they think by thedrive. "

"It's rather stupid, then, for you and the ladies. "

"Not a bit of it. It's the nicest place in America: such grass, suchhorses, such women, and the drive round the island--there's nothinglike it in the country. We take it every day. Yes, it would be a littlelonesome but for the ocean. It's a good deal like a funeral procession, nobody ever recognizes you, not even the hotel people who are in hiredhacks. If I were to come again, Mr. King, I'd come in a yacht, drive upfrom it in a box on two wheels, with a man clinging on behind with hisback to me, and have a cottage with an English gardener. That wouldfetch 'em. Money won't do it, not at a hotel. But I'm not sure but Ilike this way best. It's an occupation for a man to keep up a cottage. "

"And so you do not find it dull?"

"No. When we aren't out riding, she and Irene go on to the cliffs, and Isit here and talk real estate. It's about all there is to talk of. "

There was an awkward moment or two when the two parties met in the lobbyand were introduced before going in to breakfast. There was a littleputting up of guards on the part of the ladies. Between Irene and Marionpassed that rapid glance of inspection, that one glance which includes astudy and the passing of judgment upon family, manners, and dress, downto the least detail. It seemed to be satisfactory, for after a few wordsof civility the two girls walked in together, Irene a little dignified, to be sure, and Marion with her wistful, half-inquisitive expression. Mr. King could not be mistaken in thinking Irene's manner a littleconstrained and distant to him, and less cordial than it was to Mr. Forbes, but the mother righted the family balance. 

"I'm right glad you've come, Mr. King. It's like seeing somebody fromhome. I told Irene that when you came I guess we should know somebody. It's an awful fashionable place. "

"And you have no acquaintances here?"

"No, not really. There's Mrs. Peabody has a cottage here, what they calla cottage, but there no such house in Cyrusville. We drove past it. Her daughter was to school with Irene. We've met 'em out riding severaltimes, and Sally (Miss Peabody) bowed to Irene, and pa and I bowed toeverybody, but they haven't called. Pa says it's because we are at ahotel, but I guess it's been company or something. They were real goodfriends at school. "

Mr. King laughed. "Oh, Mrs. Benson, the Peabodys were nobodys only afew years ago. I remember when they used to stay at one of the smallerhotels. "

"Well, they seem nice, stylish people, and I'm sorry on Irene'saccount. "

At breakfast the party had topics enough in common to make conversationlively. The artist was sure he should be delighted with the beauty andfinish of Newport. Miss Lamont doubted if she should enjoy it as much asthe freedom and freshness of the Catskills. Mr. King amused himselfwith drawing out Miss Benson on the contrast with Atlantic City. Thedining-room was full of members of the Institute, in attendance upon theannual meeting, graybearded, long-faced educators, devotees of theoriesand systems, known at a glance by a certain earnestness of manner andintensity of expression, middle-aged women of a resolute, intellectualcountenance, and a great crowd of youthful schoolmistresses, just on thedividing line between domestic life and self-sacrifice, still full ofsentiment, and still leaning perhaps more to Tennyson and Lowell than tomathematics and Old English. 

"They have a curious, mingled air of primness and gayety, as if gayetywere not quite proper, " the artist began. "Some of them look downrightinteresting, and I've no doubt they are all excellent women. "

"I've no doubt they are all good as gold, " put in Mr. King. "Thesewomen are the salt of New England. " (Irene looked up quickly andappreciatively at the speaker. ) "No fashionable nonsense about them. What's in you, Forbes, to shy so at a good woman?"

"I don't shy at a good woman--but three hundred of them! I don'twant all my salt in one place. And see here--I appeal to you, MissLamont--why didn't these girls dress simply, as they do at home, andnot attempt a sort of ill-fitting finery that is in greater contrast toNewport than simplicity would be?"

"If you were a woman, " said Marion, looking demurely, not at Mr. Forbes, but at Irene, "I could explain it to you. You don't allow anything forsentiment and the natural desire to please, and it ought to be justpathetic to you that these girls, obeying a natural instinct, missed theexpression of it a little. "

"Men are such critics, " and Irene addressed the remark to Marion, "theypretend to like intellectual women, but they can pardon anything betterthan an ill-fitting gown. Better be frivolous than badly dressed. "

"Well, " stoutly insisted Forbes, "I'll take my chance with thewell-dressed ones always; I don't believe the frumpy are the mostsensible. "

"No; but you make out a prima facie case against a woman for want oftaste in dress, just as you jump at the conclusion that because a womandresses in such a way as to show she gives her mind to it she is of theright sort. I think it's a relief to see a convention of women devotedto other things who are not thinking of their clothes. "

"Pardon me; the point I made was that they are thinking of theirclothes, and thinking erroneously. "

"Why don't you ask leave to read a paper, Forbes, on the relation ofdress to education?" asked Mr. King. 

They rose from the table just as Mrs. Benson was saying that for herpart she liked these girls, they were so homelike; she loved to hearthem sing college songs and hymns in the parlor. To sing the songs ofthe students is a wild, reckless dissipation for girls in the country. 

When Mr. King and Irene walked up and down the corridor after breakfastthe girl's constraint seemed to have vanished, and she let it be seenthat she had sincere pleasure in renewing the acquaintance. King himselfbegan to realize how large a place the girl's image had occupied inhis mind. He was not in love--that would be absurd on such shortacquaintance--but a thought dropped into the mind ripens withoutconsciousness, and he found that he had anticipated seeing Irene againwith decided interest. He remembered exactly how she looked at FortressMonroe, especially one day when she entered the parlor, bowing right andleft to persons she knew, stopping to chat with one and another, tall, slender waist swelling upwards in symmetrical lines, brown hair, dark-gray eyes--he recalled every detail, the high-bred air (which wascertainly not inherited), the unconscious perfect carriage, and histhinking in a vague way that such ease and grace meant good livingand leisure and a sound body. This, at any rate, was the image in hismind--a sufficiently distracting thing for a young man to carry aboutwith him; and now as he walked beside her he was conscious that therewas something much finer in her than the image he had carried with him, that there was a charm of speech and voice and expression that made herdifferent from any other woman he had ever seen. Who can define thischarm, this difference? Some women have it for the universal man--theyare desired of every man who sees them; their way to marriage (which iscommonly unfortunate) is over a causeway of prostrate forms, if notof cracked hearts; a few such women light up and make the romance ofhistory. The majority of women fortunately have it for one man only, andsometimes he never appears on the scene at all! Yet every man thinks hischoice belongs to the first class; even King began to wonder that allNewport was not raving over Irene's beauty. The present writer saw herone day as she alighted from a carriage at the Ocean House, her faceflushed with the sea air, and he remembers that he thought her a finegirl. "By George, that's a fine woman!" exclaimed a New York bachelor, who prided himself on knowing horses and women and all that; but thecountry is full of fine women--this to him was only one of a thousand. 

What were this couple talking about as they promenaded, basking in eachother's presence? It does not matter. They were getting to know eachother, quite as much by what they did not say as by what they did say, by the thousand little exchanges of feeling and sentiment which areall-important, and never appear even in a stenographer's report of aconversation. Only one thing is certain about it, that the girl couldrecall every word that Mr. King said, even his accent and look, longafter he had forgotten even the theme of the talk. One thing, however, he did carry away with him, which set him thinking. The girl had beenreading the "Life of Carlyle, " and she took up the cudgels for the oldcurmudgeon, as King called him, and declared that, when all was said, Mrs. Carlyle was happier with him than she would have been with anyother man in England. "What woman of spirit wouldn't rather mate with aneagle, and quarrel half the time, than with a humdrum barn-yard fowl?"And Mr. Stanhope King, when he went away, reflected that he who hadfitted himself for the bar, and traveled extensively, and had a moderatecompetence, hadn't settled down to any sort of career. He had always anintention of doing something in a vague way; but now the thought thathe was idle made him for the first time decidedly uneasy, for he had anindistinct notion that Irene couldn't approve of such a life. 

This feeling haunted him as he was making a round of calls that day. Hedid not return to lunch or dinner--if he had done so he would havefound that lunch was dinner and that dinner was supper--another vitaldistinction between the hotel and the cottage. The rest of the party hadgone to the cliffs with the artist, the girls on a pretense of learningto sketch from nature. Mr. King dined with his cousin. 

"You are a bad boy, Stanhope, " was the greeting of Mrs. Bartlett Glow, "not to come to me. Why did you go to the hotel?"

"Oh, I thought I'd see life; I had an unaccountable feeling ofindependence. Besides, I've a friend with me, a very clever artist, whois re-seeing his country after an absence of some years. And there aresome other people. "

"Oh, yes. What is her name?"

"Why, there is quite a party. We met them at different places. There'sa very bright New York girl, Miss Lamont, and her uncle from Richmond. "("Never heard of her, " interpolated Mrs. Glow. ) "And a Mr. And Mrs. Benson and their daughter, from Ohio. Mr. Benson has made money; Mrs. Benson, good-hearted old lady, rather plain and--"

"Yes, I know the sort; had a falling-out with Lindley Murray in heryouth and never made it up. But what I want to know is about the girl. What makes you beat about the bush so? What's her name?"

"Irene. She is an uncommonly clever girl; educated; been abroad a gooddeal, studying in Germany; had all advantages; and she has cultivatedtastes; and the fact is that out in Cyrusville--that is where theylive--You know how it is here in America when the girl is educated andthe old people are not--"

"The long and short of it is, you want me to invite them here. I supposethe girl is plain, too--takes after her mother?"

"Not exactly. Mr. Forbes--that's my friend--says she's a beauty. But ifyou don't mind, Penelope, I was going to ask you to be a little civil tothem. "

"Well, I'll admit she is handsome--a very striking-looking girl. I'veseen them driving on the Avenue day after day. Now, Stanhope, I don'tmind asking them here to a five o'clock; I suppose the mother will haveto come. If she was staying with somebody here it would be easier. Yes, I'll do it to oblige you, if you will make yourself useful while youare here. There are some girls I want you to know, and mind, my youngfriend, that you don't go and fall in love with a country girl whomnobody knows, out of the set. It won't be comfortable. "

"You are always giving me good advice, Penelope, and I should be adifferent man if I had profited by it. "

"Don't be satirical, because you've coaxed me to do you a favor. "

Late in the evening the gentlemen of the hotel party looked in at theskating-rink, a great American institution that has for a large classtaken the place of the ball, the social circle, the evening meeting. It seemed a little incongruous to find a great rink at Newport, but anepidemic is stronger than fashion, and even the most exclusive summerresort must have its rink. Roller-skating is said to be fine exercise, but the benefit of it as exercise would cease to be apparent if therewere a separate rink for each sex. There is a certain exhilaration inthe lights and music and the lively crowd, and always an attraction inthe freedom of intercourse offered. The rink has its world as the operahas, its romances and its heroes. The frequenters of the rink know theyoung women and the young men who have a national reputation as adepts, and their exhibitions are advertised and talked about as are theappearances of celebrated 'prime donne' and 'tenori' at the opera. Thevisitors had an opportunity to see one of these exhibitions. After aweary watching of the monotonous and clattering round and round of theswinging couples or the stumbling single skaters, the floor was cleared, and the darling of the rink glided upon the scene. He was a slender, handsome fellow, graceful and expert to the nicest perfection in hisprofession. He seemed not so much to skate as to float about the floor, with no effort except volition. His rhythmic movements were followedwith pleasure, but it was his feats of dexterity, which were morewonderful than graceful, that brought down the house. It was evidentthat he was a hero to the female part of the spectators, and no doubthis charming image continued to float round and round in the brain ofmany a girl when she put her, head on the pillow that night. It is saidthat a good many matches which are not projected or registered in heavenare made at the rink. 

At the breakfast-table it appeared that the sketching-party had been agreat success--for everybody except the artist, who had only some roughmemoranda, like notes for a speech, to show. The amateurs had madefinished pictures. 

Miss Benson had done some rocks, and had got their hardness very well. Miss Lamont's effort was more ambitious; her picture took in no lessthan miles of coast, as much sea as there was room for on the paper, a navy of sail-boats, and all the rocks and figures that were inthe foreground, and it was done with a great deal of naivete andconscientiousness. When it was passed round the table, the comments werevery flattering. 

"It looks just like it, " said Mr. Benson. 

"It's very comprehensive, " remarked Mr. Forbes. 

"What I like, Marion, " said Mr. De Long, holding it out at arm's-length, "is the perspective; it isn't an easy thing to put ships up in the sky. "

"Of course, " explained Irene, "it was a kind of hazy day. "

"But I think Miss Lamont deserves credit for keeping the haze out ofit. " King was critically examining it, turning his head from sideto side. "I like it; but I tell you what I think it lacks: it lacksatmosphere. Why don't you cut a hole in it, Miss Lamont, and let the airin?"

"Mr. King, " replied Miss Lamont, quite seriously, "you are a realfriend, I can only repay you by taking you to church this morning. "

"You didn't make much that time, King, " said Forbes, as he lounged outof the room. 

After church King accepted a seat in the Benson carriage for a drive onthe Ocean Road. He who takes this drive for the first time is enchantedwith the scene, and it has so much variety, deliciousness in curve andwinding, such graciousness in the union of sea and shore, such charm ofcolor, that increased acquaintance only makes one more in love with it. A good part of its attraction lies in the fickleness of its aspect. Itsserene and soft appearance might pall if it were not now and then, andoften suddenly, and with little warning, transformed into a wild coast, swept by a tearing wind, enveloped in a thick fog, roaring with thenoise of the angry sea slapping the rocks and breaking in foam on thefragments its rage has cast down. This elementary mystery and terroris always present, with one familiar with the coast, to qualify thegentleness of its lovelier aspects. It has all moods. Perhaps the mostexhilarating is that on a brilliant day, when shore and sea sparkle inthe sun, and the waves leap high above the cliffs, and fall in diamondshowers. 

This Sunday the shore was in its most gracious mood, the landscape asif newly created. There was a light, luminous fog, which revealed justenough to excite the imagination, and refined every outline and softenedevery color. Mr. King and Irene left the carriage to follow the road, and wandered along the sea path. What softness and tenderness of colorin the gray rocks, with the browns and reds of the vines and lichens!They went out on the iron fishing-stands, and looked down at the shallowwater. The rocks under water took on the most exquisite shades--purpleand malachite and brown; the barnacles clung to them; the longsea-weeds, in half a dozen varieties, some in vivid colors, swept overthem, flowing with the restless tide, like the long locks of a drownedwoman's hair. King, who had dabbled a little in natural history, tookgreat delight in pointing out to Irene this varied and beautiful lifeof the sea; and the girl felt a new interest in science, for it was allpure science, and she opened her heart to it, not knowing that love cango in by the door of science as well as by any other opening. WasIrene really enraptured by the dear little barnacles and the exquisitesea-weeds? I have seen a girl all of a flutter with pleasure in alaboratory when a young chemist was showing her the retorts and thecrooked tubes and the glass wool and the freaks of color which thealkalies played with the acids. God has made them so, these women, andlet us be thankful for it. 

What a charm there was about everything! Occasionally the mist became sothin that a long line of coast and a great breadth of sea were visible, with the white sails drifting. 

"There's nothing like it, " said King--"there's nothing like this island. It seems as if the Creator had determined to show man, once for all, a landscape perfectly refined, you might almost say with the beautyof high-breeding, refined in outline, color, everything softened intoloveliness, and yet touched with the wild quality of picturesqueness. "

"It's just a dream at this moment, " murmured Irene. They were standingon a promontory of rock. "See those figures of people there throughthe mist--silhouettes only. And look at that vessel--there--no--it hasgone. "

As she was speaking, a sail-vessel began to loom up large in themysterious haze. But was it not the ghost of a ship? For an instant itwas coming, coming; it was distinct; and when it was plainly in sightit faded away, like a dissolving view, and was gone. The appearance wasunreal. What made it more spectral was the bell on the reefs, swingingin its triangle, always sounding, and the momentary scream of thefog-whistle. It was like an enchanted coast. Regaining the carriage, they drove out to the end, Agassiz's Point, where, when the mist lifted, they saw the sea all round dotted with sails, the irregular coasts andislands with headlands and lighthouses, all the picture still, land andwater in a summer swoon. 

Late that afternoon all the party were out upon the cliff path in frontof the cottages. There is no more lovely sea stroll in the world, theway winding over the cliff edge by the turquoise sea, where the turf, close cut and green as Erin, set with flower beds and dotted withnoble trees, slopes down, a broad pleasure park, from the stately andpicturesque villas. But it was a social mistake to go there on Sunday. Perhaps it is not the height of good form to walk there any day, but Mr. King did not know that the fashion had changed, and that on Sunday thislovely promenade belongs to the butlers and the upper maids, especiallyto the butlers, who make it resplendent on Sunday afternoons when theweather is good. As the weather had thickened in the late afternoon, ourparty walked in a dumb-show, listening to the soft swish of the waves onthe rocks below, and watching the figures of other promenaders, who weregood enough ladies and gentlemen in this friendly mist. 

The next day Mr. King made a worse mistake. He remembered that at highnoon everybody went down to the first beach, a charming sheltered placeat the bottom of the bay, where the rollers tumble in finely from thesouth, to bathe or see others bathe. The beach used to be lined withcarriages at that hour, and the surf, for a quarter of a mile, presentedthe appearance of a line of picturesquely clad skirmishers going out tobattle with the surf. Today there were not half a dozen carriages andomnibuses altogether, and the bathers were few-nursery maids, fragmentsof a day-excursion, and some of the fair conventionists. Newport was notthere. Mr. King had led his party into another social blunder. It hasceased to be fashionable to bathe at Newport. 

Strangers and servants may do so, but the cottagers have withdrawn theirsupport from the ocean. Saltwater may be carried to the house and usedwithout loss of caste, but bathing in the surf is vulgar. A gentlemanmay go down and take a dip alone--it had better be at an early hour--andthe ladies of the house may be heard to apologize for his eccentricity, as if his fondness for the water were abnormal and quite out ofexperience. And the observer is obliged to admit that promiscuousbathing is vulgar, as it is plain enough to be seen when it becomesunfashionable. It is charitable to think also that the cottagers havemade it unfashionable because it is vulgar, and not because it is acheap and refreshing pleasure accessible to everybody. 

Nevertheless, Mr. King's ideas of Newport were upset. "It's a littleoff color to walk much on the cliffs; you lose caste if you bathe in thesurf. What can you do?"

"Oh, " explained Miss Lamont, "you can make calls; go to teas andreceptions and dinners; belong to the Casino, but not appear there much;and you must drive on the Ocean Road, and look as English as you can. Didn't you notice that Redfern has an establishment on the Avenue?Well, the London girls wear what Redfern tells them to wear-much to theimprovement of their appearance--and so it has become possible for aNew-Yorker to become partially English without sacrificing her nativetaste. "

Before lunch Mrs. Bartlett Glow called on the Bensons, and invitedthem to a five-o'clock tea, and Miss Lamont, who happened to be in theparlor, was included in the invitation. Mrs. Glow was as gracious aspossible, and especially attentive to the old lady, who purredwith pleasure, and beamed and expanded into familiarity under theencouragement of the woman of the world. In less than ten minutes Mrs. Glow had learned the chief points in the family history, the state ofhealth and habits of pa (Mr. Benson), and all about Cyrusville and itswonderful growth. In all this Mrs. Glow manifested a deep interest, andlearned, by observing out of the corner of her eye, that Irene was inan agony of apprehension, which she tried to conceal under an increasingcoolness of civility. "A nice lady, " was Mrs. Benson's comment when Mrs. Glow had taken herself away with her charmingly-scented air of frankcordiality--"a real nice lady. She seemed just like our folks. "

Irene heaved a deep sigh. "I suppose we shall have to go. "

"Have to go, child? I should think you'd like to go. I never saw such agirl--never. Pa and me are just studying all the time to please you, andit seems as if--" And the old lady's voice broke down. 

"Why, mother dear"--and the girl, with tears in her eyes, leaned overher and kissed her fondly, and stroked her hair--"you are just as goodand sweet as you can be; and don't mind me; you know I get in moodssometimes. "

The old lady pulled her down and kissed her, and looked in her face withbeseeching eyes. 

"What an old frump the mother is!" was Mrs. Glow's comment to Stanhope, when she next met him; "but she is immensely amusing. "

"She is a kind-hearted, motherly woman, " replied King, a little sharply. 

"Oh, motherly! Has it come to that? I do believe you are more than halfgone. The girl is pretty; she has a beautiful figure; but my gracious!her parents are impossible--just impossible. And don't you think she'sa little too intellectual for society? I don't mean too intellectual, ofcourse, but too mental, don't you know--shows that first. You know whatI mean. "

"But, Penelope, I thought it was the fashion now to be intellectual--goin for reading, and literary clubs, Dante and Shakespeare, and politicaleconomy, and all that. "

"Yes, I belong to three clubs. I'm going to one tomorrow morning. We aregoing to take up the 'Disestablishment of the English Church. ' That'sdifferent; we make it fit into social life somehow, and it doesn'tinterfere. I'll tell you what, Stanhope, I'll take Miss Benson to theTown and County Club next Saturday. "

"That will be too intellectual for Miss Benson. I suppose the topic willbe Transcendentalism?"

"No; we have had that. Professor Spor, of Cambridge, is going to lectureon Bacteria--if that's the way you pronounce it--those mites that getinto everything. "

"I should think it would be very improving. I'll tell Miss Benson thatif she stays in Newport she must improve her mind. "

"You can make yourself as disagreeable as you like to me, but mind youare on your good behavior at dinner tonight, for the Misses Pelham willbe here. "

The five-o'clock at Mrs. Bartlett Glow's was probably an event to nobodyin Newport except Mrs. Benson. To most it was only an incident in theafternoon round and drive, but everybody liked to go there, for itis one of the most charming of the moderate-sized villas. The lawn isplanted in exquisite taste, and the gardener has set in the open spacesof green the most ingenious devices of flowers and foliage plants, andnothing could be more enchanting than the view from the wide veranda onthe sea side. In theory, the occupants lounge there, read, embroider, and swing in hammocks; in point of fact, the breeze is usually so strongthat these occupations are carried on indoors. 

The rooms were well filled with a moving, chattering crowd when theBensons arrived, but it could not be said that their entrance wasunnoticed, for Mr. Benson was conspicuous, as Irene had in vain hintedto her father that he would be, in his evening suit, and Mrs. Benson'sbeaming, extra-gracious manner sent a little shiver of amusement throughthe polite civility of the room. 

"I was afraid we should be too late, " was Mrs. Benson's response to thesmiling greeting of the hostess, with a most friendly look towards therest of the company. "Mr. Benson is always behindhand in getting dressedfor a party, and he said he guessed the party could wait, and--"

Before the sentence was finished Mrs. Benson found herself passed on andin charge of a certain general, who was charged by the hostess to gether a cup of tea. Her talk went right on, however, and Irene, who wasstill standing by the host, noticed that wherever her mother went therewas a lull in the general conversation, a slight pause as if to catchwhat this motherly old person might be saying, and such phrases as, "It doesn't agree with me, general; I can't eat it, " "Yes, I got therheumatiz in New Orleans, and he did too, " floated over the hum of talk. 

In the introduction and movement that followed Irene became one of agroup of young ladies and gentlemen who, after the first exchange ofcivilities, went on talking about matters of which she knew nothing, leaving her wholly out of the conversation. The matters seemed tobe very important, and the conversation was animated: it was aboutso-and-so who was expected, or was or was not engaged, or the lastevening at the Casino, or the new trap on the Avenue--the delightfullittle chit-chat by means of which those who are in society exchangegood understandings, but which excludes one not in the circle. The younggentleman next to Irene threw in an explanation now and then, but shewas becoming thoroughly uncomfortable. She could not be unconscious, either, that she was the object of polite transient scrutiny by theladies, and of glances of interest from gentlemen who did not approachher. She began to be annoyed by the staring (the sort of stare that awoman recognizes as impudent admiration) of a young fellow who leanedagainst the mantel--a youth in English clothes who had caught verysuccessfully the air of an English groom. Two girls near her, to whomshe had been talking, began speaking in lowered voices in French, butshe could not help overhearing them, and her face flushed hotly whenshe found that her mother and her appearance were the subject of theirforeign remarks. 

Luckily at the moment Mr. King approached, and Irene extended her handand said, with a laugh, "Ah, monsieur, " speaking in a very pretty Parisaccent, and perhaps with unnecessary distinctness, "you were quiteright: the society here is very different from Cyrusville; there theyall talk about each other. "

Mr. King, who saw that something had occurred, was quick-witted enoughto reply jestingly in French, as they moved away, but he asked, as soonas they were out of ear-shot, "What is it?"

"Nothing, " said the girl, recovering her usual serenity. "I only saidsomething for the sake of saying something; I didn't mean to speak sodisrespectfully of my own town. But isn't it singular how local andprovincial society talk is everywhere? I must look up mother, and then Iwant you to take me on the veranda for some air. What a delightful housethis is of your cousin's!"

The two young ladies who had dropped into French looked at each otherfor a moment after Irene moved away, and one of them spoke for both whenshe exclaimed: "Did you ever see such rudeness in a drawing-room!Who could have dreamed that she understood?" Mrs. Benson had beenestablished very comfortably in a corner with Professor Slem, who waslistening with great apparent interest to her accounts of the early lifein Ohio. Irene seemed relieved to get away into the open air, but shewas in a mood that Mr. King could not account for. Upon the veranda theyencountered Miss Lamont and the artist, whose natural enjoyment of thescene somewhat restored her equanimity. Could there be anything morerefined and charming in the world than this landscape, this hospitable, smiling house, with the throng of easy-mannered, pleasant-speakingguests, leisurely flowing along in the conventional stream of socialcomity. One must be a churl not to enjoy it. But Irene was not sorrywhen, presently, it was time to go, though she tried to extract somecomfort from her mother's enjoyment of the occasion. It was beautiful. Mr. Benson was in a calculating mood. He thought it needed a great dealof money to make things run so smoothly. 

Why should one inquire in such a paradise if things do run smoothly?Cannot one enjoy a rose without pulling it up by the roots? I have nopatience with those people who are always looking on the seamy side. Iagree with the commercial traveler who says that it will only be in themillennium that all goods will be alike on both sides. Mr. King madethe acquaintance in Newport of the great but somewhat philosophicalMr. Snodgrass, who is writing a work on "The Discomforts of the Rich, "taking a view of life which he says has been wholly overlooked. Hedeclares that their annoyances, sufferings, mortifications, envies, jealousies, disappointments, dissatisfactions (and so on through thedictionary of disagreeable emotions), are a great deal more than thoseof the poor, and that they are more worthy of sympathy. Their troublesare real and unbearable, because they are largely of the mind. All theseare set forth with so much powerful language and variety of illustrationthat King said no one could read the book without tears for the rich ofNewport, and he asked Mr. Snodgrass why he did not organize a societyfor their relief. But the latter declared that it was not a matterfor levity. The misery is real. An imaginary case would illustrate hismeaning. Suppose two persons quarrel about a purchase of land, and onebuilds a stable on his lot so as to shut out his neighbor's view of thesea. Would not the one suffer because he could not see the ocean, andthe other by reason of the revengeful state of his mind? He went onto argue that the owner of a splendid villa might have, for reasons hegave, less content in it than another person in a tiny cottage so smallthat it had no spare room for his mother-in-law even, and that in facthis satisfaction in his own place might be spoiled by the moreshowy place of his neighbor. Mr. Snodgrass attempts in his book aphilosophical explanation of this. He says that if every man designedhis own cottage, or had it designed as an expression of his own ideas, and developed his grounds and landscape according to his own tastes, working it out himself, with the help of specialists, he would besatisfied. But when owners have no ideas about architecture or aboutgardening, and their places are the creation of some experimentingarchitect and a foreign gardener, and the whole effort is not to expressa person's individual taste and character, but to make a show, thendiscontent as to his own will arise whenever some new and more showyvilla is built. Mr. Benson, who was poking about a good deal, strollingalong the lanes and getting into the rears of the houses, said, whenthis book was discussed, that his impression was that the real object ofthese fine places was to support a lot of English gardeners, grooms, and stable-boys. They are a kind of aristocracy. They have really madeNewport (that is the summer, transient Newport, for it is largely atransient Newport). "I've been inquiring, " continued Mr. Benson, "andyou'd be surprised to know the number of people who come here, buy orbuild expensive villas, splurge out for a year or two, then fail or gettired of it, and disappear. "

Mr. Snodgrass devotes a chapter to the parvenues at Newport. By theparvenu--his definition may not be scientific--he seems to mean a personwho is vulgar, but has money, and tries to get into society on thestrength of his money alone. He is more to be pitied than any othersort of rich man. For he not only works hard and suffers humiliation ingetting his place in society, but after he is in he works just as hard, and with bitterness in his heart, to keep out other parvenues likehimself. And this is misery. 

But our visitors did not care for the philosophizing of Mr. Snodgrass--you can spoil almost anything by turning it wrong side out. They thought Newport the most beautiful and finished watering-place inAmerica. Nature was in the loveliest mood when it was created, and arthas generally followed her suggestions of beauty and refinement. Theydid not agree with the cynic who said that Newport ought to be walledin, and have a gate with an inscription, "None but Millionaires allowedhere. " It is very easy to get out of the artificial Newport and to comeinto scenery that Nature has made after artistic designs which artistsare satisfied with. A favorite drive of our friends was to the SecondBeach and the Purgatory Rocks overlooking it. The photographers and thewater-color artists have exaggerated the Purgatory chasm into a Coloradocanon, but anybody can find it by help of a guide. The rock of thislocality is a curious study. It is an agglomerate made of pebbles andcement, the pebbles being elongated as if by pressure. The rock issometimes found in detached fragments having the form of tree trunks. Whenever it is fractured, the fracture is a clean cut, as if made bya saw, and through both pebbles and cement, and the ends present theappearance of a composite cake filled with almonds and cut with a knife. The landscape is beautiful. 

"All the lines are so simple, " the artist explained. "The shore, thesea, the gray rocks, with here and there the roof of a quaint cottageto enliven the effect, and few trees, only just enough for contrast withthe long, sweeping lines. "

"You don't like trees?" asked Miss Lamont. 

"Yes, in themselves. But trees are apt to be in the way. There aretoo many trees in America. It is not often you can get a broad, simpleeffect like this. "

It happened to be a day when the blue of the sea was that of theMediterranean, and the sky and sea melted into each other, so that adistant sail-boat seemed to be climbing into the heavens. The wavesrolled in blue on the white sand beach, and broke in silver. Threeyoung girls on horseback galloping in a race along the hard beach at themoment gave the needed animation to a very pretty picture. 

North of this the land comes down to the sea in knolls of rock breakingoff suddenly-rocks gray with lichen, and shaded with a touch of othervegetation. Between these knifeback ledges are plots of sea-green grassand sedge, with little ponds, black, and mirroring the sky. Leaving thiswild bit of nature, which has got the name of Paradise (perhaps becausefew people go there), the road back to town sweeps through sweet farmland; the smell of hay is in the air, loads of hay encumber the roads, flowers in profusion half smother the farm cottages, and the trees ofthe apple-orchards are gnarled and picturesque as olives. 

The younger members of the party climbed up into this paradise one day, leaving the elders in their carriages. They came into a new world, asunlike Newport as if they had been a thousand miles away. The spotwas wilder than it looked from a distance. The high ridges of rock layparallel, with bosky valleys and ponds between, and the sea shining inthe south--all in miniature. On the way to the ridges they passed cleanpasture fields, bowlders, gray rocks, aged cedars with flat tops likethe stone-pines of Italy. It was all wild but exquisite, a refinedwildness recalling the pictures of Rousseau. 

Irene and Mr. King strolled along one of the ridges, and sat down ona rock looking off upon the peaceful expanse, the silver lines of thecurving shores, and the blue sea dotted with white sails. 

"Ah, " said the girl, with an inspiration, "this is the sort offive-o'clock I like. "

"And I'm sure I'd rather be here with you than at the Blims' reception, from which we ran away. "

"I thought, " said Irene, not looking at him, and jabbing the point ofher parasol into the ground, "I thought you liked Newport. "

"So I do, or did. I thought you would like it. But, pardon me, you seemsomehow different from what you were at Fortress Monroe, or even atlovely Atlantic City, " this with a rather forced laugh. 

"Do I? Well, I suppose I am; that is, different from what you thoughtme. I should hate this place in a week more, beautiful as it is. "

"Your mother is pleased here?"

The girl looked up quickly. "I forgot to tell you how much she thankedyou for the invitation to your cousin's. She was delighted there. "

"And you were not?"

"I didn't say so; you were very kind. "

"Oh, kind; I didn't mean to be kind. I was purely selfish in wanting youto go. Cannot you believe, Miss Benson, that I had some pride in havingmy friends see you and know you?"

"Well, I will be as frank as you are, Mr. King. I don't like being shownoff. There, don't look displeased. I didn't mean anything disagreeable. "

"But I hoped you understood my motives better by this time. "

"I did not think about motives, but the fact is" (another jab of theparasol), "I was made desperately uncomfortable, and always shall beunder such circumstances, and, my friend--I should like to believe youare my friend--you may as well expect I always will be. "

"I cannot do that. You under--"

"I just see things as they are, " Irene went on, hastily. "You think Iam different here. Well, I don't mind saying that when I made youracquaintance I thought you different from any man I had met. " But nowit was out, she did mind saying it; and stopped, confused, as if she hadconfessed something. But she continued, almost immediately: "I mean Iliked your manner to women; you didn't appear to flatter, and you didn'ttalk complimentary nonsense. "

"And now I do?"

"No. Not that. But everything is somehow changed here. Don't let's talkof it. There's the carriage. "

Irene arose, a little flushed, and walked towards the point. Mr. King, picking his way along behind her over the rocks, said, with an attemptat lightening the situation, "Well, Miss Benson, I'm going to be just asdifferent as ever a man was. "

V. NARRAGANSETT PIER AND NEWPORT AGAIN; MARTHA'S VINEYARD AND PLYMOUTH

We have heard it said that one of the charms, of Narragansett Pier isthat you can see Newport from it. The summer dwellers at the Pier talk agood deal about liking it better than Newport; it is less artificial andmore restful. The Newporters never say anything about the Pier. The Pierpeople say that it is not fair to judge it when you come direct fromNewport, but the longer you stay there the better you like it; and ifany too frank person admits that he would not stay in Narragansett a dayif he could afford to live in Newport, he is suspected of aristocraticproclivities. 

In a calm summer morning, such as our party of pilgrims chose for anexcursion to the Pier, there is no prettier sail in the world than thatout of the harbor, by Conanicut Island and Beaver-tail Light. It is aholiday harbor, all these seas are holiday seas--the yachts, the sailvessels, the puffing steamers, moving swiftly from one headland toanother, or loafing about the blue, smiling sea, are all on pleasurebent. The vagrant vessels that are idly watched from the rocks at thePier may be coasters and freight schooners engaged seriously in trade, but they do not seem so. They are a part of the picture, always to beseen slowly dipping along in the horizon, and the impression is thatthey are manoeuvred for show, arranged for picturesque effect, and thatthey are all taken in at night. 

The visitors confessed when they landed that the Pier was a contrast toNewport. The shore below the landing is a line of broken, ragged, slimyrocks, as if they had been dumped there for a riprap wall. Fronting thisunkempt shore is a line of barrack-like hotels, with a few cottagesof the cheap sort. At the end of this row of hotels is a fine graniteCasino, spacious, solid, with wide verandas, and a tennis-court--such abuilding as even Newport might envy. Then come more hotels, a clusterof cheap shops, and a long line of bath-houses facing a lovely curvingbeach. Bathing is the fashion at the Pier, and everybody goes to thebeach at noon. The spectators occupy chairs on the platform in front ofthe bath-houses, or sit under tents erected on the smooth sand. At highnoon the scene is very lively, and even picturesque, for the ladieshere dress for bathing with an intention of pleasing. It is generallysupposed that the angels in heaven are not edified by this promiscuousbathing, and by the spectacle of a crowd of women tossing about in thesurf, but an impartial angel would admit that many of the costumes hereare becoming, and that the effect of the red and yellow caps, making acolor line in the flashing rollers, is charming. It is true that thereare odd figures in the shifting melee--one solitary old gentleman, whohad contrived to get his bathing-suit on hind-side before, wanderedalong the ocean margin like a lost Ulysses; and that fat woman andfat man were never intended for this sort of exhibition; but takenaltogether, with its colors, and the silver flash of the breaking waves, the scene was exceedingly pretty. Not the least pretty part of it wasthe fringe of children tumbling on the beach, following the retreatingwaves, and flying from the incoming rollers with screams of delight. Children, indeed, are a characteristic of Narragansett Pier--childrenand mothers. It might be said to be a family place; it is a good deal soon Sundays, and occasionally when the "business men" come down from thecities to see how their wives and children get on at the hotels. 

After the bathing it is the fashion to meet again at the Casino and takelunch--sometimes through a straw--and after dinner everybody goes for astroll on the cliffs. This is a noble sea-promenade; with its handsomevillas and magnificent rocks, a fair rival to Newport. The walk, asusually taken, is two or three miles along the bold, rocky shore, butan ambitious pedestrian may continue it to the light on Point Judith. Nowhere on this coast are the rocks more imposing, and nowhere do theyoffer so many studies in color. The visitor's curiosity is excited by amassive granite tower which rises out of a mass of tangled woods plantedon the crest of the hill, and his curiosity is not satisfied on nearerinspection, when he makes his way into this thick and gloomy forest, and finds a granite cottage near the tower, and the signs of neglect andwildness that might mark the home of a recluse. What is the object ofthis noble tower? If it was intended to adorn the landscape, why was itruined by piercing it irregularly with square windows like those of afactory?

One has to hold himself back from being drawn into the history andromance of this Narragansett shore. Down below the bathing beach is thepretentious wooden pile called Canonchet, that already wears the airof tragedy. And here, at this end, is the mysterious tower, and an uglyunfinished dwelling-house of granite, with the legend "Druid's Dream"carved over the entrance door; and farther inland, in a sandy andshrubby landscape, is Kendall Green, a private cemetery, with itsgranite monument, surrounded by heavy granite posts, every other one ofwhich is hollowed in the top as a receptacle for food for birds. And onereads there these inscriptions: "Whatever their mode of faith, or creed, who feed the wandering birds, will themselves be fed. " "Who helps thehelpless, Heaven will help. " This inland region, now apparently desertedand neglected, was once the seat of colonial aristocracy, who exerciseda princely hospitality on their great plantations, exchanged visits andran horses with the planters of Virginia and the Carolinas, and wereknown as far as Kentucky, and perhaps best known for their breed ofNarragansett pacers. But let us get back to the shore. 

In wandering along the cliff path in the afternoon, Irene and Mr. Kingwere separated from the others, and unconsciously extended their stroll, looking for a comfortable seat in the rocks. The day was perfect. Thesky had only a few fleecy, high-sailing clouds, and the great expanse ofsea sparkled under the hectoring of a light breeze. The atmosphere wasnot too clear on the horizon for dreamy effects; all the headlands weresoftened and tinged with opalescent colors. As the light struck them, the sails which enlivened the scene were either dark spots or shiningsilver sheets on the delicate blue. At one spot on this shore risesa vast mass of detached rock, separated at low tide from the shore byirregular bowlders and a tiny thread of water. In search of a seat thetwo strollers made their way across this rivulet over the broken rocks, passed over the summit of the giant mass, and established themselvesin a cavernous place close to the sea. Here was a natural seat, andthe bulk of the seamed and colored ledge, rising above their heads andcurving around them, shut them out of sight of the land, and left themalone with the dashing sea, and the gulls that circled and dipped theirsilver wings in their eager pursuit of prey. For a time neitherspoke. Irene was looking seaward, and Mr. King, who had a lower seat, attentively watched the waves lapping the rocks at their feet, and thefine profile and trim figure of the girl against the sky. He thought hehad never seen her looking more lovely, and yet he had a sense that shenever was so remote from him. Here was an opportunity, to be sure, if hehad anything to say, but some fine feeling of propriety restrained himfrom taking advantage of it. It might not be quite fair, in a place sosecluded and remote, and with such sentimental influences, shut in asthey were to the sea and the sky. 

"It seems like a world by itself, " she began, as in continuation of herthought. "They say you can see Gay Head Light from here. "

"Yes. And Newport to the left there, with its towers and trees risingout of the sea. It is quite like the Venice Lagoon in this light. "

"I think I like Newport better at this distance. It is very poetical. I don't think I like what is called the world much, when I am close toit. "

The remark seemed to ask for sympathy, and Mr. King ventured: "Are youwilling to tell me, Miss Benson, why you have not seemed as happy atNewport as elsewhere? Pardon me; it is not an idle question. " Irene, whoseemed to be looking away beyond Gay Head, did not reply. "I shouldlike to know if I have been in any way the cause of it. We agreed tobe friends, and I think I have a friend's right to know. " Still noresponse. "You must see--you must know, " he went on, hurriedly, "that itcannot be a matter of indifference to me. "

"It had better be, " she said, as if speaking deliberately to herself, and still looking away. But suddenly she turned towards him, and thetears sprang to her eyes, and the words rushed out fiercely, "I wish Ihad never left Cyrusville. I wish I had never been abroad. I wish I hadnever been educated. It is all a wretched mistake. "

King was unprepared for such a passionate outburst. It was like a riftin a cloud, through which he had a glimpse of her real life. Words ofeager protest sprang to his lips, but, before they could be uttered, either her mood had changed or pride had come to the rescue, for shesaid: "How silly I am! Everybody has discontented days. Mr. King, pleasedon't ask me such questions. If you want to be a friend, you will let mebe unhappy now and then, and not say anything about it. "

"But, Miss Benson--Irene--"

"There--'Miss Benson' will do very well. "

"Well, Miss--Irene, then, there was something I wanted to say to you theother day in Paradise--"

"Look, Mr. King. Did you see that wave? I'm sure it is nearer our feetthan when we sat down here. "

"Oh, that's just an extra lift by the wind. I want to tell you. I musttell you that life--has all changed since I met you--Irene, I--"

"There! There's no mistake-about that. The last wave came a foot higherthan the other!"

King sprang up. "Perhaps it is the tide. I'll go and see. " He ran up therock, leaped across the fissures, and looked over on the side they hadascended. Sure enough, the tide was coming in. The stones on which theyhad stepped were covered, and a deep stream of water, rising with everypulsation of the sea, now, where there was only a rivulet before. Hehastened back. "There is not a moment to lose. We are caught by thetide, and if we are not off in five minutes we shall be prisoners heretill the turn. "

He helped her up the slope and over the chasm. The way was very plainwhen they came on, but now he could not find it. At the end of everyattempt was a precipice. And the water was rising. A little girl onthe shore shouted to them to follow along a ledge she pointed out, thendescend between two bowlders to the ford. Precious minutes were lostin accomplishing this circuitous descent, and then they found thestepping-stones under water, and the sea-weed swishing about theslippery rocks with the incoming tide. It was a ridiculous positionfor lovers, or even "friends"--ridiculous because it had no element ofdanger except the ignominy of getting wet. If there was any heroism inseizing Irene before she could protest, stumbling with his burden amongthe slimy rocks, and depositing her, with only wet shoes, on the shore, Mr. King shared it, and gained the title of "Life-preserver. " Theadventure ended with a laugh. 

The day after the discovery and exploration of Narragansett, Mr. Kingspent the morning with his cousin at the Casino. It was so pleasantthat he wondered he had not gone there oftener, and that so few peoplefrequented it. Was it that the cottagers were too strong for the Casinoalso, which was built for the recreation of the cottagers, and that theyfound when it came to the test that they could not with comfort comeinto any sort of contact with popular life? It is not large, but nosummer resort in Europe has a prettier place for lounging and reunion. None have such an air of refinement and exclusiveness. Indeed, one ofthe chief attractions and entertainments in the foreign casinos andconversation-halls is the mingling there of all sorts of peoples, and the animation arising from diversity of conditions. This popularcommingling in pleasure resorts is safe enough in aristocraticcountries, but it will not answer in a republic. 

The Newport Casino is in the nature of a club of the best society. Thebuilding and grounds express the most refined taste. Exteriorly thehouse is a long, low Queen Anne cottage, with brilliant shops on theground-floor, and above, behind the wooded balconies, is the clubroom. The tint of the shingled front is brown, and all the colors are low andblended. Within, the court is a mediaeval surprise. It is a miniaturecastle, such as might serve for an opera scene. An extension ofthe galleries, an ombre, completes the circle around the plot ofclose-clipped green turf. The house itself is all balconies, galleries, odd windows half overgrown and hidden by ivy, and a large giltclock-face adds a touch of piquancy to the antique charm of the facade. Beyond the first court is a more spacious and less artificial lawn, set with fine trees, and at the bottom of it is the brown buildingcontaining ballroom and theatre, bowling-alley and closed tennis-court, and at an angle with the second lawn is a pretty field for lawn-tennis. Here the tournaments are held, and on these occasions, and on ballnights, the Casino is thronged. 

If the Casino is then so exclusive, why is it not more used as arendezvous and lounging-place? Alas! it must be admitted that it is notexclusive. By an astonishing concession in the organization any personcan gain admittance by paying the sum of fifty cents. This tax issufficient to exclude the deserving poor, but it is only an inducementto the vulgar rich, and it is even broken down by the prodigalexcursionist, who commonly sets out from home with the intention ofbeing reckless for one day. It is easy to see, therefore, why the charmof this delightful place is tarnished. 

The band was playing this morning--not rink music--when Mrs. Glow andKing entered and took chairs on the ombre. It was a very pretty scene;more people were present than usual of a morning. Groups of half adozen had drawn chairs together here and there, and were chatting andlaughing; two or three exceedingly well-preserved old bachelors, in thesmart rough morning suits of the period, were entertaining their ladyfriends with club and horse talk; several old gentlemen were readingnewspapers; and there were some dowager-looking mammas, and seated bythem their cold, beautiful, high-bred daughters, who wore their visibleexclusiveness like a garment, and contrasted with some other youngladies who were promenading with English-looking young men in flannelsuits, who might be described as lawn-tennis young ladies consciousof being in the mode, but wanting the indescribable atmosphere ofhigh-breeding. Doubtless the most interesting persons to the studentof human life were the young fellows in lawn-tennis suits. They had thelanguid air which is so attractive at their age, of having found outlife, and decided that it is a bore. Nothing is worth making an exertionabout, not even pleasure. They had come, one could see, to a justappreciation of their value in life, and understood quite wellthe social manners of the mammas and girls in whose company theycondescended to dawdle and make, languidly, cynical observations. Theyhad, in truth, the manner of playing at fashion and elegance as ina stage comedy. King could not help thinking there was somethingtheatrical about them altogether, and he fancied that when he saw themin their "traps" on the Avenue they were going through the motions forshow and not for enjoyment. Probably King was mistaken in all this, having been abroad so long that he did not understand the evolution ofthe American gilded youth. 

In a pause of the music Mrs. Bartlett Glow and Mr. King were standingwith a group near the steps that led down to the inner lawn. Among themwere the Postlethwaite girls, whose beauty and audacity made such asensation in Washington last winter. They were bantering Mr. King abouthis Narragansett excursion, his cousin having maliciously given theparty a hint of his encounter with the tide at the Pier... Just at thismoment, happening to glance across the lawn, he saw the Bensons comingtowards the steps, Mrs. Benson waddling over the grass and beamingtowards the group, Mr. Benson carrying her shawl and looking as if hehad been hired by the day, and Irene listlessly following. Mrs. Glow sawthem at the same moment, but gave no other sign of her knowledge than bystriking into the banter with more animation. Mr. King intended at onceto detach himself and advance to meet the Bensons. But he couldnot rudely break away from the unfinished sentence of the youngerPostlethwaite girl, and the instant that was concluded, as luck wouldhave it, an elderly lady joined the group, and Mrs. Glow went throughthe formal ceremony of introducing King to her. He hardly knew how ithappened, only that he made a hasty bow to the Bensons as he was shakinghands with the ceremonious old lady, and they had gone to the doorof exit. He gave a little start as if to follow them, which Mrs. Glownoticed with a laugh and the remark, "You can catch them if you run, "and then he weakly submitted to his fate. After all, it was only anaccident which would hardly need a word of explanation. But what Irenesaw was this: a distant nod from Mrs. Glow, a cool survey and stare fromthe Postlethwaite girls, and the failure of Mr. King to recognize hisfriends any further than by an indifferent bow as he turned to speak toanother lady. In the raw state of her sensitiveness she felt all this asa terrible and perhaps intended humiliation. 

King did not return to the hotel till evening, and then he sent up hiscard to the Bensons. Word came back that the ladies were packing, andmust be excused. He stood at the office desk and wrote a hasty note toIrene, attempting an explanation of what might seem to her a rudeness, and asked that he might see her a moment. And then he paced the corridorwaiting for a reply. In his impatience the fifteen minutes that hewaited seemed an hour. Then a bell-boy handed him this note:

 "MY DEAR MR. KING, --No explanation whatever was needed. We never shall forget your kindness. Good-by. IRENE BENSON"

He folded the note carefully and put it in his breast pocket, took itout and reread it, lingering over the fine and dainty signature, put itback again, and walked out upon the piazza. It was a divine night, soft and sweet-scented, and all the rustling trees were luminous in theelectric light. From a window opening upon a balcony overhead came theclear notes of a barytone voice enunciating the oldfashioned words of anEnglish ballad, the refrain of which expressed hopeless separation. 

The eastern coast, with its ragged outline of bays, headlands, indentations, islands, capes, and sand-spits, from Watch Hill, afavorite breezy resort, to Mount Desert, presents an almost continualchain of hotels and summer cottages. In fact, the same may be said ofthe whole Atlantic front from Mount Desert down to Cape May. It is tothe traveler an amazing spectacle. The American people can no longerbe reproached for not taking any summer recreation. The amount of moneyinvested to meet the requirements of this vacation idleness is enormous. When one is on the coast in July or August it seems as if the wholefifty millions of people had come down to lie on the rocks, wade in thesand, and dip into the sea. But this is not the case. These crowds areonly a fringe of the pleasure-seeking population. In all the mountainregions from North Carolina to the Adirondacks and the White Hills, along the St. Lawrence and the lakes away up to the Northwest, in everyelevated village, on every mountain-side, about every pond, lake, and clear stream, in the wilderness and the secluded farmhouse, oneencounters the traveler, the summer boarder, the vacation idler, one isscarcely out of sight of the American flag flying over a summer resort. In no other nation, probably, is there such a general summer hejira, noother offers on such a vast scale such a variety of entertainment, andit is needless to say that history presents no parallel to this generalmovement of a people for a summer outing. Yet it is no doubt true thatstatistics, which always upset a broad generous statement such as I havemade, would show that the majority of people stay at home in the summer, and it is undeniable that the vexing question for everybody is where togo in July and August. 

But there are resorts suited to all tastes, and to the economical aswell as to the extravagant. Perhaps the strongest impression one hasin visiting the various watering-places in the summer-time, is that themultitudes of every-day folk are abroad in search of enjoyment. On theNew Bedford boat for Martha's Vineyard our little party of touristssailed quite away from Newport life--Stanhope with mingled depressionand relief, the artist with some shrinking from contact with anythingcommon, while Marion stood upon the bow beside her uncle, inhaling thesalt breeze, regarding the lovely fleeting shores, her cheeks glowingand her eyes sparkling with enjoyment. The passengers and scene, Stanhope was thinking, were typically New England, until the boat made alanding at Naushon Island, when he was reminded somehow of Scotland, as much perhaps by the wild furzy appearance of the island as by the"gentle-folks" who went ashore. 

The boat lingered for the further disembarkation of a number of horsesand carriages, with a piano and a cow. There was a farmer's lodge at thelanding, and over the rocks and amid the trees the picturesque roofof the villa of the sole proprietor of the island appeared, and gave afeudal aspect to the domain. The sweet grass affords good picking forsheep, and besides the sheep the owner raises deer, which are destinedto be chased and shot in the autumn. 

The artist noted that there were several distinct types of women onboard, besides the common, straight-waisted, flat-chested variety. Onegirl who was alone, with a city air, a neat, firm figure, in a travelingsuit of elegant simplicity, was fond of taking attitudes about therails, and watching the effect produced on the spectators. There wasa blue-eyed, sharp-faced, rather loose-jointed young girl, who had themanner of being familiar with the boat, and talked readily and freelywith anybody, keeping an eye occasionally on her sister of eight years, a child with a serious little face in a poke-bonnet, who used thelanguage of a young lady of sixteen, and seemed also abundantly able totake care of herself. What this mite of a child wants of all things, sheconfesses, is a pug-faced dog. Presently she sees one come on board inthe arms of a young lady at Wood's Holl. "No, " she says, "I won't askher for it; the lady wouldn't give it to me, and I wouldn't wastemy breath;" but she draws near to the dog, and regards it with raptattention. The owner of the dog is a very pretty black-eyed girlwith banged hair, who prattles about herself and her dog with perfectfreedom. She is staying at Cottage City, lives at Worcester, has beenup to Boston to meet and bring down her dog, without which she couldn'tlive another minute. "Perhaps, " she says, "you know Dr. Ridgerton, inWorcester; he's my brother. Don't you know him? He's a chiropodist. "

These girls are all types of the skating-rink--an institution which isbeginning to express itself in American manners. 

The band was playing on the pier when the steamer landed at Cottage City(or Oak Bluff, as it was formerly called), and the pier and the galleryleading to it were crowded with spectators, mostly women a pleasingmingling of the skating-rink and sewing-circle varieties--and gayetywas apparently about setting in with the dusk. The rink and the groundopposite the hotel were in full tilt. After supper King and Forbes tooka cursory view of this strange encampment, walking through the streetsof fantastic tiny cottages among the scrub oaks, and saw something offamily life in the painted little boxes, whose wide-open frontdoors gave to view the whole domestic economy, including the bed, centre-table, and melodeon. They strolled also on the elevated plankpromenade by the beach, encountering now and then a couple enjoying thelovely night. Music abounded. The circus-pumping strains burst out ofthe rink, calling to a gay and perhaps dissolute life. The band in thenearly empty hotel parlor, in a mournful mood, was wooing the guests whodid not come to a soothing tune, something like China--"Why do we mourndeparted friends?" A procession of lasses coming up the broad walk, advancing out of the shadows of night, was heard afar off as thestalwart singers strode on, chanting in high nasal voices that lovelyhymn, which seems to suit the rink as well as the night promenade andthe campmeeting:

 "We shall me--um um--we shall me-eet, me-eet--um um --we shall meet, In the sweet by-am-by, by-am-by-um um-by-am-by. On the bu-u-u-u--on the bu-u-u-u--on the bu-te-ful shore. "

In the morning this fairy-like settlement, with its flimsy and eccentricarchitecture, took on more the appearance of reality. The season waslate, as usual, and the hotels were still waiting for the crowds thatseem to prefer to be late and make a rushing carnival of August, but thetiny cottages were nearly all occupied. At 10 A. M. The band was playingin the three-story pagoda sort of tower at the bathing-place, and thethree stories were crowded with female spectators. Below, under thebank, is a long array of bath-houses, and the shallow water was alivewith floundering and screaming bathers. Anchored a little out was araft, from which men and boys and a few venturesome girls were diving, displaying the human form in graceful curves. The crowd was an immenselygood-humored one, and enjoyed itself. The sexes mingled together in thewater, and nothing thought of it, as old Pepys would have said, althoughmany of the tightly-fitting costumes left less to the imagination thanwould have been desired by a poet describing the scene as a phase of the'comedie humaine. ' The band, having played out its hour, trudged back tothe hotel pier to toot while the noon steamboat landed its passengers, in order to impress the new arrivals with the mad joyousness of theplace. The crowd gathered on the high gallery at the end of the pieradded to this effect of reckless holiday enjoyment. Miss Lamont wasinfected with this gayety, and took a great deal of interest in thisperipatetic band, which was playing again on the hotel piazza beforedinner, with a sort of mechanical hilariousness. The rink band oppositekept up a lively competition, grinding out go-round music, imparting, ifone may say so, a glamour to existence. The band is on hand at the pierat four o'clock to toot again, and presently off, tramping to some otherhotel to satisfy the serious pleasure of this people. 

While Mr. King could not help wondering how all this curious life wouldstrike Irene--he put his lonesomeness and longing in this way--and whatshe would say about it, he endeavored to divert his mind by a study ofthe conditions, and by some philosophizing on the change that had comeover American summer life within a few years. In his investigations hewas assisted by Mr. De Long, to whom this social life was absolutelynew, and who was disposed to regard it as peculiarly Yankee--thestaid dissipation of a serious-minded people. King, looking at itmore broadly, found this pasteboard city by the sea one of the mostinteresting developments of American life. The original nucleus wasthe Methodist camp-meeting, which, in the season, brought here twentythousand to thirty thousand people at a time, who camped and picnickedin a somewhat primitive style. Gradually the people who came hereostensibly for religious exercises made a longer and more permanentoccupation, and, without losing its ephemeral character, the placegrew and demanded more substantial accommodations. The spot is veryattractive. Although the shore looks to the east, and does not get theprevailing southern breeze, and the beach has little surf, both waterand air are mild, the bathing is safe and agreeable, and the view of theillimitable sea dotted with sails and fishing-boats is always pleasing. A crowd begets a crowd, and soon the world's people made a city largerthan the original one, and still more fantastic, by the aid of paint andthe jigsaw. The tent, however, is the type of all the dwelling-houses. The hotels, restaurants, and shops follow the usual order of flamboyantseaside architecture. After a time the Baptists established a camp, ground on the bluffs on the opposite side of the inlet. The world'speople brought in the commercial element in the way of fancy shops forthe sale of all manner of cheap and bizarre "notions, " and introducedthe common amusements. And so, although the camp-meetings do not begintill late in August, this city of play-houses is occupied the summerlong. The shops and shows represent the taste of the million, and although there is a similarity in all these popular coastwatering-places, each has a characteristic of its own. The foreigner hasa considerable opportunity of studying family life, whether he loungesthrough the narrow, sometimes circular, streets by night, when itappears like a fairy encampment, or by daylight, when there is noillusion. It seems to be a point of etiquette to show as much of theinteriors as possible, and one can learn something of cooking andbed-making and mending, and the art of doing up the back hair. Thephotographer revels here in pictorial opportunities. The pictures ofthese bizarre cottages, with the family and friends seated in front, show very serious groups. One of the Tabernacle--a vast iron hood ordome erected over rows of benches that will seat two or three thousandpeople--represents the building when it is packed with an audienceintent upon the preacher. Most of the faces are of a grave, severe type, plain and good, of the sort of people ready to die for a notion. Theimpression of these photographs is that these people abandon themselvessoberly to the pleasures of the sea and of this packed, gregarious life, and get solid enjoyment out of their recreation. 

Here, as elsewhere on the coast, the greater part of the populationconsists of women and children, and the young ladies complain of theabsence of men--and, indeed, something is desirable in society besidesthe superannuated and the boys in round-abouts. 

The artist and Miss Lamont, in search of the picturesque, had thecourage, although the thermometer was in the humor to climb up to ninetydegrees, to explore the Baptist encampment. They were not rewarded byanything new except at the landing, where, behind the bath-houses, thebathing suits were hung out to dry, and presented a comical spectacle, the humor of which seemed to be lost upon all except themselves. Itwas such a caricature of humanity! The suits hanging upon the line anddistended by the wind presented the appearance of headless, bloatedforms, fat men and fat women kicking in the breeze, and vainly tryingto climb over the line. It was probably merely fancy, but they declaredthat these images seemed larger, more bloated, and much livelierthan those displayed on the Cottage City side. When travelers can beentertained by trifles of this kind it shows that there is an absence ofmore serious amusement. And, indeed, although people were not wanting, and music was in the air, and the bicycle and tricycle stable was wellpatronized by men and women, and the noon bathing was well attended, itwas evident that the life of Cottage City was not in full swing by themiddle of July. 

The morning on which our tourists took the steamer for Wood's Hollthe sea lay shimmering in the heat, only stirred a little by the landbreeze, and it needed all the invigoration of the short ocean voyage tobrace them up for the intolerably hot and dusty ride in the cars throughthe sandy part of Massachusetts. So long as the train kept by theindented shore the route was fairly picturesque; all along Buzzard Bayand Onset Bay and Monument Beach little cottages, gay with paint andfantastic saw-work explained, in a measure, the design of Providencein permitting this part of the world to be discovered; but the sandyinterior had to be reconciled to the deeper divine intention by atrial of patience and the cultivation of the heroic virtues evoked by astruggle for existence, of fitting men and women for a better country. The travelers were confirmed, however, in their theory of the effect ofa sandy country upon the human figure. This is not a juicy land, ifthe expression can be tolerated, any more than the sandy parts ofNew Jersey, and its unsympathetic dryness is favorable to theproduction--one can hardly say development of the lean, enduring, flat-chested, and angular style of woman. 

In order to reach Plymouth a wait of a couple of hours was necessary atone of the sleepy but historic villages. There was here no tavern, norestaurant, and nobody appeared to have any license to sell anything forthe refreshment of the travelers. But at some distance from the station, in a two-roomed dwelling-house, a good woman was found who was willingto cook a meal of victuals, as she explained, and a sign on her frontdoor attested, she had a right to do. What was at the bottom of thelocal prejudice against letting the wayfaring man have anything to eatand drink, the party could not ascertain, but the defiant air of thewoman revealed the fact that there was such a prejudice. She was anoble, robust, gigantic specimen of her sex, well formed, strong as anox, with a resolute jaw, and she talked, through tightly-closed teeth, in an aggressive manner. Dinner was ordered, and the party strolledabout the village pending its preparation; but it was not ready whenthey returned. "I ain't goin' to cook no victuals, " the woman explained, not ungraciously, "till I know folks is goin' to eat it. " Knowledge ofthe world had made her justly cautious. She intended to set out a goodmeal, and she had the true housewife's desire that it should be eaten, that there should be enough of it, and that the guests should like it. When she waited on the table she displayed a pair of arms that woulddiscourage any approach to familiarity, and disincline a timid person toask twice for pie; but in point of fact, as soon as the party became herbona-fide guests, she was royally hospitable, and only displayed anxietylest they should not eat enough. 

"I like folks to be up and down and square, " she began saying, as shevigilantly watched the effect of her culinary skill upon the awed littleparty. "Yes, I've got a regular hotel license; you bet I have. There'sbeen folks lawed in this town for sellin' a meal of victuals and nothaving one. I ain't goin' to be taken in by anybody. I warn't raised inNew Hampshire to be scared by these Massachusetts folks. No, I hain'tgot a girl now. I had one a spell, but I'd rather do my own work. Younever knew what a girl was doin' or would do. After she'd left I founda broken plate tucked into the ash-barrel. Sho! you can't depend on agirl. Yes, I've got a husband. It's easier to manage him. Well, I tellyou a husband is better than a girl. When you tell him to do anything, you know it's going to be done. He's always about, never loafin' round;he can take right hold and wash dishes, and fetch water, and anything. "

King went into the kitchen after dinner and saw this model husband, whohad the faculty of making himself generally useful, holding a baby onone arm, and stirring something in a pot on the stove with the other. Helooked hot but resigned. There has been so much said about the positionof men in Massachusetts that the travelers were glad of this evidencethat husbands are beginning to be appreciated. Under proper trainingthey are acknowledged to be "better than girls. "

It was late afternoon when they reached the quiet haven of Plymouth--aplace where it is apparently always afternoon, a place of memory andreminiscences, where the whole effort of the population is to hear andto tell some old thing. As the railway ends there, there is no dangerof being carried beyond, and the train slowly ceases motion, and standsstill in the midst of a great and welcome silence. Peace fell upon thetravelers like a garment, and although they had as much difficultyin landing their baggage as the early Pilgrims had in getting theirsashore, the circumstance was not able to disquiet them much. It seemednatural that their trunks should go astray on some of the inextricablyinterlocked and branching railways, and they had no doubt that when theyhad made the tour of the State they would be discharged, as they finallywere, into this cul-de-sac. 

The Pilgrims have made so much noise in the world, and so powerfullyaffected the continent, that our tourists were surprised to find theyhad landed in such a quiet place, and that the spirit they have leftbehind them is one of such tranquillity. The village has a charm all itsown. Many of the houses are old-fashioned and square, some with colonialdoors and porches, irregularly aligned on the main street, which isarched by ancient and stately elms. In the spacious door-yards thelindens have had room and time to expand, and in the beds of bloom theflowers, if not the very ones that our grandmothers planted, are thesorts that they loved. Showing that the town has grown in sympathy withhuman needs and eccentricities, and is not the work of a surveyor, thestreets are irregular, forming picturesque angles and open spaces. 

Nothing could be imagined in greater contrast to a Western town, anda good part of the satisfaction our tourists experienced was in theabsence of anything Western or "Queen Anne" in the architecture. 

In the Pilgrim Hall--a stone structure with an incongruouswooden-pillared front--they came into the very presence of the earlyworthies, saw their portraits on the walls, sat in their chairs, admiredthe solidity of their shoes, and imbued themselves with the spirit ofthe relics of their heroic, uncomfortable lives. In the town there wasnothing to disturb the serenity of mind acquired by this communion. The Puritan interdict of unseemly excitement still prevailed, and thestreets were silent; the artist, who could compare it with the placidityof Holland towns, declared that he never walked in a village so silent;there was no loud talking; and even the children played without noise, like little Pilgrims... God bless such children, and increase theirnumbers! It might have been the approach of Sunday--if Sunday is stillregarded in eastern Massachusetts--that caused this hush, for it was nowtowards sunset on Saturday, and the inhabitants were washing the frontsof the houses with the hose, showing how cleanliness is next to silence. 

Possessed with the spirit of peace, our tourists, whose souls had beenvexed with the passions of many watering-places, walked down LeydenStreet (the first that was laid out), saw the site of the first house, and turned round Carver Street, walking lingeringly, so as not to breakthe spell, out upon the hill-Cole's Hill--where the dead during thefirst fearful winter were buried. This has been converted into abeautiful esplanade, grassed and graveled and furnished with seats, andoverlooks the old wharves, some coal schooners, and shabby buildings, onone of which is a sign informing the reckless that they can obtain thereclam-chowder and ice-cream, and the ugly, heavy granite canopy erectedover the "Rock. " No reverent person can see this rock for the first timewithout a thrill of excitement. It has the date of 1620 cut in it, andit is a good deal cracked and patched up, as if it had been much landedon, but there it is, and there it will remain a witness to a greathistoric event, unless somebody takes a notion to cart it off uptownagain. It is said to rest on another rock, of which it formed a partbefore its unfortunate journey, and that lower rock as everybody knows, rests upon the immutable principle of self-government. The stone liestoo far from the water to enable anybody to land on it now, and it isprotected from vandalism by an iron grating. The sentiment of the hourwas disturbed by the advent of the members of a baseball nine, whowondered why the Pilgrims did not land on the wharf, and, whilethrusting their feet through the grating in a commendable desireto touch the sacred rock, expressed a doubt whether the feet of thePilgrims were small enough to slip through the grating and land onthe stone. It seems that there is nothing safe from the irreverence ofAmerican youth. 

Has any other coast town besides Plymouth had the good sense and tasteto utilize such an elevation by the water-side as an esplanade? It isa most charming feature of the village, and gives it what we call aforeign air. It was very lovely in the afterglow and at moonrise. Staidcitizens with their families occupied the benches, groups were chattingunder the spreading linden-tree at the north entrance, and young maidensin white muslin promenaded, looking seaward, as was the wont of Puritanmaidens, watching a receding or coming Mayflower. But there was no loudtalking, no laughter, no outbursts of merriment from the children, allready to be transplanted to the Puritan heaven! It was high tide, andall the bay was silvery with a tinge of color from the glowing sky. The long, curved sand-spit-which was heavily wooded when the Pilgrimslanded-was silvery also, and upon its northern tip glowed the whitesparkle in the lighthouse like the evening-star. To the north, overthe smooth pink water speckled with white sails, rose Captain Hill, inDuxbury, bearing the monument to Miles Standish. Clarke's Island (wherethe Pilgrims heard a sermon on the first Sunday), Saguish Point, andGurnett Headland (showing now twin white lights) appear like a longisland intersected by thin lines of blue water. The effect of theseribbons of alternate sand and water, of the lights and the ocean (orGreat Bay) beyond, was exquisite. 

Even the unobtrusive tavern at the rear of the esplanade, ancient, feebly lighted, and inviting, added something to the picturesqueness ofthe scene. The old tree by the gate--an English linden--illuminatedby the street lamps and the moon, had a mysterious appearance, and thetourists were not surprised to learn that it has a romantic history. Thestory is that the twig or sapling from which it grew was brought overfrom England by a lover as a present to his mistress, that the loversquarreled almost immediately, that the girl in a pet threw it out ofthe window when she sent her lover out of the door, and that another manpicked it up and planted it where it now grows. The legend provokes agood many questions. One would like to know whether this was the firstcase of female rebellion in Massachusetts against the common-law rightof a man to correct a woman with a stick not thicker than his littlefinger--a rebellion which has resulted in the position of man as thetourists saw him where the New Hampshire Amazon gave them a meal ofvictuals; and whether the girl married the man who planted the twig, and, if so, whether he did not regret that he had not kept it by him. 

This is a world of illusions. By daylight, when the tide was out, thepretty silver bay of the night before was a mud flat, and the tourists, looking over it from Monument Hill, lost some of their respect for thePilgrim sagacity in selecting a landing-place. They had ascended thehill for a nearer view of the monument, King with a reverent wish toread the name of his Mayflower ancestor on the tablet, the others ina spirit of cold, New York criticism, for they thought the structure, which is still unfinished, would look uglier near at hand than at adistance. And it does. It is a pile of granite masonry surmounted bysymbolic figures. 

"It is such an unsympathetic, tasteless-looking thing!" said MissLamont. 

"Do you think it is the worst in the country?"

"I wouldn't like to say that, " replied the artist, "when the competitionin this direction is so lively. But just look at the drawing" (holdingup his pencil with which he had intended to sketch it). "If it werequaint, now, or rude, or archaic, it might be in keeping, but baddrawing is just vulgar. I should think it had been designed by acarpenter, and executed by a stone-mason. "

"Yes, " said the little Lamont, who always fell in with the mostabominable opinions the artist expressed; "it ought to have been made ofwood, and painted and sanded. "

"You will please remember, " mildly suggested King, who had found thename he was in search of, "that you are trampling on my ancestralsensibilities, as might be expected of those who have no ancestors whoever landed or ever were buried anywhere in particular. I look at thecommemorative spirit rather than the execution of the monument. "

"So do I, " retorted the girl; "and if the Pilgrims landed in such avulgar, ostentatious spirit as this, I'm glad my name is not on thetablet. "

The party were in a better mood when they had climbed up Burial Hill, back of the meeting-house, and sat down on one of the convenient benchesamid the ancient gravestones, and looked upon the wide and magnificentprospect. A soft summer wind waved a little the long gray grass ofthe ancient resting-place, and seemed to whisper peace to the wearygeneration that lay there. What struggles, what heroisms, the names onthe stones recalled! Here had stood the first fort of 1620, and here thewatchtower of 1642, from the top of which the warder espied the lurkingsavage, or hailed the expected ship from England. How much of historythis view recalled, and what pathos of human life these gravesmade real. Read the names of those buried a couple of centuriesago--captains, elders, ministers, governors, wives well beloved, children a span long, maidens in the blush of womanhood--half the tenderinscriptions are illegible; the stones are broken, sunk, slanting tofall. What a pitiful attempt to keep the world mindful of the departed!

VI. MANCHESTER-BY-THE-SEA, ISLES OF SHOALS

Mr. Stanhope King was not in very good spirits. Even Boston did notmake him cheerful. He was half annoyed to see the artist and Miss Lamontdrifting along in such laughing good-humor with the world, as ifa summer holiday was just a holiday without any consequences orresponsibilities. It was to him a serious affair ever since thatunsatisfactory note from Miss Benson; somehow the summer had lost itssparkle. And yet was it not preposterous that a girl, just a singlegirl, should have the power to change for a man the aspect of a wholecoast-by her presence to make it iridescent with beauty, and by herabsence to take all the life out of it? And a simple girl from Ohio!She was not by any means the prettiest girl in the Newport Casino thatmorning, but it was her figure that he remembered, and it was the lookof hurt sensibility in her eyes that stayed with him. He resented theattitude of the Casino towards her, and he hated himself for his sharein it. He would write to her..... He composed letter after letter in hismind, which he did not put on paper. How many millions of letters arecomposed in this way! It is a favorite occupation of imaginative people;and as they say that no thoughts or mental impressions are ever lost, but are all registered--made, as it were, on a "dry-plate, " to bedeveloped hereafter--what a vast correspondence must be lying in thenext world, in the Dead-letter Office there, waiting for the persons towhom it is addressed, who will all receive it and read it some day! Howunpleasant and absurd it will be to read, much of it! I intend to becareful, for my part, about composing letters of this sort hereafter. Irene, I dare say, will find a great many of them from Mr. King, thoughtout in those days. But he mailed none of them to her. What should hesay? Should he tell her that he didn't mind if her parents were whatMrs. Bartlett Glow called "impossible"? If he attempted any explanation, would it not involve the offensive supposition that his social rankwas different from hers? Even if he convinced her that he recognized nocaste in American society, what could remove from her mind the somewhatmorbid impression that her education had put her in a false position?His love probably could not shield her from mortification in a societywhich, though indefinable in its limits and code, is an entity morevividly felt than the government of the United States. 

"Don't you think the whole social atmosphere has changed, " MissLamont suddenly asked, as they were running along in the train towardsManchester-by-the-Sea, "since we got north of Boston? I seem to findit so. Don't you think it's more refined, and, don't you know, sort ofcultivated, and subdued, and Boston? You notice the gentlemen who getout at all these stations, to go to their country-houses, how highlycivilized they look, and ineffably respectable and intellectual, allof them presidents of colleges, and substantial bank directors, andpossible ambassadors, and of a social cult (isn't that the word?)uniting brains and gentle manners. "

"You must have been reading the Boston newspapers; you have hit the ideaprevalent in these parts, at any rate. I was, however, reminded myselfof an afternoon train out of London, say into Surrey, on which you areapt to encounter about as high a type of civilized men as anywhere. "

"And you think this is different from a train out of New York?" askedthe artist. 

"Yes. New York is more mixed. No one train has this kind of tone. Yousee there more of the broker type and politician type, smarter appareland nervous manners, but, dear me, not this high moral and intellectualrespectability. "

"Well, " said the artist, "I'm changing my mind about this country. Ididn't expect so much variety. I thought that all the watering-placeswould be pretty much alike, and that we should see the same peopleeverywhere. But the people are quite as varied as the scenery. "

"There you touch a deep question--the refining or the vulgarizinginfluence of man upon nature, and the opposite. Now, did the summerBostonians make this coast refined, or did this coast refine theBostonians who summer here?"

"Well, this is primarily an artistic coast; I feel the influence ofit; there is a refined beauty in all the lines, and residents have notvulgarized it much. But I wonder what Boston could have done for theJersey coast?"

In the midst of this high and useless conversation they came to theMasconomo House, a sort of concession, in this region of noble villasand private parks, to the popular desire to get to the sea. It is along, low house, with very broad passages below and above, which givelightness and cheerfulness to the interior, and each of the four cornersof the entrance hall has a fireplace. The pillars of the front and backpiazzas are pine stems stained, with the natural branches cut in unequallengths, and look like the stumps for the bears to climb in the pit atBerne. Set up originally with the bark on, the worms worked underneathit in secret, at a novel sort of decoration, until the bark came off andexposed the stems most beautifully vermiculated, giving the effect offine carving. Back of the house a meadow slopes down to a little beachin a curved bay that has rocky headlands, and is defended in part byislands of rock. The whole aspect of the place is peaceful. The hoteldoes not assert itself very loudly, and if occasionally transient guestsappear with flash manners, they do not affect the general tone of theregion. 

One finds, indeed, nature and social life happily blended, theexclusiveness being rather protective than offensive. The special charmof this piece of coast is that it is bold, much broken and indented, precipices fronting the waves, promontories jutting out, high rockypoints commanding extensive views, wild and picturesque, and yetsoftened by color and graceful shore lines, and the forest comes downto the edge of the sea. And the occupants have heightened rather thanlessened this picturesqueness by adapting their villas to a certainextent to the rocks and inequalities in color and form, and by means ofroads, allies, and vistas transforming the region into a lovely park. 

Here, as at Newport, is cottage life, but the contrast of the two placesis immense. There is here no attempt at any assembly or congregatedgayety or display. One would hesitate to say that the drives here havemore beauty, but they have more variety. They seem endless, throughodorous pine woods and shady lanes, by private roads among beautifulvillas and exquisite grounds, with evidences everywhere of wealth tobe sure, but of individual taste and refinement. How sweet and cool arethese winding ways in the wonderful woods, overrun with vegetation, thebayberry, the sweet-fern, the wild roses, wood-lilies, and ferns! and itis ever a fresh surprise at a turn to find one's self so near the sea, and to open out an entrancing coast view, to emerge upon apromontory and a sight of summer isles, of lighthouses, cottages, villages--Marblehead, Salem, Beverly. What a lovely coast! and howwealth and culture have set their seal on it. 

It possesses essentially the same character to the north, althoughthe shore is occasionally higher and bolder, as at the picturesquepromontory of Magnolia, and Cape Ann exhibits more of the hotel andpopular life. But to live in one's own cottage, to choose his callingand dining acquaintances, to make the long season contribute somethingto cultivation in literature, art, music--to live, in short, rather morefor one's self than for society--seems the increasing tendency of themen of fortune who can afford to pay as much for an acre of rock andsand at Manchester as would build a decent house elsewhere. The touristdoes not complain of this, and is grateful that individuality hasexpressed itself in the great variety of lovely homes, in cottages verydifferent from those on the Jersey coast, showing more invention, andgood in form and color. 

There are New-Yorkers at Manchester, and Bostonians at Newport; but whowas it that said New York expresses itself at Newport, and Boston atManchester and kindred coast settlements? This may be only fancy. Whereintellectual life keeps pace with the accumulation of wealth, society islikely to be more natural, simpler, less tied to artificial rules, than where wealth runs ahead. It happens that the quiet social life ofBeverly, Manchester, and that region is delightful, although it is ahome rather than a public life. Nowhere else at dinner and at the chanceevening musicale is the foreigner more likely to meet sensible men whoare good talkers, brilliant and witty women who have the gift of beingentertaining, and to have the events of the day and the social andpolitical problems more cleverly discussed. What is the good of wealthif it does not bring one back to freedom, and the ability to livenaturally and to indulge the finer tastes in vacation-time?

After all, King reflected, as the party were on their way to the Islesof Shoals, what was it that had most impressed him at Manchester? Was itnot an evening spent in a cottage amid the rocks, close by the water, in the company of charming people? To be sure, there were the magicalreflection of the moonlight and the bay, the points of light from thecottages on the rocky shore, the hum and swell of the sea, and all themystery of the shadowy headlands; but this was only a congenial settingfor the music, the witty talk, the free play of intellectual badinage, and seriousness, and the simple human cordiality that were worth all therest. 

What a kaleidoscope it is, this summer travel, and what anentertainment, if the tourist can only keep his "impression plates"fresh to take the new scenes, and not sink into the state ofchronic grumbling at hotels and minor discomforts! An interview ata ticket-office, a whirl of an hour on the rails, and to Portsmouth, anchored yet to the colonial times by a few old houses, and resistingwith its respectable provincialism the encroachments of modernsmartness, and the sleepy wharf in the sleepy harbor, where the littlesteamer is obligingly waiting for the last passenger, for the verylast woman, running with a bandbox in one hand, and dragging a jerked, fretting child by the other hand, to make the hour's voyage to the Islesof Shoals. 

(The shrewd reader objects to the bandbox as an anachronism: it isno longer used. If I were writing a novel, instead of a veraciouschronicle, I should not have introduced it, for it is an anachronism. But I was powerless, as a mere narrator, to prevent the woman comingaboard with her bandbox. No one but a trained novelist can make along-striding, resolute, down-East woman conform to his notions ofconduct and fashion. )

If a young gentleman were in love, and the object of his adoration werebeside him, he could not have chosen a lovelier day nor a prettier scenethan this in which to indulge his happiness; and if he were in love, andthe object absent, he could scarcely find a situation fitter to nursehis tender sentiment. Doubtless there is a stage in love when scenery ofthe very best quality becomes inoperative. There was a couple on boardseated in front of the pilot-house, who let the steamer float along thepretty, long, landlocked harbor, past the Kittery Navy-yard, and outupon the blue sea, without taking the least notice of anything but eachother. They were on a voyage of their own, Heaven help them! probablywithout any chart, a voyage of discovery, just as fresh and surprisingas if they were the first who ever took it. It made no difference tothem that there was a personally conducted excursion party on board, going, they said, to the Oceanic House on Star Island, who had out theirmaps and guide-books and opera-glasses, and wrung the last drop of thecost of their tickets out of every foot of the scenery. Perhaps it wasto King a more sentimental journey than to anybody else, because heinvoked his memory and his imagination, and as the lovely shores openedor fell away behind the steamer in ever-shifting forms of beauty, thescene was in harmony with both his hope and his longing. As to Marionand the artist, they freely appropriated and enjoyed it. So thatmediaeval structure, all tower, growing out of the rock, is Stedman'sCastle--just like him, to let his art spring out of nature in that way. And that is the famous Kittery Navy-yard!

"What do they do there, uncle?" asked the girl, after scanning the placein search of dry-docks and vessels and the usual accompaniments of anavy-yard. 

"Oh, they make 'repairs, ' principally just before an election. It isvery busy then. "

"What sort of repairs?"

"Why, political repairs; they call them naval in the department. Theyare always getting appropriations for them. I suppose that this countryis better off for naval repairs than any other country in the world. "

"And they are done here?"

"No; they are done in the department. Here is where the voters are. Yousee, we have a political navy. It costs about as much as those naviesthat have ships and guns, but it is more in accord with the peacefulspirit of the age. Did you never hear of the leading case of 'repairs'of a government vessel here at Kittery? The 'repairs' were all donehere, at Portsmouth, New Hampshire; the vessel lay all the time atPortsmouth, Virginia. How should the department know that there were twoplaces of the same name? It usually intends to have 'repairs' and thevessel in the same navy-yard. "

The steamer was gliding along over smooth water towards the sevenblessed isles, which lay there in the sun, masses of rock set in asea sparkling with diamond points. There were two pretty girls in thepilot-house, and the artist thought their presence there accounted forthe serene voyage, for the masts of a wrecked schooner rising out of theshallows to the north reminded him that this is a dangerous coast. Buthe said the passengers would have a greater sense of security if theusual placard (for the benefit of the captain) was put up: "No flirtingwith the girl at the wheel. "

At a distance nothing could be more barren than these islands, whichCaptain John Smith and their native poet have enveloped in a halo ofromance, and it was not until the steamer was close to it that anylanding-place was visible on Appledore, the largest of the group. 

The boat turned into a pretty little harbor among the rocks, andthe settlement was discovered: a long, low, old-fashioned hotel withpiazzas, and a few cottages, perched on the ledges, the door-yards ofwhich were perfectly ablaze with patches of flowers, masses of red, yellow, purple-poppies, marigolds, nasturtiums, bachelor's-buttons, lovely splashes of color against the gray lichen-covered rock. Atthe landing is an interior miniature harbor, walled in, and safe forchildren to paddle about and sail on in tiny boats. The islands offerscarcely any other opportunity for bathing, unless one dare take aplunge off the rocks. 

Talk of the kaleidoscope! At a turn of the wrist, as it were, theelements of society had taken a perfectly novel shape here. Was it onlya matter of grouping and setting, or were these people different fromall others the tourists had seen? There was a lively scene in the hotelcorridor, the spacious office with its long counters and post-office, when the noon mail was opened and the letters called out. So many prettygirls, with pet dogs of all degrees of ugliness (dear little objects ofaffection overflowing and otherwise running to waste--one of the mostpathetic sights in this sad world), jaunty suits with a nautical cut, for boating and rock-climbing, family groups, so much animation andexcitement over the receipt of letters, so much well-bred chaffingand friendliness, such an air of refinement and "style, " but withalso homelike. These people were "guests" of the proprietors, whonevertheless felt a sort of proprietorship themselves in the littleisland, and were very much like a company together at sea. For livingon this island is not unlike being on shipboard at sea, except that thisrock does not heave about in a nauseous way. 

Mr. King discovered by the register that the Bensons had been here (ofall places in the world, he thought this would be the ideal one for afew days with her), and Miss Lamont had a letter from Irene, which shedid not offer to read. 

"They didn't stay long, " she said, as Mr. King seemed to expect someinformation out of the letter, "and they have gone on to Bar Harbor. Ishould like to stop here a week; wouldn't you?"

"Ye-e-s, " trying to recall the mood he was in before he looked at theregister; "but--but" (thinking of the words "gone on to Bar Harbor") "itis a place, after all, that you can see in a short time--go all over itin half a day. "

"But you want to sit about on the rocks, and look at the sea, anddream. "

"I can't dream on an island-not on a small island. It's too cooped up;you get a feeling of being a prisoner. "

"I suppose you wish 'that little isle had wings, and you and I withinits shady--'"

"There's one thing I will not stand, Miss Lamont, and that's Moore. "

"Come, let's go to Star Island. "

The party went in the tug Pinafore, which led a restless, fussy life, puffing about among these islands, making the circuit of Appledore atfixed hours, and acting commonly as a ferry. Star Island is smaller thanAppledore and more barren, but it has the big hotel (and a differentclass of guests from those on Appledore), and several monuments ofromantic interest. There is the ancient stone church, rebuilt some timein this century; there are some gravestones; there is a monument toCaptain John Smith, the only one existing anywhere to that interestingadventurer--a triangular shaft, with a long inscription that couldnot have been more eulogistic if he had composed it himself. There issomething pathetic in this lonely monument when we recall Smith's owntouching allusion to this naked rock, on which he probably landedwhen he once coasted along this part of New England, as being his solepossession in the world at the end of his adventurous career:

 "No lot for me but Smith's Isles, which are an array of barren rocks, the most overgrown with shrubs and sharpe whins you can hardly pass them; without either grasse or wood, but three or foure short shrubby old cedars. "

Every tourist goes to the south end of Star Island, and climbs down onthe face of the precipice to the "Chair, " a niche where a school-teacherused to sit as long ago as 1848. She was sitting there one day when awave came up and washed her away into the ocean. She disappeared. Butshe who loses her life shall save it. That one thoughtless act of hersdid more for her reputation than years of faithful teaching, thanall her beauty, grace, and attractions. Her "Chair" is a point ofpilgrimage. The tourist looks at it, guesses at its height above thewater, regards the hungry sea with aversion, re-enacts the drama in hisimagination, sits in the chair, has his wife sit in it, has his boy andgirl sit in it together, wonders what the teacher's name was, stopsat the hotel and asks the photograph girl, who does not know, and theproprietor, who says it's in a book somewhere, and finally learns thatit was Underhill, and straightway forgets it when he leaves the island. 

What a delicious place it is, this Appledore, when the elements favor!The party were lodged in a little cottage, whence they overlooked thehotel and the little harbor, and could see all the life of the place, looking over the bank of flowers that draped the rocks of the door-yard. How charming was the miniature pond, with the children sailing round andround, and the girls in pretty costumes bathing, and sunlight lying sowarm upon the greenish-gray rocks! But the night, following the gloriousafter-glow, the red sky, all the level sea, and the little harborburnished gold, the rocks purple--oh! the night, when the moon came! Oh, Irene! Great heavens! why will this world fall into such a sentimentalfit, when all the sweetness and the light of it are away at Bar Harbor!

Love and moonlight, and the soft lapse of the waves and singing? Yes, there are girls down by the landing with a banjo, and young men singingthe songs of love, the modern songs of love dashed with college slang. The banjo suggests a little fastness; and this new generation carriesoff its sentiment with some bravado and a mocking tone. Presently thetug Pinafore glides up to the landing, the engineer flings open thefurnace door, and the glowing fire illumines the interior, brings outforms and faces, and deepens the heavy shadows outside. It is like acavern scene in the opera. A party of ladies in white come down to crossto Star. Some of these insist upon climbing up to the narrow deck, tosit on the roof and enjoy the moonlight and the cinders. Girls liketo do these things, which are more unconventional than hazardous, atwatering-places. 

What a wonderful effect it is, the masses of rock, water, sky, thenight, all details lost in simple lines and forms! On the piazza ofthe cottage is a group of ladies and gentlemen in poses more or lessgraceful; one lady is in a hammock; on one side is the moonlight, on theother come gleams from the curtained windows touching here and therea white shoulder, or lighting a lovely head; the vines running up onstrings and half enclosing the piazza make an exquisite tracery againstthe sky, and cast delicate shadow patterns on the floor; all the timemusic within, the piano, the violin, and the sweet waves of a woman'svoice singing the songs of Schubert, floating out upon the night. A softwind blows out of the west. 

The northern part of Appledore Island is an interesting place to wander. There are no trees, but the plateau is far from barren. The gray rockscrop out among bayberry and huckleberry bushes, and the wild rose, verylarge and brilliant in color, fairly illuminates the landscape, massingits great bushes. Amid the chaotic desert of broken rocks farther southare little valleys of deep green grass, gay with roses. On the savageprecipices at the end one may sit in view of an extensive sweep of coastwith a few hills, and of other rocky islands, sails, and ocean-goingsteamers. Here are many nooks and hidden corners to dream in andmake love in, the soft sea air being favorable to that soft-heartedoccupation. 

One could easily get attached to the place, if duty and Irene didnot call elsewhere. Those who dwell here the year round find mostsatisfaction when the summer guests have gone and they are alone withfreaky nature. "Yes, " said the woman in charge of one of the cottages, "I've lived here the year round for sixteen years, and I like it. Afterwe get fixed up comfortable for winter, kill a critter, have pigs, andmake my own sassengers, then there ain't any neighbors comin' in, andthat's what I like. "

VII. BAR HARBOR

The attraction of Bar Harbor is in the union of mountain and sea; themountains rise in granite majesty right out of the ocean. The travelerexpects to find a repetition of Mount Athos rising six thousand feet outof the AEgean. 

The Bar-Harborers made a mistake in killing--if they did kill--thestranger who arrived at this resort from the mainland, and said it wouldbe an excellent sea-and-mountain place if there were any mountainsor any sea in sight. Instead, if they had taken him in a row-boat andpulled him out through the islands, far enough, he would have had aglimpse of the ocean, and if then he had been taken by the cog-railwayseventeen hundred feet to the top of Green Mountain, he would notonly have found himself on firm, rising ground, but he would have beenobliged to confess that, with his feet upon a solid mountain of granite, he saw innumerable islands and, at a distance, a considerable quantityof ocean. He would have repented his hasty speech. In two days he wouldhave been a partisan of the place, and in a week he would have been anowner of real estate there. 

There is undeniably a public opinion in Bar Harbor in favor of it, andthe visitor would better coincide with it. He is anxiously asked atevery turn how he likes it, and if he does not like it he is an objectof compassion. Countless numbers of people who do not own a foot ofland there are devotees of the place. Any number of certificates to itsqualities could be obtained, as to a patent medicine, and they would allread pretty much alike, after the well-known formula: "The first bottleI took did, me no good, after the second I was worse, after the third Iimproved, after the twelfth I walked fifty miles in one day; and now Inever do without it, I take never less than fifty bottles a year. " So itwould be: "At first I felt just as you do, shut-in place, foggy, stayedonly two days. Only came back again to accompany friends, stayed a week, foggy, didn't like it. Can't tell how I happened to come back again, stayed a month, and I tell you, there is no place like it in America. Spend all my summers here. "

The genesis of Bar Harbor is curious and instructive. For many years, like other settlements on Mount Desert Island; it had been frequented bypeople who have more fondness for nature than they have money, and whowere willing to put up with wretched accommodations, and enjoyed a mildsort of "roughing it. " But some society people in New York, who have thereputation of setting the mode, chanced to go there; they declared infavor of it; and instantly, by an occult law which governs fashionablelife, Bar Harbor became the fashion. Everybody could see its preeminentattractions. The word was passed along by the Boudoir Telephone fromBoston to New Orleans, and soon it was a matter of necessity for adebutante, or a woman of fashion, or a man of the world, or a blaseboy, to show themselves there during the season. It became the sceneof summer romances; the student of manners went there to study the"American girl. " The notion spread that it was the finest sanitarium onthe continent for flirtations; and as trade is said to follow the flag, so in this case real-estate speculation rioted in the wake of beauty andfashion. 

There is no doubt that the "American girl" is there, as she is atdivers other sea-and-land resorts; but the present peculiarity ofthis watering-place is that the American young man is there also. Somephilosophers have tried to account for this coincidence by assuming thatthe American girl is the attraction to the young man. But this seems tome a misunderstanding of the spirit of this generation. Why are youngmen quoted as "scarce" in other resorts swarming with sweet girls, maidens who have learned the art of being agreeable, and interestingwidows in the vanishing shades of an attractive and consolable grief?No. Is it not rather the cold, luminous truth that the American girlfound out that Bar Harbor, without her presence, was for certainreasons, such as unconventionality, a bracing air, opportunity forboating, etc. , agreeable to the young man? But why do elderly peoplego there? This question must have been suggested by a foreigner, who isignorant that in a republic it is the young ones who know what is bestfor the elders. 

Our tourists passed a weary, hot day on the coast railway of Maine. Notwithstanding the high temperature, the country seemed cheerless, the sunlight to fall less genially than in more fertile regions tothe south, upon a landscape stripped of its forests, naked, andunpicturesque. Why should the little white houses of the prosperouslittle villages on the line of the rail seem cold and suggest winter, and the land seem scrimped and without an atmosphere? It chanced so, foreverybody knows that it is a lovely coast. The artist said it was theMaine Law. But that could not be, for the only drunken man encounteredon their tour they saw at the Bangor Station, where beer was furtivelysold. 

They were plunged into a cold bath on the steamer in the half-hour'ssail from the end of the rail to Bar Harbor. The wind was fresh, white-caps enlivened the scene, the spray dashed over the huge pile ofbaggage on the bow, the passengers shivered, and could little enjoythe islands and the picturesque shore, but fixed eyes of hope upon theelectric lights which showed above the headlands, and marked the siteof the hotels and the town in the hidden harbor. Spits of rain dashedin their faces, and in some discomfort they came to the wharf, whichwas alive with vehicles and tooters for the hotels. In short, with itslights and noise, it had every appearance of being an important place, and when our party, holding on to their seats in a buckboard, werewhirled at a gallop up to Rodick's, and ushered into a spacious officeswarming with people, they realized that they were entering upon alively if somewhat haphazard life. The first confused impression was ofa bewildering number of slim, pretty girls, nonchalant young fellows inlawn-tennis suits, and indefinite opportunities in the halls and parlorsand wide piazzas for promenade and flirtations. 

Rodick's is a sort of big boarding-house, hesitating whether to be ahotel or not, no bells in the rooms, no bills of fare (or rarely one), no wine-list, a go-as-you-please, help-yourself sort of place, which ispopular because it has its own character, and everybody drifts into itfirst or last. Some say it is an acquired taste; that people do not taketo it at first. The big office is a sort of assembly-room, where newarrivals are scanned and discovered, and it is unblushingly calledthe "fish-pond" by the young ladies who daily angle there. Of theunconventional ways of the establishment Mr. King had an illustrationwhen he attempted to get some washing done. Having read a notice thatthe hotel had no laundry, he was told, on applying at the office, thatif he would bring his things down there they would try to send themout for him. Not being accustomed to carrying about soiled clothes, hedeclined this proposal, and consulted a chambermaid. She told him thatladies came to the house every day for the washing, and that shewould speak to one of them. No result following this, after a day Kingconsulted the proprietor, and asked him point blank, as a friend, whatcourse he would pursue if he were under the necessity of having washingdone in that region. The proprietor said that Mr. King's wants shouldbe attended to at once. Another day passed without action, when thechambermaid was again applied to. "There's a lady just come in to thehall I guess will do it. "

"Is she trustworthy?"

"Don't know, she washes for the woman in the room next to you. " And thelady was at last secured. 

Somebody said that those who were accustomed to luxury at home likedRodick's, and that those who were not grumbled. And it was true thatfashion for the moment elected to be pleased with unconventionality, finding a great zest in freedom, and making a joke of everyinconvenience. Society will make its own rules, and although there areseveral other large hotels, and good houses as watering-place hotels go, and cottage-life here as elsewhere is drawing away its skirts from hotellife, society understood why a person might elect to stay at Rodick's. Bar Harbor has one of the most dainty and refined little hotels in theworld-the Malvern. Any one can stay there who is worth two millions ofdollars, or can produce a certificate from the Recorder of New York thathe is a direct descendant of Hendrick Hudson or Diedrich Knickerbocker. It is needless to say that it was built by a Philadelphian--that is tosay one born with a genius for hotel-keeping. But though a guest at theMalvern might not eat with a friend at Rodick's, he will meet him as aman of the world on friendly terms. 

Bar Harbor was indeed an interesting society study. Except in some ofthe cottages, it might be said that society was on a lark. With all themanners of the world and the freemasonry of fashionable life, it hadelected to be unconventional. The young ladies liked to appear innautical and lawn-tennis toilet, carried so far that one might referto the "cut of their jib, " and their minds were not much given to anyelaborate dressing for evening. As to the young gentlemen, if there wereany dress-coats on the island, they took pains not to display them, but delighted in appearing in the evening promenade, and even in theballroom, in the nondescript suits that made them so conspicuous in themorning, the favorite being a dress of stripes, with striped jockeycap to match, that did not suggest the penitentiary uniform, because instate-prisons the stripes run round. This neglige costume was adheredto even in the ballroom. To be sure, the ballroom was little frequented, only an adventurous couple now and then gliding over the floor, andaffording scant amusement to the throng gathered on the piazza and aboutthe open windows. Mrs. Montrose, a stately dame of the old school, whose standard was the court in the days of Calhoun, Clay, and Webster, disapproved of this laxity, and when a couple of young fellows instriped array one evening whirled round the room together, withbrier-wood pipes in their mouths, she was scandalized. If the youngladies shared her sentiments they made no resolute protests, rememberingperhaps the scarcity of young men elsewhere, and thinking that it isbetter to be loved by a lawn-tennis suit than not to be loved at all. The daughters of Mrs. Montrose thought they should draw the line on thebrier-wood pipe. 

Dancing, however, is not the leading occupation at Bar Harbor, it israther neglected. A cynic said that the chief occupation was to wait atthe "fishpond" for new arrivals--the young ladies angling while theirmothers and chaperons--how shall we say it to complete the figure?--heldthe bait. It is true that they did talk in fisherman's lingo about this, asked each other if they had a nibble or a bite, or boasted that theyhad hauled one in, or complained that it was a poor day for fishing. Butthis was all chaff, born of youthful spirits and the air of the place. If the young men took airs upon themselves under the impression theywere in much demand, they might have had their combs cut if they hadheard how they were weighed and dissected and imitated, and taken offas to their peculiarities, and known, most of them, by sobriquetscharacteristic of their appearance or pretentions. There was one youngman from the West, who would have been flattered with the appellation of"dude, " so attractive in the fit of his clothes, the manner in whichhe walked and used his cane and his eyeglass, that Mr. King wanted verymuch to get him and bring him away in a cage. He had no doubt that hewas a favorite with every circle and wanted in every group, and theyoung ladies did seem to get a great deal of entertainment out of him. He was not like the young man in the Scriptures except that he wascredited with having great possessions. 

No, the principal occupation at Bar Harbor was not fishing in thehouse. It was outdoor exercise, incessant activity in driving, walking, boating, rowing and sailing--bowling, tennis, and flirtation. There wasalways an excursion somewhere, by land or sea, watermelon parties, racesin the harbor in which the girls took part, drives in buckboards whichthey organized--indeed, the canoe and the buckboard were in constantdemand. In all this there was a pleasing freedom--of course under properchaperonage. And such delightful chaperons as they were, their businessbeing to promote and not to hinder the intercourse of the sexes!

This activity, this desire to row and walk and drive and to becomeacquainted, was all due to the air. It has a peculiar quality. Eventhe skeptic has to admit this. It composes his nerves to sleep, itstimulates to unwonted exertion. The fanatics of the place declare thatthe fogs are not damp as at other resorts on the coast. Fashion canmake even a fog dry. But the air is delicious. In this latitude, and byreason of the hills, the atmosphere is pure and elastic and stimulating, and it is softened by the presence of the sea. This union gives acharming effect. It is better than the Maine Law. The air being likewine, one does not need stimulants. If one is addicted to them andis afraid to trust the air, he is put to the trouble of sneaking intomasked places, and becoming a party to petty subterfuges for evading thelaw. And the wretched man adds to the misdemeanor of this evasion themoral crime of consuming bad liquor. 

"Everybody" was at Bar Harbor, or would be there in course of theseason. Mrs. Cortlandt was there, and Mrs. Pendragon of New Orleans, oneof the most brilliant, amiable, and charming of women. I remember heras far back as the seventies. A young man like Mr. King, if he couldbe called young, could not have a safer and more sympathetic socialadviser. Why are not all handsome women cordial, good-tempered, and well-bred! And there were the Ashleys--clever mother and threedaughters, au-fait girls, racy and witty talkers; I forget whether theywere last from Paris, Washington, or San Francisco. Family motto: "Don'tbe dull. " All the Van Dams from New York, and the Sleiderheifers andMulligrubs of New Jersey, were there for the season, some of them incottages. These families are intimate, even connected by marriage, withthe Bayardiers of South Carolina and the Lontoons of Louisiana. Thegirls are handsome, dashing women, without much information, butrattling talkers, and so exclusive! and the young men, with a Piccadillyair, fancy that they belong to the "Prince of Wales set, " you know. There is a good deal of monarchical simplicity in our heterogeneoussociety. 

Mrs. Cortlandt was quite in her element here as director-general ofexpeditions and promoter of social activity. "I have been expectingyou, " she was kind enough to say to Mr. King the morning after hisarrival. "Kitty Van Sanford spied you last night, and exclaimed, 'There, now, is a real reinforcement!' You see that you are mortgaged already. "

"It's very kind of you to expect me. Is there anybody else here I know?"

"Several hundreds, I should say. If you cannot find friends here, youare a subject for an orphan-asylum. And you have not seen anybody?"

"Well, I was late at breakfast. "

"And you have not looked on the register?"

"Yes, I did run my eye over the register. "

"And you are standing right before me and trying to look as if you didnot know that Irene Benson is in the house. I didn't think, Mr. King, ithad gone that far-indeed I didn't. You know I'm in a manner responsiblefor it. And I heard all about you at Newport. She's a heart of gold, that girl. "

"Did she--did Miss Benson say anything about Newport?"

"No. Why?"

"Oh, I didn't know but she might have mentioned how she liked it. "

"I don't think she liked it as much as her mother did. Mrs. Benson talksof nothing else. Irene said nothing special to me. I don't know what shemay have said to Mr. Meigs, " this wily woman added, in the most naturalmanner. 

"Who is Mr. Meigs?"

"Mr. Alfred Meigs, Boston. He is a rich widower, about forty--the mostfascinating age for a widower, you know. I think he is conceited, buthe is really a most entertaining man; has traveled all over theworld--Egypt, Persia--lived in Japan, prides himself a little on neverhaving been in Colorado or Florida. "

"What does he do?"

"Do? He drives Miss Benson to Otter Cliffs, and out on the Cornice Road, about seven days in the week, and gets up sailing-parties and all thatin the intervals. "

"I mean his occupation. "

"Isn't that occupation enough? Well, he has a library and a littlearchaeological museum, and prints monographs on art now and then. If hewere a New-Yorker, you know, he would have a yacht instead of a library. There they are now. "

A carriage with a pair of spirited horses stood at the bottom of thesteps on the entrance side. Mrs. Cortlandt and King turned the cornerof the piazza and walked that way. On the back seat were Mrs. Benson andMrs. Simpkins. The gentleman holding the reins was just helping Ireneto the high seat in front. Mr. King was running down the long flight ofsteps. Mrs. Benson saw him, bowed most cordially, and called his name. Irene, turning quickly, also bowed--he thought there was a flush on herface. The gentleman, in the act of starting the horses, raised his hat. King was delighted to notice that he was bald. He had a round head, snugly-trimmed beard slightly dashed with gray, was short and a triflestout--King thought dumpy. "I suppose women like that kind of man, " hesaid to Mrs. Cortlandt when the carriage was out of sight. 

"Why not? He has perfect manners; he knows the world--that is a greatpoint, I can tell you, in the imagination of a girl; he is rich; and heis no end obliging. "

"How long has he been here?"

"Several days. They happened to come up from the Isles of Shoalstogether. He is somehow related to the Simpkinses. There! I've wastedtime enough on you. I must go and see Mrs. Pendragon about a watermelonparty to Jordan Pond. You'll see, I'll arrange something. "

King had no idea what a watermelon party was, but he was pleased tothink that it was just the sort of thing that Mr. Meigs would shinein. He said to himself that he hated dilettante snobs. His bitterreflections were interrupted by the appearance of Miss Lamont and theartist, and with them Mr. Benson. The men shook hands with downrightheartiness. Here is a genuine man, King was thinking. 

"Yes. We are still at it, " he said, with his humorous air ofresignation. "I tell my wife that I'm beginning to understand how oldChristian felt going through Vanity Fair. We ought to be pretty nearthe Heavenly Gates by this time. I reckoned she thought they opened intoNewport. She said I ought to be ashamed to ridicule the Bible. I had tohave my joke. It's queer how different the world looks to women. "

"And how does it look to men?" asked Miss Lamont. 

"Well, my dear young lady, it looks like a good deal of fuss, andtolerably large bills. "

"But what does it matter about the bills if you enjoy yourself?"

"That's just it. Folks work harder to enjoy themselves than at anythingelse I know. Half of them spend more money than they can afford to, andkeep under the harrow all the time, just because they see others spendmoney. "

"I saw your wife and daughter driving away just now, " said King, shifting the conversation to a more interesting topic. 

"Yes. They have gone to take a ride over what they call here theCornneechy. It's a pretty enough road along the bay, but Irene saysit's about as much like the road in Europe they name it from as GreenMountain is like Mount Blanck. Our folks seem possessed to stick aforeign name on to everything. And the road round through the scrub toEagle Lake they call Norway. If Norway is like that, it's pretty shortof timber. If there hadn't been so much lumbering here, I should likeit better. There is hardly a decent pine-tree left. Mr. Meigs--they havegone riding with Mr. Meigs--says the Maine government ought to have aMaine law that amounts to something--one that will protect the forests, and start up some trees on the coast. "

"Is Mr. Meigs in the lumber business?" asked King. 

"Only for scenery, I guess. He is great on scenery. He's a Boston man. I tell the women that he is what I call a bric-er-brac man. But youcome to set right down with him, away from women, and he talks just assensible as anybody. He is shrewd enough. It beats all how men are withmen and with women. "

Mr. Benson was capable of going on in this way all day. But the artistproposed a walk up to Newport, and Mr. King getting Mrs. Pendragonto accompany them, the party set out. It is a very agreeable climb upNewport, and not difficult; but if the sun is out, one feels, afterscrambling over the rocks and walking home by the dusty road, liketaking a long pull at a cup of shandygaff. The mountain is a solid massof granite, bare on top, and commands a noble view of islands and ocean, of the gorge separating it from Green Mountain, and of that respectablehill. For this reason, because it is some two or three hundred feetlower than Green Mountain, and includes that scarred eminence in itsview, it is the most picturesque and pleasing elevation on the island. It also has the recommendation of being nearer to the sea than itssister mountain. On the south side, by a long slope, it comes nearly tothe water, and the longing that the visitor to Bar Harbor has to see theocean is moderately gratified. The prospect is at once noble and poetic. 

Mrs. Pendragon informed Mr. King that he and Miss Lamont and Mr. Forbeswere included in the watermelon party that was to start that afternoonat five o'clock. The plan was for the party to go in buckboards to EagleLake, cross that in the steamer, scramble on foot over the "carry" toJordan Pond, take row-boats to the foot of that, and find at a farmhousethere the watermelons and other refreshments, which would be sent by theshorter road, and then all return by moonlight in the buckboards. 

This plan was carried out. Mrs. Cortlandt, Mrs. Pendragon, and Mrs. Simpkins were to go as chaperons, and Mr. Meigs had been invited by Mrs. Cortlandt, King learned to his disgust, also to act as a chaperon. Allthe proprieties are observed at Bar Harbor. Half a dozen long buckboardswere loaded with their merry freight. At the last Mrs. Pendragon pleadeda headache, and could not go. Mr. King was wandering about among thebuckboards to find an eligible seat. He was not put in good humor byfinding that Mr. Meigs had ensconced himself beside Irene, and he wasabout crowding in with the Ashley girls--not a bad fate--when word waspassed down the line from Mrs. Cortlandt, who was the autocrat of theexpedition, that Mr. Meigs was to come back and take a seat with Mrs. Simpkins in the buckboard with the watermelons. She could not walkaround the "carry"; she must go by the direct road, and of course shecouldn't go alone. There was no help for it, and Mr. Meigs, looking ascheerful as an undertaker in a healthy season, got down from his seatand trudged back. Thus two chaperons were disposed of at a stroke, andthe young men all said that they hated to assume so much responsibility. Mr. King didn't need prompting in this emergency; the wagons werealready moving, and before Irene knew exactly what had happened, Mr. King was begging her pardon for the change, and seating himself besideher. And he was thinking, "What a confoundedly clever woman Mrs. Cortlandt is!"

There is an informality about a buckboard that communicates itselfat once to conduct. The exhilaration of the long spring-board, thenecessity of holding on to something or somebody to prevent being tossedoverboard, put occupants in a larkish mood that they might never attainin an ordinary vehicle. All this was favorable to King, and it relievedIrene from an embarrassment she might have felt in meeting him underordinary circumstances. And King had the tact to treat himself and theirmeeting merely as accidents. 

"The American youth seem to have invented a novel way of disposingof chaperons, " he said. "To send them in one direction and the partychaperoned in another is certainly original. "

"I'm not sure the chaperons like it. And I doubt if it is proper to packthem off by themselves, especially when one is a widow and the other isa widower. "

"It's a case of chaperon eat chaperon. I hope your friend didn't mindit. I had nearly despaired of finding a seat. "

"Mr. Meigs? He did not say he liked it, but he is the most obliging ofmen. "

"I suppose you have pretty well seen the island?"

"We have driven about a good deal. We have seen Southwest Harbor, andSomes's Sound and Schooner Head, and the Ovens and Otter Cliffs--there'sno end of things to see; it needs a month. I suppose you have been upGreen Mountain?"

"No. I sent Mr. Forbes. "

"You ought to go. It saves buying a map. Yes, I like the placeimmensely. You mustn't judge of the variety here by the table atRodick's. I don't suppose there's a place on the coast that compareswith it in interest; I mean variety of effects and natural beauty. Ifthe writers wouldn't exaggerate so, talk about 'the sublimity of themountains challenging the eternal grandeur of the sea'!"

"Don't use such strong language there on the back seat, " cried MissLamont. "This is a pleasure party. Mr. Van Dusen wants to know why MaudS. Is like a salamander?"

"He is not to be gratified, Marion. If it is conundrums, I shall get outand walk. "

Before the conundrum was guessed, the volatile Van Dusen broke out into, "Here's a how d'e do!" One of the Ashley girls in the next wagon caughtup the word with, "Here's a state of things!" and the two buckboardswent rattling down the hill to Eagle Lake in a "Mikado" chorus. 

"The Mikado troupe seems to have got over here in advance of Sullivan, "said Mr. King to Irene. "I happened to see the first representation. "

"Oh, half these people were in London last spring. They give you theimpression that they just run over to the States occasionally. Mr. Van Dusen says he keeps his apartments in whatever street it is offPiccadilly, it's so much more convenient. "

On the steamer crossing the lake, King hoped for an opportunity to makean explanation to Irene. But when the opportunity came he found it verydifficult to tell what it was he wanted to explain, and so blundered onin commonplaces. 

"You like Bar Harbor so well, " he said, "that I suppose your father willbe buying a cottage here?"

"Hardly. Mr. Meigs" (King thought there was too much Meigs in theconversation) "said that he had once thought of doing so, but he likesthe place too well for that. He prefers to come here voluntarily. Thetrouble about owning a cottage at a watering-place is that it makes aduty of a pleasure. You can always rent, father says. He has noticedthat usually when a person gets comfortably established in a summercottage he wants to rent it. "

"And you like it better than Newport?"

"On some accounts--the air, you know, and--"

"I want to tell you, " he said breaking in most illogically--"I want totell you, Miss Benson, that it was all a wretched mistake at Newportthat morning. I don't suppose you care, but I'm afraid you are not quitejust to me. "

"I don't think I was unjust. " The girl's voice was low, and she spokeslowly. "You couldn't help it. We can't any of us help it. We cannotmake the world over, you know. " And she looked up at him with a faintlittle smile. 

"But you didn't understand. I didn't care for any of those people. Itwas just an accident. Won't you believe me? I do not ask much. But Icannot have you think I'm a coward. "

"I never did, Mr. King. Perhaps you do not see what society is as I do. People think they can face it when they cannot. I can't say what I mean, and I think we'd better not talk about it. "

The boat was landing; and the party streamed up into the woods, andwith jest and laughter and feigned anxiety about danger and assistance, picked its way over the rough, stony path. It was such a scramble asyoung ladies enjoy, especially if they are city bred, for it seems tothem an achievement of more magnitude than to the country lasses who seenothing uncommon or heroic in following a cow-path. And the young menlike it because it brings out the trusting, dependent, clinging natureof girls. King wished it had been five miles long instead of a mileand a half. It gave him an opportunity to show his helpful, consideratespirit. It was necessary to take her hand to help her over the badspots, and either the bad spots increased as they went on, or Irenewas deceived about it. What makes a path of this sort so perilous to awoman's heart? Is it because it is an excuse for doing what she longs todo? Taking her hand recalled the day on the rocks at Narragansett, andthe nervous clutch of her little fingers, when the footing failed, senta delicious thrill through her lover. King thought himself quite in lovewith Forbes--there was the warmest affection between the two--but whenhe hauled the artist up a Catskill cliff there wasn't the least of thissort of a thrill in the grip of hands. Perhaps if women had the ballotin their hands all this nervous fluid would disappear out of the world. 

At Jordan Pond boats were waiting. It is a pretty fresh-water pondbetween high sloping hills, and twin peaks at the north end give it evenpicturesqueness. There are a good many trout in it--at least that is thesupposition, for the visitors very seldom get them out. When the boatswith their chattering passengers had pushed out into the lake andaccomplished a third of the voyage, they were met by a skiff containingthe faithful chaperons Mrs. Simpkins and Mr. Meigs. They hailed, butMr. King, who was rowing his boat, did not slacken speed. "Are you muchtired, Miss Benson?" shouted Mr. Meigs. King didn't like this assumptionof protection. "I've brought you a shawl. "

"Hang his paternal impudence!" growled King, under his breath, as hethrew himself back with a jerk on the oars that nearly sent Irene overthe stern of the boat. 

Evidently the boat-load, of which the Ashley girls and Mr. Van Dusenwere a part, had taken the sense of this little comedy, for immediatelythey struck up:

 "For he is going to marry Yum-Yum-- Yum-Yum! For he is going to marry Yum-Yum-- Yum-Yum!"

This pleasantry passed entirely over the head of Irene, who had notheard the "Mikado, " but King accepted it as a good omen, and forgave itsimpudence. It set Mr. Meigs thinking that he had a rival. 

At the landing, however, Mr. Meigs was on hand to help Irene out, anda presentation of Mr. King followed. Mr. Meigs was polite even tocordiality, and thanked him for taking such good care of her. Men willmake such blunders sometimes. 

"Oh, we are old friends, " she said carelessly. 

Mr. Meigs tried to mend matters by saying that he had promised Mrs. Benson, you know, to look after her. There was that in Irene's mannerthat said she was not to be appropriated without leave. But theconsciousness that her look betrayed this softened her at once towardsMr. Meigs, and decidedly improved his chances for the evening. Thephilosopher says that women are cruelest when they set out to be kind. 

The supper was an 'al fresco' affair, the party being seated about onrocks and logs and shawls spread upon the grass near the farmer's house. The scene was a very pretty one, at least the artist thought so, andMiss Lamont said it was lovely, and the Ashley girls declared it wasjust divine. There was no reason why King should not enjoy the chaff andmerriment and the sunset light which touched the group, except thatthe one woman he cared to serve was enveloped in the attentions ofMr. Meigs. The drive home in the moonlight was the best part of theexcursion, or it would have been if there had not been a general changeof seats ordered, altogether, as Mr. King thought, for the accommodationof the Boston man. It nettled him that Irene let herself fall to theescort of Mr. Meigs, for women can always arrange these things if theychoose, and he had only a melancholy satisfaction in the college songsand conundrums that enlivened the festive buckboard in which he was apassenger. Not that he did not join in the hilarity, but it seemed onlya poor imitation of pleasure. Alas, that the tone of one woman's voice, the touch of her hand, the glance of her eye, should outweigh the world!

Somehow, with all the opportunities, the suit of our friend did notadvance beyond a certain point. Irene was always cordial, alwaysfriendly, but he tried in vain to ascertain whether the middle-aged manfrom Boston had touched her imagination. There was a boating party thenext evening in Frenchman's Bay, and King had the pleasure of pullingMiss Benson and Miss Lamont out seaward under the dark, frowning cliffsuntil they felt the ocean swell, and then of making the circuit ofPorcupine Island. It was an enchanting night, full of mystery. The rockface of the Porcupine glistened white in the moonlight as if it wereencrusted with salt, the waves beat in a continuous roar against itsbase, which is honeycombed by the action of the water, and when the boatglided into its shadow it loomed up vast and wonderful. Seaward were theharbor lights, the phosphorescent glisten of the waves, the dim forms ofother islands; all about in the bay row-boats darted in and out of themoonlight, voices were heard calling from boat to boat, songs floatedover the water, and the huge Portland steamer came plunging in out ofthe night, a blazing, trembling monster. Not much was said in the boat, but the impression of such a night goes far in the romance of real life. 

Perhaps it was this impression that made her assent readily to a walknext morning with Mr. King along the bay. The shore is nearly alloccupied by private cottages, with little lawns running down to thegranite edge of the water. It is a favorite place for strolling; couplesestablish themselves with books and umbrellas on the rocks, children aredabbling in the coves, sails enliven the bay, row-boats dart about, thecawing of crows is heard in the still air. Irene declared that the scenewas idyllic. The girl was in a most gracious humor, and opened her lifemore to King than she had ever done before. By such confidences usuallywomen invite avowals, and as the two paced along, King felt the momentapproach when there would be the most natural chance in the world forhim to tell this woman what she was to him; at the next turn in theshore, by that rock, surely the moment would come. What is this airynothing by which women protect themselves in such emergencies, by aquestion, by a tone, an invisible strong barrier that the most impetuousdare not attempt to break?

King felt the subtle restraint which he could not define or explain. Andbefore he could speak she said: "We are going away tomorrow. " "We? Andwho are we?" "Oh, the Simpkinses and our whole family, and Mr. Meigs. ""And where?"

"Mr. Meigs has persuaded mother into the wildest scheme. It is nothingless than to leap from, here across all the intervening States to theWhite Sulphur Springs in Virginia. Father falls into the notion becausehe wants to see more of the Southerners, Mrs. Simpkins and her daughterare crazy to go, and Mr. Meigs says he has been trying to get there allhis life, and in August the season is at its height. It was all arrangedbefore I was consulted, but I confess I rather like it. It will be achange. "

"Yes, I should think it would be delightful, " King replied, ratherabsent-mindedly. "It's a long journey, a very long journey. I shouldthink it would be too long a journey for Mr. Meigs--at his time oflife. "

It was not a fortunate remark, and still it might be; for who could tellwhether Irene would not be flattered by this declaration of his jealousyof Mr. Meigs. But she passed it over as not serious, with the remarkthat the going did not seem to be beyond the strength of her father. 

The introduction of Mr. Meigs in the guise of an accepted familyfriend and traveling companion chilled King and cast a gloom overthe landscape. Afterwards he knew that he ought to have dashed in andscattered this encompassing network of Meigs, disregarded the girl'sfence of reserve, and avowed his love. More women are won by a singlecharge at the right moment than by a whole campaign of strategy. 

On the way back to the hotel he was absorbed in thought, and he burstinto the room where Forbes was touching up one of his sketches, with afully-formed plan. "Old fellow, what do you say to going to Virginia?"

Forbes put in a few deliberate touches, moving his head from side toside, and with aggravating slowness said, "What do you want to go toVirginia for?"

"Why White Sulphur, of course; the most characteristic watering-placein America. See the whole Southern life there in August; and there's theNatural Bridge. "

"I've seen pictures of the Natural Bridge. I don't know as I care much"(still contemplating the sketch from different points of view, andsoftly whistling) "for the whole of Southern life. "

"See here, Forbes, you must have some deep design to make you take thatattitude. "

"Deep design!" replied Forbes, facing round. "I'll be hanged if I seewhat you are driving at. I thought it was Saratoga and Richfield, andmild things of that sort. "

"And the little Lamont. I know we talked of going there with her and heruncle; but we can go there afterwards. I tell you what I'll do: I'll goto Richfield, and stay till snow comes, if you will take a dip withme down into Virginia first. You ought to do it for your art. It'ssomething new, picturesque--negroes, Southern belles, old-time manners. You cannot afford to neglect it. "

"I don't see the fun of being yanked all over the United States in themiddle of August. "

"You want shaking up. You've been drawing seashores with one figure inthem till your pictures all look like--well, like Lamont and water. "

"That's better, " Forbes retorted, "than Benson and gruel. "

And the two got into a huff. The artist took his sketch-book and wentoutdoors, and King went to his room to study the guide-books and the mapof Virginia. The result was that when the friends met for dinner, Kingsaid:

"I thought you might do it for me, old boy. "

And Forbes replied: "Why didn't you say so? I don't care a rap where Igo. But it's Richfield afterwards. "

VIII. NATURAL BRIDGE, WHITE SULFUR

What occurred at the parting between the artist and the little Lamontat Bar Harbor I never knew. There was that good comradeship betweenthe two, that frank enjoyment of each other's society, without anysentimental nonsense, so often seen between two young people in America, which may end in a friendship of a summer, or extend to the cordialesteem of a lifetime, or result in marriage. I always liked the girl;she had such a sunny temper, such a flow of originality in her mentalattitude towards people and things without being a wit or a critic, andso much piquancy in all her little ways. She would take to matrimony, Ishould say, like a duck to water, with unruffled plumage, but as a wifeshe would never be commonplace, or anything but engaging, and, as thesaying is, she could make almost any man happy. And, if unmarried, whata delightful sister-in-law she would be, especially a deceased wife'ssister!

I never imagined that she was capable of a great passion, as was IreneBenson, who under a serene exterior was moved by tides of deep feeling, subject to moods, and full of aspirations and longings which she herselfonly dimly knew the meaning of. With Irene marriage would be eithersupreme happiness or extreme wretchedness, no half-way acceptance of aconventional life. With such a woman life is a failure, either tragic orpathetic, without a great passion given and returned. It is fortunate, considering the chances that make unions in society, that for most menand women the "grand passion" is neither necessary nor possible. I didnot share King's prejudice against Mr. Meigs. He seemed to me, as theworld goes, a 'bon parti, ' cultivated by travel and reading, well-bred, entertaining, amiable, possessed of an ample fortune, the ideal husbandin the eyes of a prudent mother. But I used to think that if Irene, attracted by his many admirable qualities, should become his wife, andthat if afterwards the Prince should appear and waken the slumberingwoman's heart in her, what a tragedy would ensue. I can imagine theirplacid existence if the Prince should not appear, and I can well believethat Irene and Stanhope would have many a tumultuous passage in thepassionate symphony of their lives. But, great heavens, is the idealmarriage a Holland!

If Marion had shed any tears overnight, say on account of a littlelonesomeness because her friend was speeding away from hersouthward, there were no traces of them when she met her uncle at thebreakfast-table, as bright and chatty as usual, and in as high spiritsas one can maintain with the Rodick coffee. 

What a world of shifting scenes it is! Forbes had picked up his trapsand gone off with his unreasonable companion like a soldier. The dayafter, when he looked out of the window of his sleeping-compartment athalf-past four, he saw the red sky of morning, and against it the spiresof Philadelphia. 

At ten o'clock the two friends were breakfasting comfortably in the car, and running along down the Cumberland Valley. What a contrast was thisrich country, warm with color and suggestive of abundance, to the paleand scrimped coast land of Maine denuded of its trees! By afternoon theywere far down the east valley of the Shenandoah, between the Blue Ridgeand the Massanutten range, in a country broken, picturesque, fertile, soattractive that they wondered there were so few villages on the route, and only now and then a cheap shanty in sight; and crossing the divideto the waters of the James, at sundown, in the midst of a splendideffect of mountains and clouds in a thunderstorm, they came to NaturalBridge station, where a coach awaited them. 

This was old ground to King, who had been telling the artist that thetwo natural objects east of the Rocky Mountains that he thought entitledto the epithet "sublime" were Niagara Falls and the Natural Bridge; andas for scenery, he did not know of any more noble and refined than thisregion of the Blue Ridge. Take away the Bridge altogether, which is amere freak, and the place would still possess, he said, a charm unique. Since the enlargement of hotel facilities and the conversion of thisprincely domain into a grand park, it has become a favorite summerresort. The gorge of the Bridge is a botanical storehouse, greatervariety of evergreens cannot be found together anywhere else in thecountry, and the hills are still clad with stately forests. In openingdrives, and cutting roads and vistas to give views, the proprietorhas shown a skill and taste in dealing with natural resources, both inregard to form and the development of contrasts of color in foliage, which are rare in landscape gardening on this side of the Atlantic. Hereis the highest part of the Blue Ridge, and from the gentle summitof Mount Jefferson the spectator has in view a hundred miles of thisremarkable range, this ribbed mountain structure, which always wears amantle of beauty, changeable purple and violet. 

After supper there was an illumination of the cascade, and the ancientgnarled arbor-vita: trees that lean over it-perhaps the largest knownspecimens of this species-of the gorge and the Bridge. Nature is apt tobe belittled by this sort of display, but the noble dignity of the vastarch of stone was superior to this trifling, and even had a sort ofmystery added to its imposing grandeur. It is true that the flamingbonfires and the colored lights and the tiny figures of men and womenstanding in the gorge within the depth of the arch made the scenetheatrical, but it was strange and weird and awful, like the fantasy ofa Walpurgis' Night or a midnight revel in Faust. 

The presence of the colored brother in force distinguished this fromprovincial resorts at the North, even those that employ this color asservants. The flavor of Old Virginia is unmistakable, and life dropsinto an easy-going pace under this influence. What fine manners, to besure! The waiters in the diningroom, in white ties and dress-coats, move on springs, starting even to walk with a complicated use of all themuscles of the body, as if in response to the twang of a banjo; theydo nothing without excessive motion and flourish. The gestures andgood-humored vitality expended in changing plates would become theleader of an orchestra. Many of them, besides, have the expressionof class-leaders--of a worldly sort. There were the aristocraticchambermaid and porter, who had the air of never having waited on anybut the first families. And what clever flatterers and readers of humannature! They can tell in a moment whether a man will be complimented bythe remark, "I tuk you for a Richmond gemman, never shod have know'dyou was from de Norf, " or whether it is best to say, "We depen's on degemmen frum de Norf; folks down hyer never gives noflin; is too pore. "But to a Richmond man it is always, "The Yankee is mighty keerful ofhis money; we depen's on the old sort, marse. " A fine specimen of the"Richmond darkey" of the old school-polite, flattering, with a venerablehead of gray wool, was the bartender, who mixed his juleps with aflourish as if keeping time to music. "Haven't I waited on you befo', sah? At Capon Springs? Sorry, sah, but tho't I knowed you when you comein. Sorry, but glad to know you now, sah. If that julep don't suit you, sah, throw it in my face. "

A friendly, restful, family sort of place, with music, a little milddancing, mostly performed by children, in the pavilion, driving andriding-in short, peace in the midst of noble scenery. No display offashion, the artist soon discovered, and he said he longed to givethe pretty girls some instruction in the art of dress. Forbes was amissionary of "style. " It hurt his sense of the fitness of things to seewomen without it. He used to say that an ill-dressed woman would spoilthe finest landscape. For such a man, with an artistic feeling sosensitive, the White Sulphur Springs is a natural goal. And he and hisfriend hastened thither with as much speed as the Virginia railways, whose time-tables are carefully adjusted to miss all connections, permit. 

"What do you think of a place, " he wrote Miss Lamont--the girl read mea portion of his lively letter that summer at Saratoga--"into whichyou come by a belated train at half-past eleven at night, find friendswaiting up for you in evening costume, are taken to a champagne supperat twelve, get to your quarters at one, and have your baggage deliveredto you at two o'clock in the morning?" The friends were lodged in"Paradise Row"--a whimsical name given to one of the quarters assignedto single gentlemen. Put into these single-room barracks, which wereneat but exceedingly primitive in their accommodations, by hilariousnegro attendants who appeared to regard life as one prolonged lark, andwho avowed that there was no time of day or night when a mint-julepor any other necessary of life would not be forthcoming at a moment'swarning, the beginning of their sojourn at "The White" took on an airof adventure, and the two strangers had the impression of having droppedinto a garrison somewhere on the frontier. But when King stepped outupon the gallery, in the fresh summer morning, the scene that met hiseyes was one of such peaceful dignity, and so different from any inhis experience, that he was aware that he had come upon an originaldevelopment of watering-place life. 

The White Sulphur has been for the better part of a century, aseverybody knows, the typical Southern resort, the rendezvous of allthat was most characteristic in the society of the whole South, themeeting-place of its politicians, the haunt of its belles, the arena ofgayety, intrigue, and fashion. If tradition is to be believed, herein years gone by were concocted the measures that were subsequentlydeployed for the government of the country at Washington, here historicmatches were made, here beauty had triumphs that were the talk of ageneration, here hearts were broken at a ball and mended in Lovers'Walk, and here fortunes were nightly lost and won. It must have been inits material conditions a primitive place in the days of its greatestfame. Visitors came to it in their carriages and unwieldy four-horsechariots, attended by troops of servants, making slow but most enjoyablepilgrimages over the mountain roads, journeys that lasted a week or afortnight, and were every day enlivened by jovial adventure. Theycame for the season. They were all of one social order, and needed nointroduction; those from Virginia were all related to each other, andthough life there was somewhat in the nature of a picnic, it had itsvery well-defined and ceremonious code of etiquette. In the memory ofits old habitues it was at once the freest and the most aristocraticassembly in the world. The hotel was small and its arrangementsprimitive; a good many of the visitors had their own cottages, and therows of these cheap structures took their names from their occupants. The Southern presidents, the senators, and statesmen, the rich planters, lived in cottages which still have an historic interest in their memory. But cottage life was never the exclusive affair that it is elsewhere;the society was one body, and the hotel was the centre. 

Time has greatly changed the White Sulphur; doubtless in its physicalaspect it never was so beautiful and attractive as it is today, but allthe modern improvements have not destroyed the character of theresort, which possesses a great many of its primitive and old-timepeculiarities. Briefly the White is an elevated and charming mountainregion, so cool, in fact, especially at night, that the "season" ispractically limited to July and August, although I am not sure but aquiet person, who likes invigorating air, and has no daughters to marryoff, would find it equally attractive in September and October, whenthe autumn foliage is in its glory. In a green rolling interval, plantedwith noble trees and flanked by moderate hills, stands the vast whitecaravansary, having wide galleries and big pillars running round threesides. The front and two sides are elevated, the galleries beingreached by flights of steps, and affording room underneath for the largebilliard and bar-rooms. From the hotel the ground slopes down to thespring, which is surmounted by a round canopy on white columns, andbelow is an opening across the stream to the race-track, the servants'quarters, and a fine view of receding hills. Three sides of thischarming park are enclosed by the cottages and cabins, which backagainst the hills, and are more or less embowered in trees. Most ofthese cottages are built in blocks and rows, some single rooms, otherslarge enough to accommodate a family, but all reached by flights ofsteps, all with verandas, and most of them connected by galleries. Occasionally the forest trees have been left, and the galleriesbuilt around them. Included in the premises are two churches, agambling-house, a couple of country stores, and a post-office. Thereare none of the shops common at watering-places for the sale offancy articles, and, strange to say, flowers are not systematicallycultivated, and very few are ever to be had. The hotel has a vastdining-room, besides the minor eating-rooms for children and nurses, a large ballroom, and a drawing-room of imposing dimensions. Hotel andcottages together, it is said, can lodge fifteen hundred guests. 

The natural beauty of the place is very great, and fortunately there isnot much smart and fantastic architecture to interfere with it. I cannotsay whether the knowledge that Irene was in one of the cottages affectedKing's judgment, but that morning, when he strolled to the upper part ofthe grounds before breakfast, he thought he had never beheld a scene ofmore beauty and dignity, as he looked over the mass of hotel buildings, upon the park set with a wonderful variety of dark green foliage, uponthe elevated rows of galleried cottages marked by colonial simplicity, and the soft contour of the hills, which satisfy the eye in theirdelicate blending of every shade of green and brown. And after anacquaintance of a couple of weeks the place seemed to him ravishinglybeautiful. 

King was always raving about the White Sulphur after he came North, andone never could tell how much his judgment was colored by his peculiarexperiences there. It was my impression that if he had spent those twoweeks on a barren rock in the ocean, with only one fair spirit for hisminister, he would have sworn that it was the most lovely spot on theface of the earth. He always declared that it was the most friendly, cordial society at this resort in the country. At breakfast he knewscarcely any one in the vast dining-room, except the New Orleansand Richmond friends with whom he had a seat at table. But theiracquaintance sufficed to establish his position. Before dinner-time heknew half a hundred; in the evening his introductions had run upinto the hundreds, and he felt that he had potential friends in everySouthern city; and before the week was over there was not one of thethousand guests he did not know or might not know. At his table he heardIrene spoken of and her beauty commented on. Two or three days hadbeen enough to give her a reputation in a society that is exceedinglysensitive to beauty. The men were all ready to do her homage, and thewomen took her into favor as soon as they saw that Mr. Meigs, whosesocial position was perfectly well known, was of her party. The societyof the White Sulphur seems perfectly easy of access, but the ineligiblewill find that it is able, like that of Washington, to protect itself. It was not without a little shock that King heard the good points, thestyle, the physical perfections, of Irene so fully commented on, andnot without some alarm that he heard predicted for her a very successfulcareer as a belle. 

Coming out from breakfast, the Benson party were encountered on thegallery, and introductions followed. It was a trying five minutes forKing, who felt as guilty, as if the White Sulphur were private propertyinto which he had intruded without an invitation. There was in thecivility of Mr. Meigs no sign of an invitation. Mrs. Benson said she wasnever so surprised in her life, and the surprise seemed not exactlyan agreeable one, but Mr. Benson looked a great deal more pleased thanastonished. The slight flush in Irene's face as she greeted him mighthave been wholly due to the unexpectedness of the meeting. Some of thegentlemen lounged off to the office region for politics and cigars, theelderly ladies took seats upon the gallery, and the rest of the partystrolled down to the benches under the trees. 

"So Miss Benson was expecting you!" said Mrs. Farquhar, who was walkingwith King. It is enough to mention Mrs. Farquhar's name to an habitue ofthe Springs. It is not so many years ago since she was a reigning belle, and as noted for her wit and sparkling raillery as for her beauty. Shewas still a very handsome woman, whose original cleverness had beencultivated by a considerable experience of social life in this countryas well as in London and Paris. 

"Was she? I'm sure I never told her I was coming here. "

"No, simple man. You were with her at Bar Harbor, and I suppose shenever mentioned to you that she was coming here?"

"But why did you think she expected me?"

"You men are too aggravatingly stupid. I never saw astonishment betterfeigned. I dare say it imposed upon that other admirer of hers also. Well, I like her, and I'm going to be good to her. " This meant a gooddeal. Mrs. Farquhar was related to everybody in Virginia--that is, everybody who was anybody before the war--and she could count atthat moment seventy-five cousins, some of them first and some of themdouble-first cousins, at the White Sulphur. Mrs. Farquhar's remark meantthat all these cousins and all their friends the South over would standby Miss Benson socially from that moment. 

The morning german had just begun in the ballroom. The gallery wasthronged with spectators, clustering like bees about the large windows, and the notes of the band came floating out over the lawn, bringingto the groups there the lulling impression that life is all a summerholiday. 

"And they say she is from Ohio. It is right odd, isn't it? but two orthree of the prettiest women here are from that State. There is Mrs. Martin, sweet as a jacqueminot. I'd introduce you if her husband werehere. Ohio! Well, we get used to it. I should have known the father andmother were corn-fed. I suppose you prefer the corn-feds to the Confeds. But there's homespun and homespun. You see those under the trees yonder?Georgia homespun! Perhaps you don't see the difference. I do. "

"I suppose you mean provincial. "

"Oh, dear, no. I'm provincial. It is the most difficult thing to be inthese leveling days. But I am not going to interest you in myself. I amtoo unselfish. Your Miss Benson is a fine girl, and it does not matterabout her parents. Since you Yankees upset everything by the war, it isreally of no importance who one's mother is. But, mind, this is not myopinion. I'm trying to adjust myself. You have no idea how reconstructedI am. "

And with this Mrs. Farquhar went over to Miss Benson, and chatted fora few moments, making herself particularly agreeable to Mr. Meigs, andactually carried that gentleman off to the spring, and then as an escortto her cottage, shaking her fan as she went away at Mr. King and Irene, and saying, "It is a waste of time for you youngsters not to be in thegerman. "

The german was just ended, and the participants were grouping themselveson the gallery to be photographed, the usual custom for perpetuating thememory of these exercises, which only take place every other morning. And since something must be done, as there are only six nights fordancing in the week, on the off mornings there are champagne and fruitparties on the lawn. 

It was not about the german, however, that King was thinking. He wasonce more beside the woman he loved, and all the influences of summerand the very spirit of this resort were in his favor. If I cannot winher here, he was saying to himself, the Meigs is in it. They talkedabout the journey, about Luray, where she had been, and about theBridge, and the abnormal gayety of the Springs. 

"The people are all so friendly, " she said, "and strive so much to putthe stranger at his ease, and putting themselves out lest time hangheavy on one's hands. They seem somehow responsible. "

"Yes, " said King, "the place is unique in that respect. I suppose itis partly owing to the concentration of the company in and around thehotel. "

"But the sole object appears to me to be agreeable, and make a realsocial life. At other like places nobody seems to care what becomes ofanybody else. "

"Doubtless the cordiality and good feeling are spontaneous, thoughsomething is due to manner, and a habit of expressing the feeling thatarises. Still, I do not expect to find any watering-place a paradise. This must be vastly different from any other if it is not full ofcliques and gossip and envy underneath. But we do not go to a summerresort to philosophize. A market is a market, you know. "

"I don't know anything about markets, and this cordiality may all beon the surface, but it makes life very agreeable, and I wish ourNortherners would catch the Southern habit of showing sympathy where itexists. "

"Well, I'm free to say that I like the place, and all its easy-goingways, and I have to thank you for a new experience. "

"Me? Why so?"

"Oh, I wouldn't have come if it had not been for your suggestion--I meanfor your--your saying that you were coming here reminded me that it wasa place I ought to see. "

"I'm glad to have served you as a guide-book. "

"And I hope you are not sorry that I--"

At this moment Mrs. Benson and Mr. Meigs came down with the announcementof the dinner hour, and the latter marched off with the ladies with a"one-of-the-family" air. 

The party did not meet again till evening in the great drawing-room. Thebusiness at the White Sulphur is pleasure. And this is about the orderof proceedings: A few conscientious people take an early glass at thespring, and later patronize the baths, and there is a crowd at thepost-office; a late breakfast; lounging and gossip on the galleries andin the parlor; politics and old-fogy talk in the reading-room and in thepiazza corners; flirtation on the lawn; a german every other morningat eleven; wine-parties under the trees; morning calls at the cottages;servants running hither and thither with cooling drinks; the bar-roomnot absolutely deserted and cheerless at any hour, day or night; dinnerfrom two to four; occasionally a riding-party; some driving; thoughthere were charming drives in every direction, few private carriages, and no display of turn-outs; strolls in Lovers' Walk and in the prettyhill paths; supper at eight, and then the full-dress assembly in thedrawing-room, and a "walk around" while the children have their hour inthe ballroom; the nightly dance, witnessed by a crowd on the veranda, followed frequently by a private german and a supper given by somelover of his kind, lasting till all hours in the morning; and whilethe majority of the vast encampment reposes in slumber, some resolutespirits are fighting the tiger, and a light gleaming from one cottageand another shows where devotees of science are backing their opinionof the relative value of chance bits of pasteboard, in certaincombinations, with a liberality and faith for which the world givesthem no credit. And lest their life should become monotonous, theenterprising young men are continually organizing entertainments, mockraces, comical games. The idea seems to prevail that a summer resortought to be a place of enjoyment. 

The White Sulphur is the only watering-place remaining in the UnitedStates where there is what may be called an "assembly, " such as mightformerly be seen at Saratoga or at Ballston Spa in Irving's young days. Everybody is in the drawing-room in the evening, and although, in thefreedom of the place, full dress is not exacted, the habit of parade infull toilet prevails. When King entered the room the scene might wellbe called brilliant, and even bewildering, so that in the maze ofbeauty and the babble of talk he was glad to obtain the services of Mrs. Farquhar as cicerone. Between the rim of people near the walls and theelliptical centre was an open space for promenading, and in this beautyand its attendant cavalier went round and round in unending show. This is called the "tread-mill. " But for the seriousness of this frankdisplay, and the unflagging interest of the spectators, there would havebeen an element of high comedy in it. It was an education to join a wallgroup and hear the free and critical comments on the style, the dress, the physical perfection, of the charming procession. When Mrs. Farquharand King had taken a turn or two, they stood on one side to enjoy thescene. 

"Did you ever see so many pretty girls together before? If you did, don't you dare say so. "

"But at the North the pretty women are scattered in a thousandplaces. You have here the whole South to draw on. Are they elected asrepresentatives from the various districts, Mrs. Farquhar?"

"Certainly. By an election that your clumsy device of the ballot is notequal to. Why shouldn't beauty have a reputation? You see that old ladyin the corner? Well, forty years ago the Springs just raved over her;everybody in the South knew her; I suppose she had an average of sevenproposals a week; the young men went wild about her, followed her, toasted her, and fought duels for her possession--you don't likeduels?--why, she was engaged to three men at one time, and after all shewent off with a worthless fellow. "

"That seems to me rather a melancholy history. "

"Well, she is a most charming old lady; just as entertaining! I mustintroduce you. But this is history. Now look! There's the belle ofMobile, that tall, stately brunette. And that superb figure, youwouldn't guess she is the belle of Selma. There is a fascinating girl. What a mixture of languor and vivacity! Creole, you know; full blood. She is the belle of New Orleans--or one of them. Oh! do you see thatParis dress? I must look at it again when it comes around; she carriesit well, too--belle of Richmond. And, see there; there's one ofthe prettiest girls in the South--belle of Macon. And that handsomewoman--Nashville?--Louisville? See, that's the new-comer from Ohio. "And so the procession went on, and the enumeration--belle of Montgomery, belle of Augusta, belle of Charleston, belle of Savannah, belle ofAtlanta--always the belle of some place. 

"No, I don't expect you to say that these are prettier than Northernwomen; but just between friends, Mr. King, don't you think the Northmight make a little more of their beautiful women? Yes, you are right;she is handsome" (King was bowing to Irene, who was on the arm of Mr. Meigs), "and has something besides beauty. I see what you mean" (Kinghad not intimated that he meant anything), "but don't you dare to sayit. "

"Oh, I'm quite subdued. "

"I wouldn't trust you. I suppose you Yankees cannot help your criticalspirit. "

"Critical? Why, I've heard more criticism in the last half-hour fromthese spectators than in a year before. And--I wonder if you will let mesay it?"

"Say on. "

"Seems to me that the chief topic here is physical beauty--about theshape, the style, the dress, of women, and whether this or that one iswell made and handsome. "

"Well, suppose beauty is worshiped in the South--we worship what wehave; we haven't much money now, you know. Would you mind my saying thatMr. Meigs is a very presentable man?"

"You may say what you like about Mr. Meigs. "

"That's the reason I took him away this morning. "

"Thank you. "

"He is full of information, and so unobtrusive--"

"I hadn't noticed that. "

"And I think he ought to be encouraged. I'll tell you what you ought todo, Mr. King: you ought to give a german. If you do not, I shall put Mr. Meigs up to it--it is the thing to do here. "

"Mr. Meigs give a german!"--[Dance, cotillion--always lively. D. W. ]

"Why not? You see that old beau there, the one smiling and bendingtowards her as he walks with the belle of Macon? He does not look anyolder than Mr. Meigs. He has been coming here for fifty years; he ownsup to sixty-five and the Mexican war; it's my firm belief that he wasout in 1812. Well, he has led the german here for years. You will findColonel Fane in the ballroom every night. Yes, I shall speak to Mr. Meigs. "

The room was thinning out. King found himself in front of a row ofdowagers, whose tongues were still going about the departing beauties. "No mercy there, " he heard a lady say to her companion; "that's ajury for conviction every time. " What confidential communication Mrs. Farquhar made to Mr. Meigs, King never knew, but he took advantage ofthe diversion in his favor to lead Miss Benson off to the ballroom. 

IX. OLD SWEET AND WHITE SULFUR

The days went by at the White Sulphur on the wings of incessant gayety. Literally the nights were filled with music, and the only cares thatinfested the day appeared in the anxious faces of the mothers as thecampaign became more intricate and uncertain. King watched this with thedouble interest of spectator and player. The artist threw himself intothe melee with abandon, and pacified his conscience by an occasionalletter to Miss Lamont, in which he confessed just as many of hisconquests and defeats as he thought it would be good for her to know. 

The colored people, who are a conspicuous part of the establishment, are a source of never-failing interest and amusement. Every morning themammies and nurses with their charges were seated in a long, shiningrow on a part of the veranda where there was most passing and repassing, holding a sort of baby show, the social consequence of each onedepending upon the rank of the family who employed her, and the dressof the children in her charge. High-toned conversation on these topicsoccupied these dignified and faithful mammies, upon whom seemed to restto a considerable extent the maintenance of the aristocratic socialtraditions. Forbes had heard that while the colored people of the Southhad suspended several of the ten commandments, the eighth was especiallyregarded as nonapplicable in the present state of society. But he wascompelled to revise this opinion as to the White Sulphur. Nobody everlocked a door or closed a window. Cottages most remote were left forhours open and without guard, miscellaneous articles of the toilet wereleft about, trunks were not locked, waiters, chambermaids, porters, washerwomen, were constantly coming and going, having access to therooms at all hours, and yet no guest ever lost so much as a hairpin or acigar. This fashion of trust and of honesty so impressed the artist thathe said he should make an attempt to have it introduced elsewhere. Thissort of esprit de corps among the colored people was unexpected, andhe wondered if they are not generally misunderstood by writers whoattribute to them qualities of various kinds that they do not possess. The negro is not witty or consciously humorous, or epigrammatic. Thehumor of his actions and sayings lies very much in a certain primitivesimplicity. Forbes couldn't tell, for instance, why he was amused at aremark he heard one morning in the store. A colored girl sauntered in, looking about vacantly. "You ain't got no cotton, is you?" "Why, ofcourse we have cotton. " "Well" (the girl only wanted an excuse to saysomething), "I only ast, is you?"

Sports of a colonial and old English flavor that have fallen into disuseelsewhere varied the life at the White. One day the gentlemen rode ina mule-race, the slowest mule to win, and this feat was followed by anexhibition of negro agility in climbing the greased pole and catchingthe greased pig; another day the cavaliers contended on the green fieldsurrounded by a brilliant array of beauty and costume, as two Amazonbaseball nines, the one nine arrayed in yellow cambric frocks andsun-bonnets, and the other in bright red gowns--the whiskers and bigboots and trousers adding nothing whatever to the illusion of the femalebattle. 

The two tables, King's and the Benson's, united in an expedition to theOld Sweet, a drive of eighteen miles. Mrs. Farquhar arranged the affair, and assigned the seats in the carriages. It is a very picturesque drive, as are all the drives in this region, and if King did not enjoy it, itwas not because Mrs. Farquhar was not even more entertaining than usual. The truth is that a young man in love is poor company for himself andfor everybody else. Even the object of his passion could not toleratehim unless she returned it. Irene and Mr. Meigs rode in the carriagein advance of his, and King thought the scenery about the tamest he hadever seen, the roads bad, the horses slow. His ill-humor, however, wasconcentrated on one spot; that was Mr. Meigs's back; he thought he hadnever seen a more disagreeable back, a more conceited back. It ought tohave been a delightful day; in his imagination it was to be an eventfulday. Indeed, why shouldn't the opportunity come at the Old Sweet, atthe end of the drive?--there was something promising in the name. Mrs. Farquhar was in a mocking mood all the way. She liked to go to the OldSweet, she said, because it was so intolerably dull; it was a sensation. She thought, too, that it might please Miss Benson, there was such afitness in the thing--the old sweet to the Old Sweet. "And he is not sovery old either, " she added; "just the age young girls like. I shouldthink Miss Benson in danger--seriously, now--if she were three or fouryears younger. "

The Old Sweet is, in fact, a delightful old-fashioned resort, respectable and dull, with a pretty park, and a crystal pond thatstimulates the bather like a glass of champagne, and perhaps has theproperty of restoring youth. King tried the spring, which he heard Mrs. Farquhar soberly commending to Mr. Meigs; and after dinner he manoeuvredfor a half-hour alone with Irene. But the fates and the women wereagainst him. He had the mortification to see her stroll away withMr. Meigs to a distant part of the grounds, where they remained inconfidential discourse until it was time to return. 

In the rearrangement of seats Mrs. Farquhar exchanged with Irene. Mrs. Farquhar said that it was very much like going to a funeral each way. Asfor Irene, she was in high, even feverish spirits, and rattled away ina manner that convinced King that she was almost too happy to containherself. 

Notwithstanding the general chaff, the singing, and the gayety of Irene, the drive seemed to him intolerably long. At the half-way house, wherein the moonlight the horses drank from a shallow stream, Mr. Meigs cameforward to the carriage and inquired if Miss Benson was sufficientlyprotected against the chilliness of the night. King had an impulse tooffer to change seats with him; but no, he would not surrender in theface of the enemy. It would be more dignified to quietly leave theSprings the next day. 

It was late at night when the party returned. The carriage drove to theBenson cottage; King helped Irene to alight, coolly bade her good-night, and went to his barracks. But it was not a good night to sleep. Hetossed about, he counted every step of the late night birds on hisgallery; he got up and lighted a cigar, and tried dispassionately tothink the matter over. But thinking was of no use. He took pen andpaper; he would write a chill letter of farewell; he would write a manlyavowal of his passion; he would make such an appeal that no woman couldresist it. She must know, she did know--what was the use of writing? Hesat staring at the blank prospect. Great heavens! what would becomeof his life if he lost the only woman in the world? Probably the worldwould go on much the same. Why, listen to it! The band was playing onthe lawn at four o'clock in the morning. A party was breaking up aftera night of german and a supper, and the revelers were dispersing. Thelively tunes of "Dixie, " "Marching through Georgia, " and "Home, SweetHome, " awoke the echoes in all the galleries and corridors, andfilled the whole encampment with a sad gayety. Dawn was approaching. Good-nights and farewells and laughter were heard, and the voice of awanderer explaining to the trees, with more or less broken melody, hisfixed purpose not to go home till morning. 

Stanhope King might have had a better though still a sleepless night ifhe had known that Mr. Meigs was packing his trunks at that hour to thetune of "Home, Sweet Home, " and if he had been aware of the scene at theBenson cottage after he bade Irene good-night. Mrs. Benson had a lightburning, and the noise of the carriage awakened her. Irene entered theroom, saw that her mother was awake, shut the door carefully, sat downon the foot of the bed, said, "It's all over, mother, " and burst intothe tears of a long-repressed nervous excitement. 

"What's over, child?" cried Mrs. Benson, sitting bolt-upright in bed. 

"Mr. Meigs. I had to tell him that it couldn't be. And he is one of thebest men I ever knew. "

"You don't tell me you've gone and refused him, Irene?"

"Please don't scold me. It was no use. He ought to have seen that I didnot care for him, except as a friend. I'm so sorry!"

"You are the strangest girl I ever saw. " And Mrs. Benson dropped back onthe pillow again, crying herself now, and muttering, "I'm sure I don'tknow what you do want. "

When King came out to breakfast he encountered Mr. Benson, who toldhim that their friend Mr. Meigs had gone off that morning--had a suddenbusiness call to Boston. Mr. Benson did not seem to be depressed aboutit. Irene did not appear, and King idled away the hours with his equallyindustrious companion under the trees. There was no german that morning, and the hotel band was going through its repertoire for the benefit ofa champagne party on the lawn. There was nothing melancholy about thisparty; and King couldn't help saying to Mrs. Farquhar that it hardlyrepresented his idea of the destitution and depression resulting fromthe war; but she replied that they must do something to keep up theirspirits. 

"And I think, " said the artist, who had been watching, from the littledistance at which they sat, the table of the revelers, "that they willsucceed. Twenty-six bottles of champagne, and not many more guests! Whata happy people, to be able to enjoy champagne before twelve o'clock!"

"Oh, you never will understand us!" said Mrs. Farquhar; "there isnothing spontaneous in you. "

"We do not begin to be spontaneous till after dinner, " said King. 

"And then it is all calculated. Think of Mr. Forbes counting thebottles! Such a dreadfully mercenary spirit! Oh, I have been North. Because you are not so open as we are, you set up for being morevirtuous. "

"And you mean, " said King, "that frankness and impulse cover a multitudeof--"

"I don't mean anything of the sort. I just mean that conventionalityisn't virtue. You yourself confessed that you like the Southern opennessright much, and you like to come here, and you like the Southern peopleas they are at home. "

"Well?"

"And now will you tell me, Mr. Prim, why it is that almost all Northernpeople who come South to live become more Southern than the Southernersthemselves; and that almost all Southern people who go North to liveremain just as Southern as ever?"

"No. Nor do I understand any more than Dr. Johnson did why the Scotch, who couldn't scratch a living at home, and came up to London, alwayskept on bragging about their native land and abused the metropolis. "

This sort of sparring went on daily, with the result of increasingfriendship between the representatives of the two geographical sections, and commonly ended with the declaration on Mrs. Farquhar's part thatshe should never know that King was not born in the South except forhis accent; and on his part that if Mrs. Farquhar would conceal herdelightful Virginia inflection she would pass everywhere at the Northfor a Northern woman. 

"I hear, " she said, later, as they sat alone, "that Mr. Meigs has beat aretreat, saving nothing but his personal baggage. I think Miss Bensonis a great goose. Such a chance for an establishment and a position! Youdidn't half appreciate him. "

"I'm afraid I did not. "

"Well, it is none of my business; but I hope you understand theresponsibility of the situation. If you do not, I want to warn you aboutone thing: don't go strolling off before sunset in the Lovers' Walk. Itis the most dangerous place. It is a fatal place. I suppose every turnin it, every tree that has a knoll at the foot where two persons cansit, has witnessed a tragedy, or, what is worse, a comedy. There arelegends enough about it to fill a book. Maybe there is not a Southernwoman living who has not been engaged there once at least. I'll tell youa little story for a warning. Some years ago there was a famous bellehere who had the Springs at her feet, and half a dozen determinedsuitors. One of them, who had been unable to make the least impressionon her heart, resolved to win her by a stratagem. Walking one eveningon the hill with her, the two stopped just at a turn in the walk--Ican show you the exact spot, with a chaperon--and he fell into earnestdiscourse with her. She was as cool and repellant as usual. Just thenhe heard a party approaching; his chance had come. The moment the partycame in sight he suddenly kissed her. Everybody saw it. The witnessesdiscreetly turned back. The girl was indignant. But the deed was done. In half an hour the whole Springs would know it. She was compromised. No explanations could do away with the fact that she had been kissed inLovers' Walk. But the girl was game, and that evening the engagement wasannounced in the drawing-room. Isn't that a pretty story?"

However much Stanhope might have been alarmed at this recital, hebetrayed nothing of his fear that evening when, after walking to thespring with Irene, the two sauntered along and unconsciously, as itseemed, turned up the hill into that winding path which has been troddenby generations of lovers with loitering steps--steps easy to take andso hard to retrace! It is a delightful forest, the walk winding abouton the edge of the hill, and giving charming prospects of intervales, stream, and mountains. To one in the mood for a quiet hour with nature, no scene could be more attractive. 

The couple walked on, attempting little conversation, both apparentlyprepossessed and constrained. The sunset was spoken of, and when Ireneat length suggested turning back, that was declared to be King's objectin ascending the hill to a particular point; but whether either of themsaw the sunset, or would have known it from a sunrise, I cannot say. Thedrive to the Old Sweet was pleasant. Yes, but rather tiresome. Mr. Meigshad gone away suddenly. Yes; Irene was sorry his business should havecalled him away. Was she very sorry? She wouldn't lie awake at nightover it, but he was a good friend. The time passed very quickly here. Yes; one couldn't tell how it went; the days just melted away; the twoweeks seemed like a day. They were going away the next day. King said hewas going also. 

"And, " he added, as if with an effort, "when the season is over, MissBenson, I am going to settle down to work. "

"I'm glad of that, " she said, turning upon him a face glowing withapproval. 

"Yes, I have arranged to go on with practice in my uncle's office. Iremember what you said about a dilettante life. "

"Why, I never said anything of the kind. "

"But you looked it. It is all the same. "

They had come to the crown of the hill, and stood looking over theintervales to the purple mountains. Irene was deeply occupied in tyingup with grass a bunch of wild flowers. Suddenly he seized her hand. 

"Irene!"

"No, no, " she cried, turning away. The flowers dropped from her hand. 

"You must listen, Irene. I love you--I love you. "

She turned her face towards him; her lips trembled; her eyes were fullof tears; there was a great look of wonder and tenderness in her face. 

"Is it all true?"

She was in his arms. He kissed her hair, her eyes--ah me! it is the oldstory. It had always been true. He loved her from the first, at FortressMonroe, every minute since. And she--well, perhaps she could learn tolove him in time, if he was very good; yes, maybe she had loved hima little at Fortress Monroe. How could he? what was there in her toattract him? What a wonder it was that she could tolerate him! Whatcould she see in him?

So this impossible thing, this miracle, was explained? No, indeed!It had to be inquired into and explained over and over again, thisabsolutely new experience of two people loving each other. 

She could speak now of herself, of her doubt that he could know his ownheart and be stronger than the social traditions, and would not mind, asshe thought he did at Newport--just a little bit--the opinions of otherpeople. I do not by any means imply that she said all this bluntly, orthat she took at all the tone of apology; but she contrived, as a womancan without saying much, to let him see why she had distrusted, not thesincerity, but the perseverance of his love. There would never be anymore doubt now. What a wonder it all is. 

The two parted--alas! alas! till supper-time!

I don't know why scoffers make so light of these partings--at the footof the main stairs of the hotel gallery, just as Mrs. Farquhar wasdescending. Irene's face was radiant as she ran away from Mrs. Farquhar. 

"Bless you, my children! I see my warning was in vain, Mr. King. It isa fatal walk. It always was in our family. Oh, youth! youth!" A shade ofmelancholy came over her charming face as she turned alone towards thespring. 

X. LONG BRANCH, OCEAN GROVE

Mrs. Farquhar, Colonel Fane, and a great many of their first and secondcousins were at the station the morning the Bensons and King andForbes departed for the North. The gallant colonel was foremost in hisexpressions of regret, and if he had been the proprietor of Virginia, and of the entire South added thereto, and had been anxious to closeout the whole lot on favorable terms to the purchaser, he would nothave exhibited greater solicitude as to the impression the visitors hadreceived. This solicitude was, however, wholly in his manner--and it isthe traditional-manner that has nearly passed away--for underneath allthis humility it was plain to be seen that the South had conferred agreat favor, sir, upon these persons by a recognition of their merits. 

"I am not come to give you good-by, but au revoir, " said Mrs. Farquharto Stanhope and Irene, who were standing apart. "I hate to go Northin the summer, it is so hot and crowded and snobbish, but I dare say Ishall meet you somewhere, for I confess I don't like to lose sight of somuch happiness. No, no, Miss Benson, you need not thank me, even with ablush; I am not responsible for this state of things. I did all I couldto warn you, and I tell you now that my sympathy is with Mr. Meigs, who never did either of you any harm, and I think has been very badlytreated. "

"I don't know any one, Mrs. Farquhar, who is so capable of repairing hisinjuries as yourself, " said King. 

"Thank you; I'm not used to such delicate elephantine compliments. Itis just like a man, Miss Benson, to try to kill two birds with onestone--get rid of a rival by sacrificing a useless friend. All the same, au revoir. "

"We shall be glad to see you, " replied Irene, "you know that, whereverwe are; and we will try to make the North tolerable for you. "

"Oh, I shall hide my pride and go. If you were not all so rich up there!Not that I object to wealth; I enjoy it. I think I shall take to thatold prayer: 'May my lot be with the rich in this world, and with theSouth in the next!'"

I suppose there never was such a journey as that from the White Sulphurto New York. If the Virginia scenery had seemed to King beautiful whenhe came down, it was now transcendently lovely. He raved about it, whenI saw him afterwards--the Blue Ridge, the wheat valleys, the commercialadvantages, the mineral resources of the State, the grand oldtraditional Heaven knows what of the Old Dominion; as to details he wasobscure, and when I pinned him down, he was not certain which routethey took. It is my opinion that the most costly scenery in the world isthrown away upon a pair of newly plighted lovers. 

The rest of the party were in good spirits. Even Mrs. Benson, who wasat first a little bewildered at the failure of her admirably plannedcampaign, accepted the situation with serenity. 

"So you are engaged!" she said, when Irene went to her with the story ofthe little affair in Lovers' Walk. "I suppose he'll like it. He alwaystook a fancy to Mr. King. No, I haven't any objections, Irene, and Ihope you'll be happy. Mr. King was always very polite to me--only hedidn't never seem exactly like our folks. We only want you to be happy. "And the old lady declared with a shaky voice, and tears streaming downher cheeks, that she was perfectly happy if Irene was. 

Mr. Meigs, the refined, the fastidious, the man of the world, who hadknown how to adapt himself perfectly to Mrs. Benson, might neverthelesshave been surprised at her implication that he was "like our folks. "

At the station in Jersey City--a place suggestive of love and romanceand full of tender associations--the party separated for a few days, theBensons going to Saratoga, and King accompanying Forbes to Long Branch, in pursuance of an agreement which, not being in writing, he was unableto break. As the two friends went in the early morning down to the coastover the level salt meadows, cut by bayous and intersected by canals, they were curiously reminded both of the Venice lagoons and the plainsof the Teche; and the artist went into raptures over the colors of thelandscape, which he declared was Oriental in softness and blending. Patriotic as we are, we still turn to foreign lands for our comparisons. 

Long Branch and its adjuncts were planned for New York excursionists whoare content with the ocean and the salt air, and do not care much forthe picturesque. It can be described in a phrase: a straight line ofsandy coast with a high bank, parallel to it a driveway, and an endlessrow of hotels and cottages. Knowing what the American seaside cottageand hotel are, it is unnecessary to go to Long Branch to have anaccurate picture of it in the mind. Seen from the end of the pier, thecoast appears to be all built up--a thin, straggling city by the sea. The line of buildings is continuous for two miles, from Long Branch toElberon; midway is the West End, where our tourists were advised togo as the best post of observation, a medium point of respectabilitybetween the excursion medley of one extremity and the cottage refinementof the other, and equally convenient to the races, which attract crowdsof metropolitan betting men and betting women. The fine toilets ofthese children of fortune are not less admired than their fashionablerace-course manners. The satirist who said that Atlantic City is typicalof Philadelphia, said also that Long Branch is typical of New York. WhatMr. King said was that the satirist was not acquainted with the goodsociety of either place. 

All the summer resorts get somehow a certain character, but it is noteasy always to say how it is produced. The Long Branch region wasthe resort of politicians, and of persons of some fortune who connectpolitics with speculation. Society, which in America does not identifyitself with politics as it does in England, was not specially attractedby the newspaper notoriety of the place, although, fashion to someextent declared in favor of Elberon. 

In the morning the artist went up to the pier at the bathing hour. Thousands of men, women, and children were tossing about in the livelysurf promiscuously, revealing to the spectators such forms as Nature hadgiven them, with a modest confidence in her handiwork. It seemed to theartist, who was a student of the human figure, that many of these peoplewould not have bathed in public if Nature had made them self-conscious. All down the shore were pavilions and bath-houses, and the scene at adistance was not unlike that when the water is occupied by schools ofleaping mackerel. An excursion steamer from New York landed at thepier. The passengers were not of any recognized American type, but mixedforeign races a crowd of respectable people who take their rare holidaysrather seriously, and offer little of interest to an artist. The boatsthat arrive at night are said to bring a less respectable cargo. 

It is a pleasant walk or drive down to Elberon when there is asea-breeze, especially if there happen to be a dozen yachts in theoffing. Such elegance as this watering-place has lies in this direction;the Elberon is a refined sort of hotel, and has near it a group ofpretty cottages, not too fantastic for holiday residences, and even the"greeny-yellowy" ones do not much offend, for eccentricities of colorare toned down by the sea atmosphere. These cottages have excellentlawns set with brilliant beds of flowers; and the turf rivals that ofNewport; but without a tree or shrub anywhere along the shore the aspectis too unrelieved and photographically distinct. Here as elsewhere thecottage life is taking the place of hotel life. 

There were few handsome turn-outs on the main drive, and perhaps thepopular character of the place was indicated by the use of omnibusesinstead of carriages. For, notwithstanding Elberon and such fashion asis there gathered, Long Branch lacks "style. " After the White Sulphur, it did not seem to King alive with gayety, nor has it any society. Inthe hotel parlors there is music in the evenings, but little dancingexcept by children. Large women, offensively dressed, sit about theveranda, and give a heavy and "company" air to the drawing-rooms. No, the place is not gay. The people come here to eat, to bathe, to take theair; and these are reasons enough for being here. Upon the artist, alertfor social peculiarities, the scene made little impression, for to anartist there is a limit to the interest of a crowd showily dressed, though they blaze with diamonds. 

It was in search of something different from this that King and Forbestook the train and traveled six miles to Asbury Park and Ocean Grove. These great summer settlements are separated by a sheet of fresh waterthree-quarters of a mile long; its sloping banks are studded with prettycottages, its surface is alive with boats gay with awnings of red andblue and green, and seats of motley color, and is altogether a fairyspectacle. Asbury Park is the worldly correlative of Ocean Grove, andesteems itself a notch above it in social tone. Each is a city of smallhouses, and each is teeming with life, but Ocean Grove, whose centreis the camp-meeting tabernacle, lodges its devotees in tents as well ascottages, and copies the architecture of Oak Bluffs. The inhabitantsof the two cities meet on the two-mile-long plank promenade by the sea. Perhaps there is no place on the coast that would more astonish theforeigner than Ocean Grove, and if he should describe it faithfully hewould be unpopular with its inhabitants. He would be astonished at thecrowds at the station, the throngs in the streets, the shops and storesfor supplying the wants of the religious pilgrims, and used as he mightbe to the promiscuous bathing along our coast, he would inevitablycomment upon the freedom existing here. He would see women in theirbathing dresses, wet and clinging, walking in the streets of the town, and he would read notices posted up by the camp-meeting authoritiesforbidding women so clad to come upon the tabernacle ground. He wouldalso read placards along the beach explaining the reason why decency inbathing suits is desirable, and he would wonder why such notices shouldbe necessary. If, however, he walked along the shore at bathing times hemight be enlightened, and he would see besides a certain simplicity ofsocial life which sophisticated Europe has no parallel for. Apeculiar custom here is sand-burrowing. To lie in the warm sand, whichaccommodates itself to any position of the body, and listen to the dashof the waves, is a dreamy and delightful way of spending a summer day. The beach for miles is strewn with these sand-burrowers in groups of twoor three or half a dozen, or single figures laid out like the effigiesof Crusaders. One encounters these groups sprawling in all attitudes, and frequently asleep in their promiscuous beds. The foreigner is forcedto see all this, because it is a public exhibition. A couple in bathingsuits take a dip together in the sea, and then lie down in the sand. Theartist proposed to make a sketch of one of these primitive couples, butit was impossible to do so, because they lay in a trench which theyhad scooped in the sand two feet deep, and had hoisted an umbrella overtheir heads. The position was novel and artistic, but beyond the reachof the artist. It was a great pity, because art is never more agreeablethan when it concerns itself with domestic life. 

While this charming spectacle was exhibited at the beach, afternoonservice was going on in the tabernacle, and King sought that inpreference. The vast audience under the canopy directed its eyes to aman on the platform, who was violently gesticulating and shouting at thetop of his voice. King, fresh from the scenes of the beach, listened along time, expecting to hear some close counsel on the conduct of life, but he heard nothing except the vaguest emotional exhortation. By thisthe audience were apparently unmoved, for it was only when the preacherpaused to get his breath on some word on which he could dwell by reasonof its vowels, like w-o-r-l-d or a-n-d, that he awoke any response fromhis hearers. The spiritual exercise of prayer which followed was evenmore of a physical demonstration, and it aroused more response. Theofficiating minister, kneeling at the desk, gesticulated furiously, doubled up his fists and shook them on high, stretched out both arms, and pounded the pulpit. Among people of his own race King had neverbefore seen anything like this, and he went away a sadder if not a wiserman, having at least learned one lesson of charity--never again to speaklightly of a negro religious meeting. 

This vast city of the sea has many charms, and is the resort ofthousands of people, who find here health and repose. But King, who wasimmensely interested in it all as one phase of American summer life, wasglad that Irene was not at Ocean Grove. 

XI. SARATOGA

It was the 22d of August, and the height of the season at Saratoga. Familiar as King had been with these Springs, accustomed as the artistwas to foreign Spas, the scene was a surprise to both. They had beentold that fashion had ceased to patronize it, and that its old-timecharacter was gone. But Saratoga is too strong for the whims of fashion;its existence does not depend upon its decrees; it has reached the pointwhere it cannot be killed by the inroads of Jew or Gentile. In ceasingto be a society centre, it has become in a manner metropolitan; for theseason it is no longer a provincial village, but the meeting-place ofas mixed and heterogeneous a throng as flows into New York from all theUnion in the autumn shopping period. 

It was race week, but the sporting men did not give Saratoga theircomplexion. It was convention time, but except in the hotel corridorspoliticians were not the feature of the place. One of the great hotelswas almost exclusively occupied by the descendants of Abraham, but thetown did not at all resemble Jerusalem. Innumerable boarding-housesswarmed with city and country clergymen, who have a well-foundedimpression that the waters of the springs have a beneficent relation tothe bilious secretions of the year, but the resort had not an oppressiveair of sanctity. Nearly every prominent politician in the State and agood many from other States registered at the hotels, but no one seemedto think that the country was in danger. Hundreds of men and women werethere because they had been there every year for thirty or forty yearsback, and they have no doubt that their health absolutely requires aweek at Saratoga; yet the village has not the aspect of a sanitarium. The hotel dining-rooms and galleries were thronged with large, overdressed women who glittered with diamonds and looked uncomfortablein silks and velvets, and Broadway was gay with elegant equipages, butnobody would go to Saratoga to study the fashions. Perhaps the mostimpressive spectacle in this lowly world was the row of millionairessunning themselves every morning on the piazza of the States, solemn menin black broadcloth and white hats, who said little, but looked rich;visitors used to pass that way casually, and the townspeople regardedthem with a kind of awe, as if they were the king-pins of the wholesocial fabric; but even these magnates were only pleasing incidents inthe kaleidoscopic show. 

The first person King encountered on the piazza of the Grand Union wasnot the one he most wished to see, although it could never be otherwisethan agreeable to meet his fair cousin, Mrs. Bartlett Glow. She was ina fresh morning toilet, dainty, comme il faut, radiant, with thatunobtrusive manner of "society" which made the present surroundings, appear a trifle vulgar to King, and to his self-disgust forced upon himthe image of Mrs. Benson. 

"You here?" was his abrupt and involuntary exclamation. 

"Yes--why not?" And then she added, as if from the Newport point of viewsome explanation were necessary: "My husband thinks he must come herefor a week every year to take the waters; it's an old habit, and I findit amusing for a few days. Of course there is nobody here. Will you takeme to the spring? Yes, Congress. I'm too old to change. If I believedthe pamphlets the proprietors write about each other's springs I shouldnever go to either of them. "

Mrs. Bartlett Glow was not alone in saying that nobody was there. Therewere scores of ladies at each hotel who said the same thing, and whoaccounted for their own presence there in the way she did. And theywere not there at all in the same way they would be later at Lenox. Mrs. Pendragon, of New Orleans, who was at the United States, would have saidthe same thing, remembering the time when the Southern colony made avery distinct impression upon the social life of the place; and theAshleys, who had put up at the Congress Hall in company with anold friend, a returned foreign minister, who stuck to the oldtraditions--even the Ashleys said they were only lookers-on at thepageant. 

Paying their entrance, and passing through the turnstile in the prettypavilion gate, they stood in the Congress Spring Park. The band wasplaying in the kiosk; the dew still lay on the flowers and the greenturf; the miniature lake sparkled in the sun. It is one of the mostpleasing artificial scenes in the world; to be sure, nature set thegreat pine-trees on the hills, and made the graceful little valley, butart and exquisite taste have increased the apparent size of the smallplot of ground, and filled it with beauty. It is a gem of a place with acharacter of its own, although its prettiness suggests some foreignSpa. Groups of people, having taken the water, were strolling about thegraveled paths, sitting on the slopes overlooking the pond, or wanderingup the glen to the tiny deer park. 

"So you have been at the White Sulphur?" said Mrs. Glow. "How did youlike it?"

"Immensely. It's the only place left where there is a congregate sociallife. "

"You mean provincial life. Everybody knows everybody else. "

"Well, " King retorted, with some spirit, "it is not a place where peoplepretend not to know each other, as if their salvation depended on it. "

"Oh, I see; hospitable, frank, cordial-all that. Stanhope, do you know, I think you are a little demoralized this summer. Did you fall in lovewith a Southern belle? Who was there?"

"Well, all the South, pretty much. I didn't fall in love with all thebelles; we were there only two weeks. Oh! there was a Mrs. Farquharthere. "

"Georgiana Randolph! Georgie! How did she look? We were at MadameSequin's together, and a couple of seasons in Paris. Georgie! She wasthe handsomest, the wittiest, the most fascinating woman I ever saw. Ihope she didn't give you a turn?"

"Oh, no. But we were very good friends. She is a very handsomewoman--perhaps you would expect me to say handsome still; but that seemsa sort of treason to her mature beauty. "

"And who else?"

"Oh, the Storbes from New Orleans, the Slifers from Mobile--no end ofpeople--some from Philadelphia--and Ohio. "

"Ohio? Those Bensons!" said she, turning sharply on him. 

"Yes, those Bensons, Penelope. Why not?"

"Oh, nothing. It's a free country. I hope, Stanhope, you didn'tencourage her. You might make her very unhappy. "

"I trust not, " said King stoutly. "We are engaged. "

"Engaged!" repeated Mrs. Glow, in a tone that implied a whole world ofastonishment and improbability. 

"Yes, and you are just in time to congratulate us. There they are!" Mr. Benson, Mrs. Benson, and Irene were coming down the walk from the deerpark. King turned to meet them, but Mrs. Glow was close at his side, andapparently as pleased at seeing them again as the lover. Nothingcould be more charming than the grace and welcome she threw into hersalutations. She shook hands with Mr. Benson; she was delighted tomeet Mrs. Benson again, and gave her both her little hands; she almostembraced Irene, placed a hand on each shoulder, kissed her on the cheek, and said something in a low voice that brought the blood to the girl'sface and suffused her eyes with tenderness. 

When the party returned to the hotel the two women were walking lovinglyarm in arm, and King was following after, in the more prosaic atmosphereof Cyrusville, Ohio. The good old lady began at once to treat King asone of the family; she took his arm, and leaned heavily on it, asthey walked, and confided to him all her complaints. The White Sulphurwaters, she said, had not done her a mite of good; she didn't knowbut she'd oughter see a doctor, but he said that it warn't nothing butindigestion. Now the White Sulphur agreed with Irene better than anyother place, and I guess that I know the reason why, Mr. King, she said, with a faintly facetious smile. Meantime Mrs. Glow was talking to Ireneon the one topic that a maiden is never weary of, her lover; and soadroitly mingled praises of him with flattery of herself that the girl'sheart went out to her in entire trust. 

"She is a charming girl, " said Mrs. Glow to King, later. "She needs alittle forming, but that will be easy when she is separated from herfamily. Don't interrupt me. I like her. I don't say I like it. But ifyou will go out of your set, you might do a great deal worse. Have youwritten to your uncle and to your aunt?"

"No; I don't know why, in a matter wholly personal to myself, I shouldcall a family council. You represent the family completely, Penelope. "

"Yes. Thanks to my happening to be here. Well, I wouldn't write to themif I were you. It's no use to disturb the whole connection now. By theway, Imogene Cypher was at Newport after you left; she is more beautifulthan ever--just lovely; no other girl there had half the attention. "

"I am glad to hear it, " said King, who did not fancy the drift theirconversation was taking. "I hope she will make a good match. Brains arenot necessary, you know. "

"Stanhope, I never said that--never. I might have said she wasn't a basbleu. No more is she. But she has beauty, and a good temper, and money. It isn't the cleverest women who make the best wives, sir. "

"Well, I'm not objecting to her being a wife. Only it does not followthat, because my uncle and aunts are in love with her, I should want tomarry her. "

"I said nothing about marriage, my touchy friend. I am not advisingyou to be engaged to two women at the same time. And I like Ireneimmensely. "

It was evident that she had taken a great fancy to the girl. They werealways together; it seemed to happen so, and King could hardly admitto himself that Mrs. Glow was de trop as a third. Mr. Bartlett Glowwas very polite to King and his friend, and forever had one excuse andanother for taking them off with him--the races or a lounge about town. He showed them one night, I am sorry to say, the inside of the Temple ofChance and its decorous society, its splendid buffet, the quiet tablesof rouge et noir, and the highly respectable attendants--aged men, whitehaired, in evening costume, devout and almost godly in appearance, with faces chastened to resignation and patience with a wicked world, sedate and venerable as the deacons in a Presbyterian church. He waslonesome and wanted company, and, besides, the women liked to be bythemselves occasionally. 

One might be amused at the Saratoga show without taking an active partin it, and indeed nobody did seem to take a very active part in it. Everybody was looking on. People drove, visited the springs--in avain expectation that excessive drinking of the medicated waters wouldcounteract the effect of excessive gormandizing at the hotels--sat aboutin the endless rows of armchairs on the piazzas, crowded the heavilyupholstered parlors, promenaded in the corridors, listened to the musicin the morning, and again in the afternoon, and thronged the stairwaysand passages, and blocked up the entrance to the ballrooms. Balls? Yes, with dress de rigueur, many beautiful women in wonderful toilets, a fewdebutantes, a scarcity of young men, and a delicious band--much bettermusic than at the White Sulphur. 

And yet no society. But a wonderful agglomeration, the artist wassaying. It is a robust sort of place. If Newport is the queen of thewatering-places, this is the king. See how well fed and fat thepeople are, men and women large and expansive, richly dressed, prosperous--looking! What a contrast to the family sort of life at theWhite Sulphur! Here nobody, apparently, cares for anybody else--notmuch; it is not to be expected that people should know each other insuch a heterogeneous concern; you see how comparatively few greetingsthere are on the piazzas and in the parlors. You notice, too, that thetypes are not so distinctively American as at the Southern resort--fullfaces, thick necks--more like Germans than Americans. And then theeverlasting white hats. And I suppose it is not certain that every manin a tall white hat is a politician, or a railway magnate, or a sportingman. 

These big hotels are an epitome of expansive, gorgeous American life. Atthe Grand Union, King was No. 1710, and it seemed to him that he walkedthe length of the town to get to his room after ascending four stories. He might as well, so far as exercise was concerned, have taken anapartment outside. And the dining-room. Standing at the door, he had avista of an eighth of a mile of small tables, sparkling with brilliantservice of glass and porcelain, chandeliers and frescoed ceiling. Whatperfect appointments! what well-trained waiters!--perhaps they were notwaiters, for he was passed from one "officer" to another "officer"down to his place. At the tables silent couples and restrained familyparties, no hilarity, little talking; and what a contrast this was tothe happy-go-lucky service and jollity of the White Sulphur! Then theinterior parks of the United States and the Grand Union, with corridorsand cottages, close-clipped turf, banks of flowers, forest trees, fountains, and at night, when the band filled all the air with seductivestrains, the electric and the colored lights, gleaming through thefoliage and dancing on fountains and greensward, made a scene ofenchantment. Each hotel was a village in itself, and the thousands ofguests had no more in common than the frequenters of New York hotels andtheatres. But what a paradise for lovers!

"It would be lonesome enough but for you, Irene, " Stanhope said, asthey sat one night on the inner piazza of the Grand Union, surrenderingthemselves to all the charms of the scene. 

"I love it all, " she said, in the full tide of her happiness. 

On another evening they were at the illumination of the Congress SpringPark. The scene seemed the creation of magic. By a skillful arrangementof the colored globes an illusion of vastness was created, and thelittle enclosure, with its glowing lights, was like the starry heavensfor extent. In the mass of white globes and colored lanterns ofpaper the eye was deceived as to distances. The allies stretchedaway interminably, the pines seemed enormous, and the green hillsidesmountainous. Nor were charming single effects wanting. Down the windingwalk from the hill, touched by a distant electric light, the loiteringpeople, in couples and in groups, seemed no more in real life thanthe supernumeraries in a scene at the opera. Above, in the illuminatedfoliage, were doubtless a castle and a broad terrace, with a row ofstatues, and these gay promenaders were ladies and cavaliers in anold-time masquerade. The gilded kiosk on the island in the centre of theminiature lake and the fairy bridge that leads to it were outlinedby colored globes; and the lake, itself set about with brilliants, reflected kiosk and bridge and lights, repeating a hundredfold thefantastic scene, while from their island retreat the band sent outthrough the illumined night strains of sentiment and gayety and sadness. In the intervals of the music there was silence, as if the great throngwere too deeply enjoying this feast of the senses to speak. Perhaps aforeigner would have been impressed with the decorous respectability ofthe assembly; he would have remarked that there were no little tablesscattered about the ground, no boys running about with foaming mugs ofbeer, no noise, no loud talking; and how restful to all the senses!

Mrs. Bartlett Glow had the whim to devote herself to Mrs. Benson, andwas repaid by the acquisition of a great deal of information concerningthe social and domestic, life in Cyrusville, Ohio, and the maternalambition for Irene. Stanhope and Irene sat a little apart from theothers, and gave themselves up to the witchery of the hour. It wouldnot be easy to reproduce in type all that they said; and what was mostimportant to them, and would be most interesting to the reader, are thethings they did not say--the half exclamations, the delightful silences, the tones, the looks that are the sign language of lovers. It was Irenewho first broke the spell of this delightful mode of communication, andin a pause of the music said, "Your cousin has been telling me of yourrelatives in New York, and she told me more of yourself than you everdid. "

"Very likely. Trust your friends for that. I hope she gave me a goodcharacter. "

"Oh, she has the greatest admiration for you, and she said the familyhave the highest expectations of your career. Why didn't you tell me youwere the child of such hopes? It half frightened me. "

"It must be appalling. What did she say of my uncle and aunts?"

"Oh, I cannot tell you, except that she raised an image in my mind of anawful vision of ancient family and exclusiveness, the most fastidious, delightful, conventional people, she said, very old family, looked downupon Washington Irving, don't you know, because he wrote. I suppose shewanted to impress me with the value of the prize I've drawn, dear. But Ishould like you just as well if your connections had not looked down onIrving. Are they so very high and mighty?"

"Oh, dear, no. Much like other people. My aunts are the dearest oldladies, just a little nearsighted, you know, about seeing people thatare not--well, of course, they live in a rather small world. My uncle isa bachelor, rather particular, not what you would call a genial old man;been abroad a good deal, and moved mostly in our set; sometimes I thinkhe cares more for his descent than for his position at the bar, which isa very respectable one, by the way. You know what an old bachelor iswho never has had anybody to shake him out of his contemplation of hisfamily?"

"Do you think, " said Irene, a little anxiously, letting her hand rest amoment upon Stanhope's, "that they will like poor little me? I believe Iam more afraid of the aunts than of the uncle. I don't believe they willbe as nice as your cousin. "

"Of course they will like you. Everybody likes you. The aunts are justa little old-fashioned, that is all. Habit has made them draw a socialcircle with a small radius. Some have one kind of circle, some another. Of course my aunts are sorry for any one who is not descended from theVan Schlovenhovens--the old Van Schlovenhoven had the first brewery ofthe colony in the time of Peter Stuyvesant. In New York it's a familymatter, in Philadelphia it's geographical. There it's a question whetheryou live within the lines of Chestnut Street and Spruce Street--outsideof these in the city you are socially impossible: Mrs. Cortlandt toldme that two Philadelphia ladies who had become great friends at a summerresort--one lived within and the other without the charmed lines--wentback to town together in the autumn. At the station when they parted, the 'inside' lady said to the other: 'Good-by. It has been sucha pleasure to know you! I suppose I shall see you sometimes atMoneymaker's!' Moneymaker's is the Bon Marche of Philadelphia. "

The music ceased; the band were hurrying away; the people all over thegrounds were rising to go, lingering a little, reluctant to leave theenchanting scene. Irene wished, with a sigh, that it might never end;unreal as it was, it was more native to her spirit than that futurewhich her talk with Stanhope had opened to her contemplation. Anill-defined apprehension possessed her in spite of the reassuringpresence of her lover and her perfect confidence in the sincerity ofhis passion; and this feeling was somehow increased by the appearance ofMrs. Glow with her mother; she could not shake off the uneasy suggestionof the contrast. 

At the hour when the ladies went to their rooms the day was justbeginning for a certain class of the habitues. The parlors were nearlydeserted, and few chairs were occupied on the piazzas, but the ghostsof another generation seemed to linger, especially in the offices andbarroom. Flitting about were to be seen the social heroes who had anotoriety thirty and forty years ago in the newspapers. This dried-upold man in a bronze wig, scuffling along in list slippers, was a famouscriminal lawyer in his day; this gentleman, who still wears an airof gallantry, and is addressed as General, had once a reputation forsuccesses in the drawing-room as well as on the field of Mars; here isa genuine old beau, with the unmistakable self-consciousness of one whohas been a favorite of the sex, but who has slowly decayed in the midstof his cosmetics; here saunter along a couple of actors with the airof being on the stage. These people all have the "nightcap" habit, anddrift along towards the bar-room--the last brilliant scene in the dramaof the idle day, the necessary portal to the realm of silence and sleep. 

This is a large apartment, brightly lighted, with a bar extending acrossone end of it. Modern taste is conspicuous here, nothing is gaudy, colors are subdued, and its decorations are simple even the bar itselfis refined, substantial, decorous, wanting entirely the meretriciousglitter and barbarous ornamentation of the old structures of this sort, and the attendants have wholly laid aside the smart antics of the formerbartender, and the customers are swiftly and silently served by thedeferential waiters. This is one of the most striking changes that Kingnoticed in American life. 

There is a certain sort of life-whether it is worth seeing is a questionthat we can see nowhere else, and for an hour Mr. Glow and King andForbes, sipping their raspberry shrub in a retired corner of thebar-room, were interested spectators of the scene. Through the paddedswinging doors entered, as in a play, character after character. Eachactor as he entered stopped for a moment and stared about him, and inthis act revealed his character-his conceit, his slyness, his bravado, his self-importance. There was great variety, but practically oneprevailing type, and that the New York politician. Most of them werefrom the city, though the country politician apes the city politician asmuch as possible, but he lacks the exact air, notwithstanding the blackbroadcloth and the white hat. The city men are of two varieties--thesmart, perky-nosed, vulgar young ward worker, and the heavy-featured, gross, fat old fellow. One after another they glide in, with an alwaysconscious air, swagger off to the bar, strike attitudes in groups, onewith his legs spread, another with a foot behind on tiptoe, anotherleaning against the counter, and so pose, and drink "My respects"--allrather solemn and stiff, impressed perhaps by the decorousness of theplace, and conscious of their good clothes. Enter together three stoutmen, a yard across the shoulders, each with an enormous developmentin front, waddle up to the bar, attempt to form a triangular groupfor conversation, but find themselves too far apart to talk inthat position, and so arrange themselves side by side--a mostdistinguished-looking party, like a portion of a swell-front streetin Boston. To them swaggers up a young sport, like one of Thackeray'sfigures in the "Irish Sketch-Book"--short, in a white hat, poor face, impudent manner, poses before the swell fronts, and tosses off hisglass. About a little table in one corner are three excessively "uglymugs, " leering at each other and pouring down champagne. These men areall dressed as nearly like gentlemen as the tailor can make them, buteven he cannot change their hard, brutal faces. It is not their faultthat money and clothes do not make a gentleman; they are well fed andvulgarly prosperous, and if you inquire you will find that their womenare in silks and laces. This is a good place to study the rulers of NewYork; and impressive as they are in appearance, it is a relief to noticethat they unbend to each other, and hail one another familiarly as"Billy" and "Tommy. " Do they not ape what is most prosperous andsuccessful in American life? There is one who in make-up, form, and air, even to the cut of his side-whiskers, is an exact counterpart of thegreat railway king. Here is a heavy-faced young fellow in evening dress, perhaps endeavoring to act the part of a gentleman, who has come from anevening party unfortunately a little "slewed, " but who does not knowhow to sustain the character, for presently he becomes very familiarand confidential with the dignified colored waiter at the buffet, who requires all his native politeness to maintain the character of agentleman for two. 

If these men had millions, could they get any more enjoyment out oflife? To have fine clothes, drink champagne, and pose in a fashionablebar-room in the height of the season--is not this the apotheosis ofthe "heeler" and the ward "worker"? The scene had a fascination for theartist, who declared that he never tired watching the evolutions of theforeign element into the full bloom of American citizenship. 

XII. LAKE GEORGE, AND SARATOGA AGAIN

The intimacy between Mrs. Bartlett Glow and Irene increased as the dayswent by. The woman of society was always devising plans for Irene'sentertainment, and winning her confidence by a thousand evidences ofinterest and affection. Pleased as King was with this at first, he beganto be annoyed at a devotion to which he could have no objection exceptthat it often came between him and the enjoyment of the girl's societyalone; and latterly he had noticed that her manner was more grave whenthey were together, and that a little something of reserve mingled withher tenderness. 

They made an excursion one day to Lake George--a poetical pilgrimagethat recalled to some of the party (which included some New Orleansfriends) the romance of early days. To the Bensons and the artist it wasall new, and to King it was seen for the first time in the transformingatmosphere of love. To men of sentiment its beauties will never beexhausted; but to the elderly and perhaps rheumatic tourist the draughtysteamboats do not always bring back the remembered delight of youth. There is no pleasanter place in the North for a summer residence, butthere is a certain element of monotony and weariness inseparable from anexcursion: travelers have been known to yawn even on the Rhine. It was agray day, the country began to show the approach of autumn, and the viewfrom the landing at Caldwell's, the head of the lake, was never morepleasing. In the marshes the cat-tails and the faint flush of color onthe alders and soft maples gave a character to the low shore, and thegentle rise of the hills from the water's edge combined to make a sweetand peaceful landscape. 

The tourists find the steamer waiting for them at the end of the rail, and if they are indifferent to the war romances of the place, as most ofthem are, they hurry on without a glance at the sites of the famous oldforts St. George and William Henry. Yet the head of the lake might welldetain them a few hours though they do not care for the scalping Indiansand their sometime allies the French or the English. On the east sidethe lake is wooded to the shore, and the jutting points and charmingbays make a pleasant outline to the eye. Crosbyside is the ideal of asummer retreat, nestled in foliage on a pretty point, with its greattrees on a sloping lawn, boathouses and innumerable row and sail boats, and a lovely view, over the blue waters, of a fine range of hills. Caldwell itself, on the west side, is a pretty tree-planted village ina break in the hills, and a point above it shaded with great pines isa favorite rendezvous for pleasure parties, who leave the groundstrewn with egg-shells and newspapers. The Fort William Henry Hotel wasformerly the chief resort on the lake. It is a long, handsome structure, with broad piazzas, and low evergreens and flowers planted in front. Theview from it, under the great pines, of the lake and the northern purplehills, is lovely. But the tide of travel passes it by, and the fewpeople who were there seemed lonesome. It is always so. Fashion demandsnovelty; one class of summer boarders and tourists drives out another, and the people who want to be sentimental at this end of the lake nowpass it with a call, perhaps a sigh for the past, and go on to freshpastures where their own society is encamped. 

Lake George has changed very much within ten years; hotels and greatboarding-houses line the shores; but the marked difference is in theincrease of cottage life. As our tourists sailed down the lake they weresurprised by the number of pretty villas with red roofs peeping out fromthe trees, and the occupation of every island and headland by gay andoften fantastic summer residences. King had heard this lake comparedwith Como and Maggiore, and as a patriot he endeavored to think that itswild and sylvan loveliness was more pleasing than the romantic beautyof the Italian lakes. But the effort failed. In this climate it isimpossible that Horicon should ever be like Como. Pretty hills andforests and temporary summer structures cannot have the poetic or thesubstantial interest of the ancient villages and towns clinging to thehills, the old stone houses, the vines, the ruins, the atmosphere ofa long civilization. They do the lovely Horicon no service who provokesuch comparisons. 

The lake has a character of its own. As the traveler sails north andapproaches the middle of the lake, the gems of green islands multiply, the mountains rise higher, and shouldering up in the sky seem to bar afurther advance; toward sunset the hills, which are stately but lovely, a silent assembly of round and sharp peaks, with long, graceful slopes, take on exquisite colors, violet, bronze, and green, and now and again abold rocky bluff shines like a ruby in the ruddy light. Just at dusk thesteamer landed midway in the lake at Green Island, where the sceneryis the boldest and most romantic; from the landing a park-like lawn, planted with big trees, slopes up to a picturesque hotel. Lightstwinkled from many a cottage window and from boats in the bay, andstrains of music saluted the travelers. It was an enchanting scene. 

The genius of Philadelphia again claims the gratitude of the tourist, for the Sagamore Hotel is one of the most delightful hostelries inthe world. A peculiar, interesting building, rambling up the slopeon different levels, so contrived that all the rooms are outside, andhaving a delightful irregularity, as if the house had been a growth. Naturally a hotel so dainty in its service and furniture, and sorefined, was crowded to its utmost capacity. The artist could findnothing to complain of in the morning except that the incandescentelectric light in his chamber went out suddenly at midnight and left himin blank darkness in the most exciting crisis of a novel. Green Islandis perhaps a mile long. A bridge connects it with the mainland, andbesides the hotel it has a couple of picturesque stone and timbercottages. At the north end are the remains of the English intrenchmentsof 1755--signs of war and hate which kindly nature has almostobliterated with sturdy trees. With the natural beauty of the island arthas little interfered; near the hotel is the most stately grove of whitebirches anywhere to be seen, and their silvery sheen, with occasionalpatches of sedge, and the tender sort of foliage that Corot liked topaint, gives an exceptional refinement to the landscape. One needs, indeed, to be toned up by the glimpses, under the trees, over the bluewater, of the wooded craggy hills, with their shelf-like ledges, whichare full of strength and character. The charm of the place is due tothis combination of loveliness and granitic strength. 

Irene long remembered the sail of that morning, seated in the bow of thesteamer with King, through scenes of ever-changing beauty, as the boatwound about the headlands and made its calls, now on one side and nowon the other, at the pretty landings and decorated hotels. On every handwas the gayety of summer life--a striped tent on a rocky point with aplatform erected for dancing, a miniature bark but on an island, and arustic arched bridge to the mainland, gaudy little hotels with windingpaths along the shore, and at all the landings groups of pretty girlsand college lads in boating costume. It was wonderful how much theseholiday makers were willing to do for the entertainment of the passingtravelers. A favorite pastime in this peaceful region was the broomdrill, and its execution gave an operatic character to the voyage. Whenthe steamer approaches, a band of young ladies in military ranks, cladin light marching costume, each with a broom in place of a musket, descend to the landing and delight the spectators with their warlikemanoeuvres. The march in the broom-drill is two steps forward and onestep back, a mode of progression that conveys the notion of a pleasingindecision of purpose, which is foreign to the character of thesehandsome Amazons, who are quite able to hold the wharf against allcomers. This act of war in fancy, dress, with its two steps forward andone back, and the singing of a song, is one of the most fatal to themasculine peace of mind in the whole history of carnage. 

Mrs. Bartlett Glow, to be sure, thought it would be out of place atthe Casino; but even she had to admit that the American girl who wouldbewitch the foreigner with her one, two, and one, and her flourish ofbroom on Lake George, was capable of freezing his ardor by her coolgood-breeding at Newport. 

There was not much more to be done at Saratoga. Mrs. Benson had triedevery spring in the valley, and thus anticipated a remedy, as Mr. Bensonsaid, for any possible "complaint" that might visit her in the future. Mr. Benson himself said that he thought it was time for him to move toa new piazza, as he had worn out half the chairs at the Grand Union. The Bartlett-Glows were already due at Richfield; in fact, Penelope wasimpatient to go, now that she had persuaded the Bensons to accompanyher; and the artist, who had been for some time grumbling that therewas nothing left in Saratoga to draw except corks, reminded King of hisagreement at Bar Harbor, and the necessity he felt for rural retirementafter having been dragged all over the continent. 

On the last day Mr. Glow took King and Forbes off to the races, andPenelope and the Bensons drove to the lake. King never could tell whyhe consented to this arrangement, but he knew in a vague way that it isuseless to attempt to resist feminine power, that shapes our destiny inspite of all our rough-hewing of its outlines. He had become very uneasyat the friendship between Irene and Penelope, but he could give noreason for his suspicion, for it was the most natural thing in the worldfor his cousin to be interested in the girl who was about to come intothe family. It seemed also natural that Penelope should be attracted byher nobility of nature. He did not know till afterwards that it was thisvery nobility and unselfishness which Penelope saw could be turned toaccount for her own purposes. Mrs. Bartlett Glow herself would have saidthat she was very much attached to Irene, and this would have been true;she would have said also that she pitied her, and this would have beentrue; but she was a woman whose world was bounded by her own socialorder, and she had no doubt in her own mind that she was loyal to thebest prospects of her cousin, and, what was of more importance, that shewas protecting her little world from a misalliance when she preferredImogene Cypher to Irene Benson. In fact, the Bensons in her set weresimply an unthinkable element. It disturbed the established order ofthings. If any one thinks meanly of Penelope for counting upon theheroism of Irene to effect her unhappiness, let him reflect of howlittle consequence is the temporary happiness of one or two individualscompared with the peace and comfort of a whole social order. And shemight also well make herself believe that she was consulting the bestinterests of Irene in keeping her out of a position where she mightbe subject to so many humiliations. She was capable of crying over thesocial adventures of the heroine of a love story, and taking sides withher against the world, but as to the actual world itself, her practicalphilosophy taught her that it was much better always, even at the costof a little heartache in youth, to go with the stream than against it. 

The lake at Saratoga is the most picturesque feature of the region, andwould alone make the fortune of any other watering-place. It is alwaysa surprise to the stranger, who has bowled along the broad drive of fivemiles through a pleasing but not striking landscape, to come suddenly, when he alights at the hotel, upon what seems to be a "fault, " a sunkenvalley, and to look down a precipitous, grassy, tree-planted slopeupon a lake sparkling at the bottom and reflecting the enclosingsteep shores. It is like an aqua-marine gem countersunk in the greenlandscape. Many an hour had Irene and Stanhope passed in dreamycontemplation of it. They had sailed down the lake in the littlesteamer, they had whimsically speculated about this and that couple whotook their ices or juleps under the trees or on the piazza of the hotel, and the spot had for them a thousand tender associations. It was herethat Stanhope had told her very fully the uneventful story of hislife, and it was here that she had grown into full sympathy with hisaspirations for the future. 

It was of all this that Irene thought as she sat talking that day withPenelope on a bench at the foot of the hill by the steamboat landing. Itwas this very future that the woman of the world was using to raise inthe mind of Irene a morbid sense of her duty. Skillfully with this wasinsinuated the notion of the false and contemptible social prideand exclusiveness of Stanhope's relations, which Mrs. Bartlett Glowrepresented as implacable while she condemned it as absurd. There wasnot a word of opposition to the union of Irene and Stanhope: Penelopewas not such a bungler as to make that mistake. It was not her cue todefinitely suggest a sacrifice for the welfare of her cousin. If she letIrene perceive that she admired the courage in her that could face allthese adverse social conditions that were conjured up before her, Irenecould never say that Penelope had expressed anything of the sort. Hermanner was affectionate, almost caressing; she declared that she felta sisterly interest in her. This was genuine enough. I am not sure thatMrs. Bartlett Glow did not sometimes waver in her purpose when she wasin the immediate influence of the girl's genuine charm, and felt howsincere she was. She even went so far as to wish to herself that Irenehad been born in her own world. 

It was not at all unnatural that Irene should have been charmed byPenelope, and that the latter should gradually have established aninfluence over her. She was certainly kind-hearted, amiable, bright, engaging. I think all those who have known her at Newport, or in her NewYork home, regard her as one of the most charming women in the world. Nor is she artificial, except as society requires her to be, and if sheregards the conventions of her own set as the most important thingsin life, therein she does not differ from hosts of excellent wivesand mothers. Irene, being utterly candid herself, never suspected thatPenelope had at all exaggerated the family and social obstacles, nor didit occur to her to doubt Penelope's affection for her. But she was notblind. Being a woman, she comprehended perfectly the indirection of awoman's approaches, and knew well enough by this time that Penelope, whatever her personal leanings, must feel with her family in regard tothis engagement. And that she, who was apparently her friend, and whohad Stanhope's welfare so much at heart, did so feel was an added reasonwhy Irene was drifting towards a purpose of self-sacrifice. When shewas with Stanhope such a sacrifice seemed as impossible as it would becruel, but when she was with Mrs. Bartlett Glow, or alone, the subjecttook another aspect. There is nothing more attractive to a noble womanof tender heart than a duty the performance of which will make hersuffer. A false notion of duty has to account for much of the misery inlife. 

It was under this impression that Irene passed the last evening atSaratoga with Stanhope on the piazza of the hotel--an evening thatthe latter long remembered as giving him the sweetest and the mostcontradictory and perplexing glimpses of a woman's heart. 

XIII. RICHFIELD SPRINGS, COOPERSTOWN

After weeks of the din of Strauss and Gungl, the soothing strains ofthe Pastoral Symphony. Now no more the kettle-drum and the ceaselesspromenade in showy corridors, but the oaten pipe under the spreadingmaples, the sheep feeding on the gentle hills of Otsego, the carnival ofthe hop-pickers. It is time to be rural, to adore the country, to speakabout the dew on the upland pasture, and the exquisite view from SunsetHill. It is quite English, is it not? this passion for quiet, refinedcountry life, which attacks all the summer revelers at certain periodsin the season, and sends them in troops to Richfield or Lenox or someother peaceful retreat, with their simple apparel bestowed in modestfourstory trunks. Come, gentle shepherdesses, come, sweet youths inwhite flannel, let us tread a measure on the greensward, let us wanderdown the lane, let us pass under the festoons of the hop-vines, let ussaunter in the paths of sentiment, that lead to love in a cottage and ahouse in town. 

Every watering-place has a character of its own, and those who havegiven little thought to this are surprised at the endless variety in theAmerican resorts. But what is even more surprising is the influencethat these places have upon the people that frequent them, who appear tochange their characters with their surroundings. One woman in her seasonplays many parts, dashing in one place, reserved in another, now gayand active, now listless and sentimental, not at all the same woman atNewport that she is in the Adirondack camps, one thing at Bar Harbor andquite another at Saratoga or at Richfield. Different tastes, to be sure, are suited at different resorts, but fashion sends a steady processionof the same people on the round of all. 

The charm of Richfield Springs is in the character of the landscape. Itis a limestone region of gentle slopes and fine lines; and althoughit is elevated, the general character is refined rather than bold, the fertile valleys in pleasing irregularity falling away from roundedwooded hills in a manner to produce the impression of peace and repose. The lay of the land is such that an elevation of a few hundred feetgives a most extensive prospect, a view of meadows and upland pastures, of lakes and ponds, of forests hanging in dark masses on the limestonesummits, of fields of wheat and hops, and of distant mountain ranges. Itis scenery that one grows to love, and that responds to one's every moodin variety and beauty. In a whole summer the pedestrian will not exhaustthe inspiring views, and the drives through the gracious land, overhills, round the lakes, by woods and farms, increase in interest as oneknows them better. The habitues of the place, year after year, are at aloss for words to convey their peaceful satisfaction. 

In this smiling country lies the pretty village of Richfield, therural character of which is not entirely lost by reason of the hotels, cottages, and boardinghouses which line the broad principal street. The centre of the town is the old Spring House and grounds. When ourtravelers alighted in the evening at this mansion, they were reminded ofan English inn, though it is not at all like an inn in England except inits atmosphere of comfort. The building has rather a colonial character, with its long corridors and pillared piazzas; built at different times, and without any particular plans except to remain old-fashioned, it isnow a big, rambling white mass of buildings in the midst of maple-trees, with so many stairs and passages on different levels, and so many nooksand corners, that the stranger is always getting lost in it--turning upin the luxurious smoking-room when he wants to dine, and opening a doorthat lets him out into the park when he is trying to go to bed. Butthere are few hotels in the country where the guests are so well takencare of. 

This was the unbought testimony of Miss Lamont, who, with her uncle, hadbeen there long enough to acquire the common anxiety of sojourners thatthe newcomers should be pleased, and who superfluously explained theattractions of the place to the artist, as if in his eyes, that restedon her, more than one attraction was needed. It was very pleasant tosee the good comradeship that existed between these two, and the frankexpression of their delight in meeting again. Here was a friendshipwithout any reserve, or any rueful misunderstandings, or necessity forexplanations. Irene's eyes followed them with a wistful look as theywent off together round the piazza and through the parlors, the girlplaying the part of the hostess, and inducting him into the mildgayeties of the place. 

The height of the season was over, she said; there had been tableaux andcharades, and broom-drills, and readings and charity concerts. Now theseason was on the sentimental wane; every night the rooms were full ofwhist-players, and the days were occupied in quiet strolling over thehills, and excursions to Cooperstown and Cherry Valley and "points ofview, " and visits to the fields to see the hop-pickers at work. If therewere a little larking about the piazzas in the evening, and a group hereand there pretending to be merry over tall glasses with ice and strawsin them, and lingering good-nights at the stairways, why should the agedand rheumatic make a note of it? Did they not also once prefer the danceto hobbling to the spring, and the taste of ginger to sulphur?

Of course the raison d'etre of being here is the sulphur spring. Thereis no doubt of its efficacy. I suppose it is as unpleasant as any in thecountry. Everybody smells it, and a great many drink it. The artist saidthat after using it a week the blind walk, the lame see, and the dumbswear. It renews youth, and although the analyzer does not say that itis a "love philter, " the statistics kept by the colored autocrat wholadles out the fluid show that there are made as many engagements atRichfield as at any other summer fair in the country. 

There is not much to chronicle in the peaceful flow of domestic life, and, truth to say, the charm of Richfield is largely in its restfulness. Those who go there year after year converse a great deal about theirliking for it, and think the time well spent in persuading new arrivalsto take certain walks and drives. It was impressed upon King that hemust upon no account omit a visit to Rum Hill, from the summit of whichis had a noble prospect, including the Adirondack Mountains. He triedthis with a walking party, was driven back when near the summit by athunder, storm, which offered a series of grand pictures in the sky andon the hills, and took refuge in a farmhouse which was occupied by aband of hop-pickers. These adventurers are mostly young girls and youngmen from the cities and factory villages, to whom this is the onlyholiday of the year. Many of the pickers, however, are veterans. At thisseason one meets them on all the roads, driving from farm to farmin lumber wagons, carrying into the dull rural life their slang, and"Captain Jinks" songs, and shocking free manners. At the great hopfields they lodge all together in big barracks, and they make livelyfor the time whatever farmhouse they occupy. They are a "rough lot, " andneed very much the attention of the poet and the novelist, who might (ifthey shut their eyes) make this season as romantic as vintage-time onthe Rhine, or "moonshining" on the Southern mountains. The hop fielditself, with its tall poles draped in graceful vines which reach frompole to pole, and hang their yellowing fruit in pretty festoons andarbors, is much more picturesque than the vine-clad hills. 

Mrs. Bartlett Glow found many acquaintances here from New York andPhiladelphia and Newport, and, to do her justice, she introduced Ireneto them and presently involved her in so many pleasure parties andexcursions that she and King were scarcely ever alone together. Whenopportunity offered for a stroll a deux, the girl's manner was soconstrained that King was compelled to ask the reason of it. He got verylittle satisfaction, and the puzzle of her conduct was increased by herconfession that she loved him just the same, and always should. 

"But something has come between us, " he said. "I think I have the rightto be treated with perfect frankness. "

"So you have, " she replied. "There is nothing--nothing at least thatchanges my feeling towards you. "

"But you think that mine is changed for you?"

"No, not that, either, never that;" and her voice showed excitement asshe turned away her head. "But don't you know, Stanhope, you have notknown me very long, and perhaps you have been a little hasty, and--howshall I say it?--if you had more time to reflect, when you go back toyour associates and your active life, it might somehow look differentlyto you, and your prospects--"

"Why, Irene, I have no prospects without you. I love you; you are mylife. I don't understand. I am just yours, and nothing you can do willever make it any different for me; but if you want to be free--"

"No, no, " cried the girl, trying in vain to restrain her agitationand her tears, "not that. I don't want to be free. But you will notunderstand. Circumstances are so cruel, and if, Stanhope, you evershould regret when it is too late! It would kill me. I want you to behappy. And, Stanhope, promise me that, whatever happens, you will notthink ill of me. "

Of course he promised, he declared that nothing could happen, he vowed, and he protested against this ridiculous phantom in her mind. To aman, used to straightforward cuts in love as in any other object ofhis desire, this feminine exaggeration of conscientiousness is whollyincomprehensible. How under heavens a woman could get a kink of duty inher mind which involved the sacrifice of herself and her lover was pasthis fathoming. 

The morning after this conversation, the most of which the reader hasbeen spared, there was an excursion to Cooperstown. The early start ofthe tally-ho coaches for this trip is one of the chief sensations of thequiet village. The bustle to collect the laggards, the importance of theconductors and drivers, the scramble up the ladders, the ruses to getcongenial seat-neighbors, the fine spirits of everybody evoked by thefresh morning air, and the elevation on top of the coaches, give thestart an air of jolly adventure. Away they go, the big red-and-yellowarks, swinging over the hills and along the well-watered valleys, pastthe twin lakes to Otsego, over which hangs the romance of Cooper'stales, where a steamer waits. This is one of the most charming of thelittle lakes that dot the interior of New York; without bold shores oranything sensational in its scenery, it is a poetic element in a refinedand lovely landscape. There are a few fishing-lodges and summer cottageson its banks (one of them distinguished as "Sinners' Rest"), and a hotelor two famous for dinners; but the traveler would be repaid if therewere nothing except the lovely village of Cooperstown embowered inmaples at the foot. The town rises gently from the lake, and is verypicturesque with its church spires and trees and handsome mansions; andnothing could be prettier than the foreground, the gardens, theallees of willows, the long boat wharves with hundreds of rowboats andsail-boats, and the exit of the Susquehanna River, which here swirlsaway under drooping foliage, and begins its long journey to the sea. Thewhole village has an air of leisure and refinement. For our tourists theplace was pervaded by the spirit of the necromancer who has wovenabout it a spell of romance; but to the ordinary inhabitants the longresidence of the novelist here was not half so important as that ofthe very distinguished citizen who had made a great fortune out of somepatent, built here a fine house, and adorned his native town. It is notso very many years since Cooper died, and yet the boatmen and loungersabout the lake had only the faintest impression of the man-there was awriter by that name, one of them said, and some of his family lived nearthe house of the great man already referred to. The magician whocreated Cooperstown sleeps in the old English-looking church-yard of theEpiscopal church, in the midst of the graves of his relations, and thereis a well-worn path to his head-stone. Whatever the common people ofthe town may think, it is that grave that draws most pilgrims to thevillage. Where the hillside cemetery now is, on the bank of the lake, was his farm, which he visited always once and sometimes twice a day. Hecommonly wrote only from ten to twelve in the morning, giving the restof the time to his farm and the society of his family. During the periodof his libel suits, when the newspapers represented him as moroseand sullen in his retirement, he was, on the contrary, in the highestspirits and the most genial mood. "Deer-slayer" was written whilethis contest was at its height. Driving one day from his farm with hisdaughter, he stopped and looked long over his favorite prospect on thelake, and said, "I must write one more story, dear, about our littlelake. " At that moment the "Deerslayer" was born. He was silent therest of the way home, and went immediately to his library and began thestory. 

The party returned in a moralizing vein. How vague already in thevillage which his genius has made known over the civilized world isthe fame of Cooper! To our tourists the place was saturated with hispresence, but the new generation cares more for its smart prosperitythan for all his romance. Many of the passengers on the boat hadstopped at a lakeside tavern to dine, preferring a good dinner to theassociations which drew our sentimentalists to the spots that werehallowed by the necromancer's imagination. And why not? One cannot livein the past forever. The people on the boat who dwelt in Cooperstownwere not talking about Cooper, perhaps had not thought of him for ayear. The ladies, seated in the bow of the boat, were comparing notesabout their rheumatism and the measles of their children; one of themhad been to the funeral of a young girl who was to have been marriedin the autumn, poor thing, and she told her companion who were at thefuneral, and how they were dressed, and how little feeling Nancy seemedto show, and how shiftless it was not to have more flowers, and how thebridegroom bore up-well, perhaps it's an escape, she was so weakly. 

The day lent a certain pensiveness to all this; the season was visiblywaning; the soft maples showed color, the orchards were heavy withfruit, the mountain-ash hung out its red signals, the hop-vines wereyellowing, and in all the fence corners the golden-rod flamed and madethe meanest high-road a way of glory. On Irene fell a spell of sadnessthat affected her lover. Even Mrs. Bartlett-Glow seemed touched by someregret for the fleeting of the gay season, and the top of the coachwould have been melancholy enough but for the high spirits of Marionand the artist, whose gayety expanded in the abundance of the harvestseason. Happy natures, unrestrained by the subtle melancholy of adecaying year!

The summer was really going. On Sunday the weather broke in a violentstorm of wind and rain, and at sunset, when it abated, there wereportentous gleams on the hills, and threatening clouds lurking aboutthe sky. It was time to go. Few people have the courage to abide thebreaking of the serenity of summer, and remain in the country for themore glorious autumn days that are to follow. The Glows must hurry backto Newport. The Bensons would not be persuaded out of their fixed planto "take in, " as Mr. Benson expressed it, the White Mountains. Theothers were going to Niagara and the Thousand Islands; and when Kingtold Irene that he would much rather change his route and accompany her, he saw by the girl's manner that it was best not to press the subject. He dreaded to push an explanation, and, foolish as lovers are, he waswise for once in trusting to time. But he had a miserable evening. Helet himself be irritated by the lightheartedness of Forbes. He objectedto the latter's whistling as he went about his room packing up histraps. He hated a fellow that was always in high spirits. "Why, what hascome over you, old man?" queried the artist, stopping to take a criticallook at his comrade. "Do you want to get out of it? It's my impressionthat you haven't taken sulphur water enough. "

On Monday morning there was a general clearing out. The platform atthe station was crowded. The palace-cars for New York, for Niagara, forAlbany, for the West, were overflowing. There was a pile of trunks asbig as a city dwelling-house. Baby-carriages cumbered the way; dogs wereunder foot, yelping and rending the tender hearts of their owners; theporters staggered about under their loads, and shouted till theywere hoarse; farewells were said; rendezvous made--alas! how manyhalf-fledged hopes came to an end on that platform! The artist thoughthe had never seen so many pretty girls together in his life before, andeach one had in her belt a bunch of goldenrod. Summer was over, sureenough. 

At Utica the train was broken up, and its cars despatched in variousdirections. King remembered that it was at Utica that the younger Catosacrificed himself. In the presence of all the world Irene bade himgood-by. "It will not be for long, " said King, with an attempt atgayety. "Nothing is for long, " she said with the same manner. And thenadded in a low tone, as she slipped a note into his hand, "Do not thinkill of me. "

King opened the note as soon as he found his seat in the car, and thiswas what he read as the train rushed westward towards the Great Fall:

 "MY DEAR FRIEND, --How can I ever say it? It is best that we separate. I have thought and thought; I have struggled with myself. I think that I know it is best for you. I have been happy--ah me! Dear, we must look at the world as it is. We cannot change it--if we break our hearts, we cannot. Don't blame your cousin. It is nothing that she has done. She has been as sweet and kind to me as possible, but I have seen through her what I feared, just how it is. Don't reproach me. It is hard now. I know it. But I believe that you will come to see it as I do. If it was any sacrifice that I could make, that would be easy. But to think that I had sacrificed you, and that you should some day become aware of it! You are free. I am not silly. It is the future I am thinking of. You must take your place in the world where your lot is cast. Don't think I have a foolish pride. Perhaps it is pride that tells me not to put myself in a false position; perhaps it is something else. Never think it is want of heart in. 

 "Good-by. 

 "IRENE"

As King finished this he looked out of the window. 

The landscape was black. 

XIV. NIAGARA

In the car for Niagara was an Englishman of the receptive, guileless, thin type, inquisitive and overflowing with approval of everythingAmerican--a type which has now become one of the common features oftravel in this country. He had light hair, sandy side-whiskers, a facethat looked as if it had been scrubbed with soap and sandpaper, and hewore a sickly yellow traveling-suit. He was accompanied by his wife, astout, resolute matron, in heavy boots, a sensible stuff gown, with alot of cotton lace fudged about her neck, and a broad brimmed hat witha vegetable garden on top. The little man was always in pursuit ofinformation, in his guide-book or from his fellow-passengers, andwhenever he obtained any he invariably repeated it to his wife, whosaid "Fancy!" and "Now, really!" in a rising inflection that expressedsurprise and expectation. 

The conceited American, who commonly draws himself into a shell when hetravels, and affects indifference, and seems to be losing all naturalcuriosity, receptivity, and the power of observation, is pretty certainto undervalue the intelligence of this class of English travelers, andget amusement out of their peculiarities instead of learning from themhow to make everyday of life interesting. Even King, who, besides hisnational crust of exclusiveness, was today wrapped in the gloom ofIrene's letter, was gradually drawn to these simple, unpretendingpeople. He took for granted their ignorance of America--ignorance ofAmerica being one of the branches taught in the English schools--and hesoon discovered that they were citizens of the world. They not only knewthe Continent very well, but they had spent a winter in Egypt, lived ayear in India, and seen something of China and much of Japan. Althoughthey had been scarcely a fortnight in the United States, King doubtedif there were ten women in the State of New York, not professionalteachers, who knew as much of the flora of the country as thisplain-featured, rich-voiced woman. They called King's attention to agreat many features of the landscape he had never noticed before, andasked him a great many questions about farming and stock and wagesthat he could not answer. It appeared that Mr. Stanley Stubbs, Stoke-Cruden--for that was the name and address of the presentdiscoverers of America--had a herd of short-horns, and that Mrs. Stubbswas even more familiar with the herd-book than her husband. But beforethe fact had enabled King to settle the position of his new acquaintancesatisfactorily to himself, Mrs. Stubbs upset his estimate by quotingTennyson. 

"Your great English poet is very much read here, " King said, by way ofbeing agreeable. 

"So we have heard, " replied Mrs. Stubbs. "Mr. Stubbs reads Tennysonbeautifully. He has thought of giving some readings while we are here. We have been told that the Americans are very fond of readings. "

"Yes, " said King, "they are devoted to them, especially readingsby Englishmen in their native tongue. There is a great rage now foreverything English; at Newport hardly anything else is spoken. "

Mrs. Stubbs looked for a moment as if this might be an American joke;but there was no smile upon King's face, and she only said, "Fancy! Youmust make a note of Newport, dear. That is one of the places we mustsee. Of course Mr. Stubbs has never read in public, you know. But Isuppose that would make no difference, the Americans are so kind and soappreciative. "

"Not the least difference, " replied King. "They are used to it. "

"It is a wonderful country, " said Mr. Stubbs. 

"Most interesting, " chimed in Mrs. Stubbs; "and so odd!

"You know, Mr. King, we find some of the Americans so clever. We havebeen surprised, really. It makes us feel quite at home. At the hotelsand everywhere, most obliging. "

"Do you make a long stay?"

"Oh, no. We just want to study the people and the government, and seethe principal places. We were told that Albany is the capital, insteadof New York; it's so odd, you know. And Washington is another capital. And there is Boston. It must be very confusing. " King began to suspectthat he must be talking with the editor of the Saturday Review. Mr. Stubbs continued: "They told us in New York that we ought to goto Paterson on the Island of Jersey, I believe. I suppose it is asinteresting as Niagara. We shall visit it on our return. But we cameover more to see Niagara than anything else. And from there we shall runover to Chicago and the Yosemite. Now we are here, we could not think ofgoing back without a look at the Yosemite. "

King said that thus far he had existed without seeing the Yosemite, buthe believed that next to Chicago it was the most attractive place in thecountry. 

It was dark when they came into the station at Niagara--dark and silent. Our American tourists, who were accustomed to the clamor of the hackmenhere, and expected to be assaulted by a horde of wild Comanches in plainclothes, and torn limb from baggage, if not limb from limb, were unableto account for this silence, and the absence of the common highwaymen, until they remembered that the State had bought the Falls, and theagents of the government had suppressed many of the old nuisances. Itwas possible now to hear the roar of the cataract. 

This unaccustomed human stillness was ominous to King. He would havewelcomed a Niagara of importunity and imprecations; he was bursting withimpatience to express himself; it seemed as if he would die if he weresilent an hour longer under that letter. Of course the usual Americanrelief of irritability and impatience suggested itself. He wouldtelegraph; only electricity was quick enough and fiery enough for hismood. But what should he telegraph? The telegraph was not invented forlove-making, and is not adapted to it. It is ridiculous to make love bywire. How was it possible to frame a message that should be commercialon its face, and yet convey the deepest agony and devotion of thesender's heart? King stood at the little telegraph window, looking atthe despatcher who was to send it, and thought of this. Depressed andintent as he was, the whimsicality of the situation struck him. Whatcould he say? It illustrates our sheeplike habit of expressing ourselvesin the familiar phrase or popular slang of the day that at the instantthe only thing King could think of to send was this: "Hold the fort, for I am coming. " The incongruity of this made him smile, and he did notwrite it. Finally he composed this message, which seemed to him to havea businesslike and innocent aspect: "Too late. Impossible for me tochange. Have invested everything. Expect letter. " Mechanically hecounted the words when he had written this. On the fair presumption thatthe company would send "everything" as one word, there were still twomore than the conventional ten, and, from force of habit, he struck outthe words "for me. " But he had no sooner done this than he felt a senseof shame. It was contemptible for a man in love to count his words, andit was intolerable to be haggling with himself at such a crisis overthe expense of a despatch. He got cold over the thought that Irene mightalso count them, and see that the cost of this message of passion hadbeen calculated. And with recklessness he added: "We reach the ProfileHouse next week, and I am sure I can convince you I am right. "

King found Niagara pitched to the key of his lacerated and tumultuousfeelings. There were few people at the Cataract House, and either thebridal season had not set in, or in America a bride has been evolved whodoes not show any consciousness of her new position. In his present moodthe place seemed deserted, the figures of the few visitors gliding aboutas in a dream, as if they too had been subdued by the recent commissionwhich had silenced the drivers, and stopped the mills, and made the parkfree, and was tearing down the presumptuous structures along the bank. In this silence, which emphasized the quaking of the earth and air, there was a sense of unknown, impending disaster. It was not to be borneindoors, and the two friends went out into the night. 

On the edge of the rapids, above the hotel, the old bath-house was inprocess of demolition, its shaking piazza almost overhanging the flood. Not much could be seen from it, but it was in the midst of an elementaluproar. Some electric lamps shining through the trees made high lightson the crests of the rapids, while the others near were in shadow anddark. The black mass of Goat Island appeared under the lightning flashesin the northwest sky, and whenever these quick gleams pierced the gloomthe frail bridge to the island was outlined for a moment, and thenvanished as if it had been swept away, and there could only be seensparks of light in the houses on the Canadian shore, which seemed verynear. In this unknown, which was rather felt than seen, there was asense of power and of mystery which overcame the mind; and in the blacknight the roar, the cruel haste of the rapids, tossing white gleams andhurrying to the fatal plunge, begat a sort of terror in the spectators. It was a power implacable, vengeful, not to be measured. They strolleddown to Prospect Park. The gate was closed; it had been the scene of anawful tragedy but a few minutes before. They did not know it, but theyknew that the air shuddered, and as they skirted the grounds alongthe way to the foot-bridge the roar grew in their stunned ears. There, projected out into the night, were the cables of steel holding the frailplatform over the abyss of night and terror. Beyond was Canada. Therewas light enough in the sky to reveal, but not to dissipate, theappalling insecurity. What an impious thing it seemed to them, thistrembling structure across the chasm! They advanced upon it. There weregleams on the mill cascades below, and on the mass of the American Fall. Below, down in the gloom, were patches of foam, slowly circling aroundin the eddy--no haste now, just sullen and black satisfaction in theawful tragedy of the fall. The whole was vague, fearful. Always theroar, the shuddering of the air. I think that a man placed on thisbridge at night, and ignorant of the cause of the aerial agitation andthe wild uproar, could almost lose his reason in the panic of the scene. They walked on; they set foot on Her Majesty's dominions; they enteredthe Clifton House--quite American, you know, with its new bar andoffice. A subdued air about everybody here also, and the same quaking, shivering, and impending sense of irresponsible force. Even "twofingers, " said the artist, standing at the bar, had little effect inallaying the impression of the terror out there. When they returnedthe moon was coming up, rising and struggling and making its way slowlythrough ragged masses of colored clouds. The river could be plainly seennow, smooth, deep, treacherous; the falls on the American side showedfitfully like patches of light and foam; the Horseshoe, mostly hiddenby a cold silver mist, occasionally loomed up a white and ghostly mass. They stood for a long time looking down at the foot of the AmericanFall, the moon now showing clearly the plunge of the heavy column--acolumn as stiff as if it were melted silver-hushed and frightened by theweird and appalling scene. They did not know at that moment that therewhere their eyes were riveted, there at the base of the fall, a man'sbody was churning about, plunged down and cast up, and beaten andwhirled, imprisoned in the refluent eddy. But a body was there. In themorning a man's overcoat was found on the parapet at the angle of thefall. Someone then remembered that in the evening, just before the parkgate closed, he had seen a man approach the angle of the wall where theovercoat was found. The man was never seen after that. Night first, andthen the hungry water, swallowed him. One pictures the fearful leap intothe dark, the midway repentance, perhaps, the despair of the plunge. Abody cast in here is likely to tarry for days, eddying round and round, and tossed in that terrible maelstrom, before a chance current ejectsit, and sends it down the fierce rapids below. King went back to thehotel in a terror of the place, which did not leave him so long as heremained. His room quivered, the roar filled all the air. Is not lifereal and terrible enough, he asked himself, but that brides must castthis experience also into their honeymoon?

The morning light did not efface the impressions of the night, thedominating presence of a gigantic, pitiless force, a blind passion ofnature, uncontrolled and uncontrollable. Shut the windows and lock thedoor, you could not shut out the terror of it. The town did not seemsafe; the bridges, the buildings on the edge of the precipices withtheir shaking casements, the islands, might at any moment be engulfedand disappear. It was a thing to flee from. 

I suspect King was in a very sensitive mood; the world seemed for themoment devoid of human sympathy, and the savageness and turmoil playedupon his bare nerves. The artist himself shrank from contact with thisoverpowering display, and said that he could not endure more than a dayor two of it. It needed all the sunshine in the face of Miss Lamont andthe serenity of her cheerful nature to make the situation tolerable, and even her sprightliness was somewhat subdued. It was a day of big, broken, high-sailing clouds, with a deep blue sky and strong sunlight. The slight bridge to Goat Island appeared more presumptuous by daylight, and the sharp slope of the rapids above it gave a new sense of theimpetuosity of the torrent. As they walked slowly on, past the nowabandoned paper-mills and the other human impertinences, the elementalturmoil increased, and they seemed entering a world the foundationsof which were broken up. This must have been a good deal a matter ofimpression, for other parties of sightseers were coming and going, apparently unawed, and intent simply on visiting every point spoken ofin the guide-book, and probably unconscious of the all-pervadingterror. But King could not escape it, even in the throng descending andascending the stairway to Luna Island. Standing upon the platform at thetop, he realized for the first time the immense might of the downpour ofthe American Fall, and noted the pale green color, with here and there aviolet tone, and the white cloud mass spurting out from the solidcolor. On the foam-crested river lay a rainbow forming nearly a completecircle. The little steamer Maid of the Mist was coming up, riding thewaves, dashed here and there by conflicting currents, but resolutelysteaming on--such is the audacity of man--and poking her venturesomenose into the boiling foam under the Horseshoe. On the deck are pigmypassengers in oil-skin suits, clumsy figures, like arctic explorers. The boat tosses about like a chip, it hesitates and quivers, and then, slowly swinging, darts away down the current, fleeing from the wrath ofthe waters, and pursued by the angry roar. 

Surely it is an island of magic, unsubstantial, liable to go adrift andplunge into the canon. Even in the forest path, where the great treetrunks assure one of stability and long immunity, this feeling cannot beshaken off. Our party descended the winding staircase in the tower, andwalked on the shelf under the mighty ledge to the entrance of the Caveof the Winds. The curtain of water covering this entrance was blown backand forth by the wind, now leaving the platform dry and now deluging it. A woman in the pathway was beckoning frantically and calling to a manwho stood on the platform, entirely unconscious of danger, looking upto the green curtain and down into the boiling mist. It was Mrs. Stubbs;but she was shouting against Niagara, and her husband mistook herpantomime for gestures of wonder and admiration. Some momentspassed, and then the curtain swung in, and tons of water drenched theEnglishman, and for an instant hid him from sight. Then, as the curtainswung back, he was seen clinging to the handrail, sputtering andastonished at such treatment. He came up the bank dripping, anddeclaring that it was extraordinary, most extraordinary, but he wouldn'thave missed it for the world. From this platform one looks down thenarrow, slippery stairs that are lost in the boiling mist, and wondersat the daring that built these steps down into that hell, and carriedthe frail walk of planks over the bowlders outside the fall. A party inoil-skins, making their way there, looked like lost men and women ina Dante Inferno. The turbulent waters dashed all about them; the mistoccasionally wrapped them from sight; they clung to the rails, theytried to speak to each other; their gestures seemed motions of despair. Could that be Eurydice whom the rough guide was tenderly dragging out ofthe hell of waters, up the stony path, that singular figure in oil-skintrousers, who disclosed a pretty face inside her hood as she emerged?One might venture into the infernal regions to rescue such a woman; butwhy take her there? The group of adventurers stopped a moment on theplatform, with the opening into the misty cavern for a background, andthe artist said that the picture was, beyond all power of the pencil, strange and fantastic. There is nothing, after all, that the human racewill not dare for a new sensation. 

The walk around Goat Island is probably unsurpassed in the world forwonder and beauty. The Americans have every reason to be satisfied withtheir share of the fall; they get nowhere one single grand view likethat from the Canada side, but infinitely the deepest impression ofmajesty and power is obtained on Goat Island. There the spectator is inthe midst of the war of nature. From the point over the Horseshoe Fallour friends, speaking not much, but more and more deeply moved, strolledalong in the lovely forest, in a rural solemnity, in a local calm, almost a seclusion, except for the ever-present shuddering roar inthe air. On the shore above the Horseshoe they first comprehended thebreadth, the great sweep, of the rapids. The white crests of the wavesin the west were coming out from under a black, lowering sky; all theforeground was in bright sunlight, dancing, sparkling, leaping, hurryingon, converging to the angle where the water becomes a deep emeraldat the break and plunge. The rapids above are a series of shelves, bristling with jutting rocks and lodged trunks of trees, and thewildness of the scene is intensified by the ragged fringe of evergreenson the opposite shore. 

Over the whole island the mist, rising from the caldron, drifts inspray when the wind is rable; but on this day the forest was bright andcheerful, and as the strollers went farther away from the Great Fall;the beauty of the scene began to steal away its terror. The roar wasstill dominant, but far off and softened, and did not crush the ear. The triple islands, the Three Sisters, in their picturesque wildnessappeared like playful freaks of nature in a momentary relaxation of thesavage mood. Here is the finest view of the river; to one standing onthe outermost island the great flood seems tumbling out of the sky. They continued along the bank of the river. The shallow stream races byheadlong, but close to the edge are numerous eddies, and places whereone might step in and not be swept away. At length they reached thepoint where the river divides, and the water stands for an instantalmost still, hesitating whether to take the Canadian or Americanplunge. Out a little way from the shore the waves leap and tumble, andthe two currents are like race-horses parted on two ways to the goal. Just at this point the water swirls and lingers; having lost all itsfierceness and haste, and spreads itself out placidly, dimpling in thesun. It may be a treacherous pause, this water may be as cruel as thatwhich rages below and exults in catching a boat or a man and boundingwith the victim over the cataract; but the calm was very grateful to thestunned and buffeted visitors; upon their jarred nerves it was like thepeace of God. 

"The preacher might moralize here, " said King. "Here is the parting ofthe ways for the young man; here is a moment of calm in which he candecide which course he will take. See, with my hand I can turn thewater to Canada or to America! So momentous is the easy decision of themoment. "

"Yes, " said the artist, "your figure is perfect. Whichever side theyoung man takes, he goes to destruction. "

"Or, " continued King, appealing to Miss Lamont against this illogicalconstruction, "this is the maiden at the crucial instant of choosingbetween two impetuous suitors. "

"You mean she will be sorry, whichever she chooses?"

"You two practical people would spoil any illustration in the world. Youwould divest the impressive drop of water on the mountain summit, whichmight go to the Atlantic or to the Pacific, of all moral character bysaying that it makes no difference which ocean it falls into. "

The relief from the dread of Niagara felt at this point of peace wasonly temporary. The dread returned when the party approached again theturmoil of the American Fall, and fell again under the influence of themerciless haste of the flood. And there every islet, every rock, everypoint, has its legend of terror; here a boat lodged with a man in it, and after a day and night of vain attempts to rescue him, thousands ofpeople saw him take the frightful leap, throwing up his arms as he wentover; here a young woman slipped, and was instantly whirled away outof life; and from that point more than one dazed or frantic visitor hadtaken the suicidal leap. Death was so near here and so easy!

One seems in less personal peril on the Canadian side, and has morethe feeling of a spectator and less that of a participant in the wilduproar. Perhaps there is more sense of force, but the majesty of thescene is relieved by a hundred shifting effects of light and color. In the afternoon, under a broken sky, the rapids above the Horseshoereminded one of the seashore on a very stormy day. Impeded by the rocks, the flood hesitated and even ran back, as if reluctant to take the finalplunge! The sienna color of the water on the table contrasted sharplywith the emerald at the break of the fall. A rainbow springing out ofthe centre of the caldron arched clear over the American cataract, andwas one moment bright and the next dimly seen through the mist, whichboiled up out of the foam of waters and swayed in the wind. Through thisveil darted adventurous birds, flashing their wings in the prismaticcolors, and circling about as if fascinated by the awful rush andthunder. With the shifting wind and the passing clouds the scene was inperpetual change; now the American Fall was creamy white, and the mistbelow dark, and again the heavy mass was gray and sullen, and the mistlike silver spray. Perhaps nowhere else in the world is the force ofnature so overpowering to the mind, and as the eye wanders from thechaos of the fall to the far horizon, where the vast rivers of rapidsare poured out of the sky, one feels that this force is inexhaustibleand eternal. 

If our travelers expected to escape the impression they were under bydriving down to the rapids and whirlpool below, they were mistaken. Nowhere is the river so terrible as where it rushes, as if maddenedby its narrow bondage, through the canon. Flung down the precipice andforced into this contracted space, it fumes and tosses and rages withvindictive fury, driving on in a passion that has almost a human qualityin it. Restrained by the walls of stone from being destructive, it seemsto rave at its own impotence, and when it reaches the whirlpool it islike a hungry animal, returning and licking the shore for the prey ithas missed. But it has not always wanted a prey. Now and again it has awreck or a dead body to toss and fling about. Although it does not needthe human element of disaster to make this canon grewsome, the keepersof the show places make the most of the late Captain Webb. So vividwere their narratives that our sympathetic party felt his presencecontinually, saw the strong swimmer tossed like a chip, saw him throw uphis hands, saw the agony in his face at the spot where he was lastseen. There are several places where he disappeared, each vouched forby credible witnesses, so that the horror of the scene is multiplied forthe tourist. The late afternoon had turned gray and cold, and dashes ofrain fell as our party descended to the whirlpool. As they looked overthe heaped-up and foaming waters in this eddy they almost expected tosee Captain Webb or the suicide of the night before circling round inthe maelstrom. They came up out of the gorge silent, and drove back tothe hotel full of nervous apprehension. 

King found no telegram from Irene, and the place seemed to himintolerable. The artist was quite ready to go on in the morning; indeed, the whole party, although they said it was unreasonable, confessed thatthey were almost afraid to stay longer; the roar, the trembling, thepervading sense of a blind force and rage, inspired a nameless dread. The artist said, the next morning at the station, that he understood thefeelings of Lot. 

XV. THE THOUSAND ISLES

The occupation of being a red man, a merchant of baskets and beadwork, is taken up by so many traders with a brogue and a twang at ourwatering-places that it is difficult for the traveler to keep alive anysentiment about this race. But at a station beyond Lewiston our touristswere reminded of it, and of its capacity for adopting our civilizationin its most efflorescent development. The train was invaded by a band ofIndians, or, to speak correctly, by an Indian band. There is nothing inthe world like a brass band in a country town; it probably gives morepleasure to the performers than any other sort of labor. Yet the delightit imparts to the listeners is apt to be tempered by a certain senseof incongruity between the peaceful citizens who compose it and thebellicose din they produce. There is a note of barbarism in the brassyjar and clamor of the instruments, enhanced by the bewildering ambitionof each player to force through his piece the most noise and jangle, which is not always covered and subdued into a harmonious whole by thewhang of the bass drum. 

There was nothing of this incongruity between this band of Tuscarorasand their occupation. Unaccustomed to associate the North AmericanIndian with music, the traveler at once sees the natural relation ofthe Indians with the brass band. These Tuscaroras were stalwart fellows, broad-faced, big-limbed, serious, and they carried themselves with aclumsy but impressive dignity. There was no uniformity in their apparel, yet each one wore some portion of a martial and resplendent dress--anornamented kepi, or a scarlet sash, or big golden epaulets, or amilitary coat braided with yellow. The leader, who was a giant, and carried the smallest instrument, outshone all the others in hisincongruous splendor. No sooner had they found seats at one end of thecar than they unlimbered, and began through their various reluctantinstruments to deploy a tune. Although the tune did not get wellinto line, the effect was marvelous. The car was instantly filled tobursting. Miss Lamont, who was reading at the other end of the car, gavea nervous start, and looked up in alarm. King and Forbes promptly openedwindows, but this gave little relief. The trombone pumped and growled, the trumpet blared, the big brass instrument with a calyx like themonstrous tropical water-lily quivered and howled, and the drum, banginginto the discord, smashed every tympanum in the car. The Indians lookedpleased. No sooner had they broken one tune into fragments than theytook up another, and the car roared and rattled and jarred all theway to the lonely station where the band debarked, and was last seenconvoying a straggling Odd-Fellows' picnic down a country road. 

The incident, trivial in itself, gave rise to serious reflectionstouching the capacity and use of the red man in modern life. Here is apeaceful outlet for all his wild instincts. Let the government turn allthe hostiles on the frontier into brass bands, and we shall hear no moreof the Indian question. 

The railway along the shore of Lake Ontario is for the most partmonotonous. After leaving the picturesque highlands about Lewiston, thecountry is flat, and although the view over the lovely sheet of bluewater is always pleasing, there is something bleak even in summer inthis vast level expanse from which the timber has been cut away. It mayhave been mere fancy, but to the tourists the air seemed thin, and thescene, artistically speaking, was cold and colorless. With every desireto do justice to the pretty town of Oswego, which lies on a gentle slopeby the lake, it had to them an out-of-doors, unprotected, remote aspect. Seen from the station, it did not appear what it is, the handsomest cityon Lake Ontario, with the largest starch factory in the world. 

It was towards evening when the train reached Cape Vincent, wherethe steamer waited to transport passengers down the St. Lawrence. Theweather had turned cool; the broad river, the low shores, the longislands which here divide its lake-like expanse, wanted atmosphericwarmth, and the tourists could not escape the feeling of lonesomeness, as if they were on the other side of civilization, rather than in one ofthe great streams of summer frolic and gayety. It was therefore a veryagreeable surprise to them when a traveling party alighted from oneof the cars, which had come from Rome, among whom they recognized Mrs. Farquhar. 

"I knew my education never could be complete, " said that lady as sheshook hands, "and you never would consider me perfectly in the Unionuntil I had seen the Thousand Islands; and here I am, after many Yankeetribulations. "

"And why didn't you come by Niagara?" asked Miss Lamont. 

"My dear, perhaps your uncle could tell you that I saw enough of Niagarawhen I was a young lady, during the war. The cruelest thing you Yankeesdid was to force us, who couldn't fight, to go over there for sympathy. The only bearable thing about the fall of Richmond was that it relievedme from that Fall. But where, " she added, turning to King, "are the restof your party?"

"If you mean the Bensons, " said he, with a rather rueful countenance, "Ibelieve they have gone to the White Mountains. "

"Oh, not lost, but gone before. You believe? If you knew the nights Ihave lain awake thinking about you two, or you three! I fear you havenot been wide-awake enough yourself. "

"I knew I could depend on you, Mrs. Farquhar, for that. "

The steamer was moving off, taking a wide sweep to follow the channel. The passengers were all engaged in ascertaining the names of the islandsand of the owners of the cottages and club-houses. "It is a kind ofinformation I have learned to dispense with, " said Mrs. Farquhar. Andthe tourists, except three or four resolutely inquisitive, soon tiredof it. The islands multiplied; the boat wound in and out among themin narrow straits. To sail thus amid rocky islets, hirsute with firs, promised to be an unfailing pleasure. It might have been, if darknesshad not speedily fallen. But it is notable how soon passengers on asteamer become indifferent and listless in any sort of scenery. Wherethe scenery is monotonous and repeats itself mile after mile andhour after hour, an intolerable weariness falls upon the company. Theenterprising group who have taken all the best seats in the bow, withthe intention of gormandizing the views, exhibit little stayingpower; either the monotony or the wind drives them into the cabin. Andpassengers in the cabin occupying chairs and sofas, surrounded by theirbaggage, always look bored and melancholy. 

"I always think, " said Mrs. Farquhar, "that I am going to enjoy a rideon a steamer, but I never do. It is impossible to get out of a draught, and the progress is so slow that variety enough is not presented tothe eye to keep one from ennui. " Nevertheless, Mrs. Farquhar and Kingremained on deck, in such shelter as they could find, during the threehours' sail, braced up by the consciousness that they were doing theirduty in regard to the enterprise that has transformed this lovely streaminto a highway of display and enjoyment. Miss Lamont and the artist wentbelow, frankly confessing that they could see all that interested themfrom the cabin windows. And they had their reward; for in this littlecabin, where supper was served, a drama was going on between thecook and the two waiting-maids and the cabin boy, a drama of love andcoquetry and jealousy and hope deferred, quite as important to thoseconcerned as any of the watering-place comedies, and played with entireunconsciousness of the spectators. 

The evening was dark, and the navigation in the tortuous channelssometimes difficult, and might have been dangerous but for thelighthouses. The steamer crept along in the shadows of the lowislands, making frequent landings, and never long out of sight ofthe illuminations of hotels and cottages. Possibly by reason of theseilluminations this passage has more variety by night than by day. Therewas certainly a fascination about this alternating brilliancy and gloom. On nearly every island there was at least a cottage, and on the largerislands were great hotels, camp-meeting establishments, and houses andtents for the entertainment of thousands of people. Late as it was inthe season, most of the temporary villages and solitary lodges wereilluminated; colored lamps were set about the grounds, Chinese lanternshung in the evergreens, and on half a dozen lines radiating from thebelfry of the hotel to the ground, while all the windows blazed andscintillated. Occasionally as the steamer passed these places ofirrepressible gayety rockets were let off, Bengal-lights were burned, and once a cannon attempted to speak the joy of the sojourners. It waslike a continued Fourth of July, and King's heart burned within himwith national pride. Even Mrs. Farquhar had to admit that it was a fairyspectacle. During the months of July and August this broad river, with its fantastic islands, is at night simply a highway of glory. Theworldlings and the camp-meeting gatherings vie with each other in thedisplay of colored lights and fireworks. And such places as the ThousandIslands Park, Wellesley and Wesley parks, and so on, twinkling withlamps and rosy with pyrotechnics, like sections of the sky dropped uponthe earth, create in the mind of the steamer pilgrim an indescribableearthly and heavenly excitement. He does not look upon these displaysas advertisements of rival resorts, but as generous contributions to thehilarity of the world. 

It is, indeed, a marvelous spectacle, this view for thirty or fortymiles, and the simple traveler begins to realize what Americanenterprise is when it lays itself out for pleasure. These miles andmiles of cottages, hotels, parks, and camp-meetings are the creation ofonly a few years, and probably can scarcely be paralleled elsewherein the world for rapidity of growth. But the strongest impressionthe traveler has is of the public spirit of these summer sojourners, speculators, and religious enthusiasts. No man lives to himself alone, or builds his cottage for his selfish gratification. He makes fantasticcarpentry, and paints and decorates and illuminates and shows fireworks, for the genuine sake of display. One marvels that a person should comehere for rest and pleasure in a spirit of such devotion to the publicweal, and devote himself night after night for months to illuminatinghis house and lighting up his island, and tearing open the sky withrockets and shaking the air with powder explosions, in order that theriver may be continually en fete. 

At half-past eight the steamer rounded into view of the hotels andcottages at Alexandria Bay, and the enchanting scene drew all thepassengers to the deck. 

The Thousand Islands Hotel, and the Crossman House, where our partyfound excellent accommodations, were blazing and sparkling like thespectacular palaces in an opera scene. Rows of colored lamps were setthickly along the shore, and disposed everywhere among the rocks onwhich the Crossman House stands; lights glistened from all the islands, from a thousand row-boats, and in all the windows. It was very likeVenice, seen from the lagoon, when the Italians make a gala-night. 

If Alexandria Bay was less enchanting as a spectacle by daylight, it wasstill exceedingly lovely and picturesque; islands and bays and windingwaterways could not be better combined for beauty, and the structuresthat taste or ambition has raised on the islands or rocky points arewell enough in keeping with the general holiday aspect. One of theprettiest of these cottages is the Bonnicastle of the late Dr. Holland, whose spirit more or less pervades this region. It is charminglysituated on a projecting point of gray rocks veined with color, enlivened by touches of scarlet bushes and brilliant flowers planted inlittle spots of soil, contrasting with the evergreen shrubs. It commandsa varied and delicious prospect, and has an air of repose and peace. 

I am sorry to say that while Forbes and Miss Lamont floated, so tospeak, in all this beauty, like the light-hearted revelers they were, King was scarcely in a mood to enjoy it. It seemed to him fictitious anda little forced. There was no message for him at the Crossman House. Hisrestlessness and absentmindedness could not escape the observation ofMrs. Farquhar, and as the poor fellow sadly needed a confidante, she wassoon in possession of his story. 

"I hate slang, " she said, when he had painted the situation black enoughto suit Mrs. Bartlett Glow even, "and I will not give my sex away, but Iknow something of feminine doubtings and subterfuges, and I give you myjudgment that Irene is just fretting herself to death, and praying thatyou may have the spirit to ride rough-shod over her scruples. Yes, it isjust as true in this prosaic time as it ever was, that women like to becarried off by violence. In their secret hearts, whatever they may say, they like to see a knight batter down the tower and put all the garrisonexcept themselves to the sword. I know that I ought to be on Mrs. Glow's side. It is the sensible side, the prudent side; but I doadmire recklessness in love. Probably you'll be uncomfortable, perhapsunhappy--you are certain to be if you marry to please society and notyourself--but better a thousand times one wild rush of real passion, of self-forgetting love, than an age of stupid, conventional affectionapproved by your aunt. Oh, these calculating young people!" Mrs. Farquhar's voice trembled and her eyes flashed. "I tell you, my friend, life is not worth living in a conventional stagnation. You see insociety how nature revenges itself when its instincts are repressed. "

Mrs. Farquhar turned away, and King saw that her eyes were full oftears. She stood a moment looking away over the sparkling water to thesoft islands on the hazy horizon. Was she thinking of her own marriage?Death had years ago dissolved it, and were these tears, not those ofmourning, but for the great experience possible in life, so seldomrealized, missed forever? Before King could frame, in the tumult of hisown thoughts, any reply, she turned towards him again, with her usualsmile, half of badinage and half of tenderness, and said:

"Come, this is enough of tragedy for one day; let us go on the IslandWanderer, with the other excursionists, among the isles of the blest. "

The little steamer had already its load, and presently was under way, puffing and coughing, on its usual afternoon trip among the islands. The passengers were silent, and appeared to take the matter seriously--asort of linen-duster congregation, of the class who figure in the homelydialect poems of the Northern bards, Mrs. Farquhar said. They werechiefly interested in knowing the names of the successful people who hadbuilt these fantastic dwellings, and who lived on illuminations. Theircuriosity was easily gratified, for in most cases the owners had paintedtheir names, and sometimes their places of residence, in staring whiteletters on conspicuous rocks. There was also exhibited, for the benefitof invalids, by means of the same white paint, here and there the nameof a medicine that is a household word in this patent-right generation. So the little steamer sailed, comforted by these remedies, through thestrait of Safe Nervine, round the bluff of Safe Tonic, into the open bayof Safe Liver Cure. It was a healing voyage, and one in which enterprisewas so allied with beauty that no utilitarian philosopher could raise aquestion as to the market value of the latter. 

The voyage continued as far as Gananoque, in Canada, where thepassengers went ashore, and wandered about in a disconsolate way to seenothing. King said, however, that he was more interested in the placethan in any other he had seen, because there was nothing interesting init; it was absolutely without character, or a single peculiarity eitherof Canada or of the United States. Indeed, this north shore seemed toall the party rather bleak even in summertime, and the quality of thesunshine thin. 

It was, of course, a delightful sail, abounding in charming views, up"lost channels, " through vistas of gleaming water overdrooped by tenderfoliage, and now and then great stretches of sea, and always islands, islands. 

"Too many islands too much alike, " at length exclaimed Mrs. Farquhar, "and too many tasteless cottages and temporary camping structures. "

The performance is, indeed, better than the prospectus. For there arenot merely the poetical Thousand Islands; by actual count there aresixteen hundred and ninety-two. The artist and Miss Lamont were tryingto sing a fine song they discovered in the Traveler's Guide, inspiredperhaps by that sentimental ditty, "The Isles of Greece, the Isles ofGreece, " beginning, "O Thousand Isles! O Thousand Isles!"

It seemed to King that a poem might be constructed more in accordancewith the facts and with the scientific spirit of the age. Something likethis:

 "O Sixteen Hundred Ninety-two Isles! O Islands 1692! Where the fisher spreads his wiles, And the muskallonge goes through! Forever the cottager gilds the same With nightly pyrotechnic flame; And it's O the Isles! The 1692!"

Aside from the pyrotechnics, the chief occupations of this placeare boating and fishing. Boats abound--row-boats, sail-boats, andsteam-launches for excursion parties. The river consequently presentsan animated appearance in the season, and the prettiest effects areproduced by the white sails dipping about among the green islands. Thefavorite boat is a canoe with a small sail stepped forward, which issteered without centre-board or rudder, merely by a change of positionin the boat of the man who holds the sheet. While the fishermen arehere, it would seem that the long, snaky pickerel is the chief gamepursued and caught. But this is not the case when the fishermen returnhome, for then it appears that they have been dealing mainly withmuskallonge, and with bass by the way. No other part of the countryoriginates so many excellent fish stories as the Sixteen Hundred andNinety-two Islands, and King had heard so many of them that he suspectedthere must be fish in these waters. That afternoon, when they returnedfrom Gananoque he accosted an old fisherman who sat in his boat at thewharf awaiting a customer. 

"I suppose there is fishing here in the season?"

The man glanced up, but deigned no reply to such impertinence. 

"Could you take us where we would be likely to get any muskallonge?"

"Likely?" asked the man. "What do you suppose I am here for?"

"I beg your pardon. I'm a stranger here. I'd like to try my hand at amuskallonge. About how do they run here as to size?"

"Well, " said the fisherman, relenting a little, "that depends upon whotakes you out. If you want a little sport, I can take you to it. Theyare running pretty well this season, or were a week ago. "

"Is it too late?"

"Well, they are scarcer than they were, unless you know where to go. Icall forty pounds light for a muskallonge; fifty to seventy is about myfigure. If you ain't used to this kind of fishing, and go with me, you'dbetter tie yourself in the boat. They are a powerful fish. You see thatlittle island yonder? A muskallonge dragged me in this boat four timesround that island one day, and just as I thought I was tiring him out hejumped clean over the island, and I had to cut the line. "

King thought he had heard something like this before, and he engagedthe man for the next day. That evening was the last of the grandilluminations for the season, and our party went out in the Crossmansteam-launch to see it. Although some of the cottages were vacated, andthe display was not so extensive as in August, it was still marvelouslybeautiful, and the night voyage around the illuminated islands wassomething long to be remembered. 

There were endless devices of colored lamps and lanterns, figures ofcrosses, crowns, the Seal of Solomon, and the most strange effectsproduced on foliage and in the water by red and green and purple fires. It was a night of enchantment, and the hotel and its grounds on the darkbackground of the night were like the stately pleasure-house in "KublaKhan. "

But the season was drawing to an end. The hotels, which could notfind room for the throngs on Saturday night, say, were nearly empty onMonday, so easy are pleasure-seekers frightened away by a touch of cold, forgetting that in such a resort the most enjoyable part of the yearcomes with the mellow autumn days. That night at ten o'clock the bandwas scraping away in the deserted parlor, with not another person inattendance, without a single listener. Miss Lamont happened to peepthrough the window-blinds from the piazza and discover this residuum ofgayety. The band itself was half asleep, but by sheer force of habit itkept on, the fiddlers drawing the perfunctory bows, and the melancholyclarionet men breathing their expressive sighs. It was a dismal sight. The next morning the band had vanished. 

The morning was lowering, and a steady rain soon set in for the day. No fishing, no boating; nothing but drop, drop, and the reminiscence ofpast pleasure. Mist enveloped the islands and shut out the view. Eventhe spirits of Mrs. Farquhar were not proof against this, and she triedto amuse herself by reconstructing the season out of the specimens ofguests who remained, who were for the most part young ladies who hadduty written on their faces, and were addicted to spectacles. 

"It could not have been, " she thought, "ultrafashionable or madly gay. Ithink the good people come here; those who are willing to illuminate. "

"Oh, there is a fast enough life at some of the hotels in the summer, "said the artist. 

"Very likely. Still, if I were recruiting for schoolmarms, I should comehere. I like it thoroughly, and mean to be here earlier next year. The scenery is enchanting, and I quite enjoy being with 'ProverbialPhilosophy' people. "

Late in the gloomy afternoon King went down to the office, and the clerkhanded him a letter. He took it eagerly, but his countenance fell whenhe saw that it bore a New York postmark, and had been forwarded fromRichfield. It was not from Irene. He put it in his pocket and wentmoodily to his room. He was in no mood to read a homily from his uncle. 

Ten minutes after, he burst into Forbes's room with the open letter inhis hand. 

"See here, old fellow, I'm off to the Profile House. Can you get ready?"

"Get ready? Why, you can't go anywhere tonight. "

"Yes I can. The proprietor says he will send us across to Redwood tocatch the night train for Ogdensburg. "

"But how about the Lachine Rapids? You have been talking about thoserapids for two months. I thought that was what we came here for. "

"Do you want to run right into the smallpox at Montreal?"

"Oh, I don't mind. I never take anything of that sort. "

"But don't you see that it isn't safe for the Lamonts and Mrs. Farquharto go there?"

"I suppose not; I never thought of that. You have dragged me all overthe continent, and I didn't suppose there was any way of escaping therapids. But what is the row now? Has Irene telegraphed you that she hasgot over her chill?"

"Read that letter. "

Forbes took the sheet and read:

"NEW YORK, September 2, 1885. 

"MY DEAR STANHOPE, --We came back to town yesterday, and I find aconsiderable arrears of business demanding my attention. A suit hasbeen brought against the Lavalle Iron Company, of which I have been theattorney for some years, for the possession of an important part of itsterritory, and I must send somebody to Georgia before the end of thismonth to look up witnesses and get ready for the defense. If you arethrough your junketing by that time, it will be an admirable opportunityfor you to learn the practical details of the business.... Perhaps itmay quicken your ardor in the matter if I communicate to you anotherfact. Penelope wrote me from Richfield, in a sort of panic, that shefeared you had compromised your whole future by a rash engagement with ayoung lady from Cyrusville, Ohio--a Miss Benson-and she asked me touse my influence with you. I replied to her that I thought that, in thelanguage of the street, you had compromised your future, if that weretrue, for about a hundred cents on the dollar. I have had businessrelations with Mr. Benson for twenty years. He is the principal ownerin the Lavalle Iron Mine, and he is one of the most sensible, sound, and upright men of my acquaintance. He comes of a good old New Englandstock, and if his daughter has the qualities of her father and I hearthat she has been exceedingly well educated besides she is not a badmatch even for a Knickerbocker. 

"Hoping that you will be able to report at the office before the end ofthe month, "I am affectionately yours, "SCHUYLER BREVOORT. "

"Well, that's all right, " said the artist, after a pause. "I suppose theworld might go on if you spend another night in this hotel. But if youmust go, I'll bring on the women and the baggage when navigation opensin the morning. "

XVI. WHITE MOUNTAINS, LENNOX. 

The White Mountains are as high as ever, as fine in sharp outlineagainst the sky, as savage, as tawny; no other mountains in the worldof their height so well keep, on acquaintance, the respect of mankind. There is a quality of refinement in their granite robustness; theirdesolate, bare heights and sky-scraping ridges are rosy in the dawn andviolet at sunset, and their profound green gulfs are still mysterious. Powerful as man is, and pushing, he cannot wholly vulgarize them. Hecan reduce the valleys and the show "freaks" of nature to his own morallevel, but the vast bulks and the summits remain for the most parthaughty and pure. 

Yet undeniably something of the romance of adventure in a visit to theWhite Hills is wanting, now that the railways penetrate every valley, and all the physical obstacles of the journey are removed. One can neveragain feel the thrill that he experienced when, after a weary all-dayjolting in the stage-coach, or plodding hour after hour on foot, hesuddenly came in view of a majestic granite peak. Never again by the newrail can he have the sensation that he enjoyed in the ascent of MountWashington by the old bridlepath from Crawford's, when, climbing out ofthe woods and advancing upon that marvelous backbone of rock, the wholeworld opened upon his awed vision, and the pyramid of the summit stoodup in majesty against the sky. Nothing, indeed, is valuable that iseasily obtained. This modern experiment of putting us through theworld--the world of literature, experience, and travel--at excursionrates is of doubtful expediency. 

I cannot but think that the White Mountains are cheapened a little bythe facilities of travel and the multiplication of excellent places ofentertainment. If scenery were a sentient thing, it might feel indignantat being vulgarly stared at, overrun and trampled on, by a horde oftourists who chiefly value luxurious hotels and easy conveyance. Itwould be mortified to hear the talk of the excursionists, which is moreabout the quality of the tables and the beds, and the rapidity withwhich the "whole thing can be done, " than about the beauty and thesublimity of nature. The mountain, however, was made for man, and notman for the mountain; and if the majority of travelers only get outof these hills what they are capable of receiving, it may be somesatisfaction to the hills that they still reserve their glories for theeyes that can appreciate them. Perhaps nature is not sensitive aboutbeing run after for its freaks and eccentricities. If it were, we couldaccount for the catastrophe, a few years ago, in the Franconia Notchflume. Everybody went there to see a bowlder which hung suspendedover the stream in the narrow canon. This curiosity attracted annuallythousands of people, who apparently cared more for this toy thanfor anything else in the region. And one day, as if tired of thismisdirected adoration, nature organized a dam on the side of MountLafayette, filled it with water, and then suddenly let loose a floodwhich tore open the canon, carried the bowlder away, and spread ruin farand wide. It said as plainly as possible, you must look at me, and notat my trivial accidents. But man is an ingenious creature, and natureis no match for him. He now goes, in increasing number, to see where thebowlder once hung, and spends his time in hunting for it in the acresof wreck and debris. And in order to satisfy reasonable human curiosity, the proprietors of the flume have been obliged to select a bowlder andlabel it as the one that was formerly the shrine of pilgrimage. 

In his college days King had more than once tramped all over thisregion, knapsack on back, lodging at chance farmhouses and second-classhotels, living on viands that would kill any but a robust climber, andenjoying the life with a keen zest only felt by those who are abroad atall hours, and enabled to surprise Nature in all her varied moods. Itis the chance encounters that are most satisfactory; Nature is apt tobe whimsical to him who approaches her of set purpose at fixed hours. Heremembered also the jolting stage-coaches, the scramble for places, theexhilaration of the drive, the excitement of the arrival at the hotels, the sociability engendered by this juxtaposition and jostle of travel. It was therefore with a sense of personal injury that, when he reachedBethlehem junction, he found a railway to the Profile House, and anotherto Bethlehem. In the interval of waiting for his train he visitedBethlehem Street, with its mile of caravansaries, big boarding-houses, shops, and city veneer, and although he was delighted, as an American, with the "improvements" and with the air of refinement, he felt that ifhe wanted retirement and rural life, he might as well be with the hordesin the depths of the Adirondack wilderness. But in his impatience toreach his destination he was not sorry to avail himself of the railwayto the Profile House. And he admired the ingenuity which had carriedthis road through nine miles of shabby firs and balsams, in a wayabsolutely devoid of interest, in order to heighten the effect of thesurprise at the end in the sudden arrival at the Franconia Notch. Fromwhichever way this vast white hotel establishment is approached, it isalways a surprise. Midway between Echo Lake and Profile Lake, standingin the very jaws of the Notch, overhung on the one side by CannonMountain and on the other by a bold spur of Lafayette, it makesa contrast between the elegance and order of civilization and theuntouched ruggedness and sublimity of nature scarcely anywhere else tobe seen. 

The hotel was still full, and when King entered the great lobby andoffice in the evening a very animated scene met his eye. A big fire oflogs was blazing in the ample chimney-place; groups were seated aboutat ease, chatting, reading, smoking; couples promenaded up and down; andfrom the distant parlor, through the long passage, came the sound ofthe band. It was easy to see at a glance that the place had a distinctcharacter, freedom from conventionality, and an air of reposefulenjoyment. A large proportion of the assembly being residents for thesummer, there was so much of the family content that the transienttourists could little disturb it by the introduction of their element ofworry and haste. 

King found here many acquaintances, for fashion follows a certainroutine, and there is a hidden law by which the White Mountains breakthe transition from the sea-coast to Lenox. He was therefore notsurprised to be greeted by Mrs. Cortlandt, who had arrived the daybefore with her usual train. 

"At the end of the season, " she said, "and alone?"

"I expect to meet friends here. "

"So did I; but they have gone, or some of them have. "

"But mine are coming tomorrow. Who has gone?"

"Mrs. Pendragon and the Bensons. But I didn't suppose I could tell youany news about the Bensons. "

"I have been out of the way of the newspapers lately. Did you happen tohear where they have gone?"

"Somewhere around the mountains. You need not look so indifferent; theyare coming back here again. They are doing what I must do; and I wishyou would tell me what to see. I have studied the guide-books till mymind is a blank. Where shall I go?"

"That depends. If you simply want to enjoy yourselves, stay at thishotel--there is no better place--sit on the piazza, look at themountains, and watch the world as it comes round. If you want the bestpanoramic view of the mountains, the Washington and Lafayette rangestogether, go up to the Waumbec House. If you are after the best singlelimited view in the mountains, drive up to the top of Mount Willard, near the Crawford House--a delightful place to stay in a region full ofassociations, Willey House, avalanche, and all that. If you would liketo take a walk you will remember forever, go by the carriage road fromthe top of Mount Washington to the Glen House, and look into the greatgulfs, and study the tawny sides of the mountains. I don't know anythingmore impressive hereabouts than that. Close to, those granite rangeshave the color of the hide of the rhinoceros; when you look up to themfrom the Glen House, shouldering up into the sky, and rising to thecloud-clapped summit of Washington, it is like a purple highway intothe infinite heaven. No, you must not miss either Crawford's or the GlenHouse; and as to Mount Washington, that is a duty. "

"You might personally conduct us and expound by the way. "

King said he would like nothing better. Inquiry failed to give him anymore information of the whereabouts of the Bensons; but the clerk saidthey were certain to return to the Profile House. The next day the partywhich had been left behind at Alexandria Bay appeared, in high spirits, and ready for any adventure. Mrs. Farquhar declared at once that she hadno scruples about going up Washington, commonplace as the trip was, for her sympathies were now all with the common people. Of course MountWashington was of no special importance, now that the Black Mountainswere in the Union, but she hadn't a bit of prejudice. 

King praised her courage and her patriotism. But perhaps she did notknow how much she risked. He had been talking with some habitue's of theProfile, who had been coming here for years, and had just now for thefirst time been up Mount Washington, and they said that while the tripwas pleasant enough, it did not pay for the exertion. Perhaps Mrs. Farquhar did not know that mountain-climbing was disapproved of here assea-bathing was at Newport. It was hardly the thing one would liketo do, except, of course, as a mere lark, and, don't you know, with aparty. 

Mrs. Farquhar said that was just the reason she wanted to go. She waswilling to make any sacrifice; she considered herself just a missionaryof provincialism up North, where people had become so cosmopolitanthat they dared not enjoy anything. She was an enemy of the Bostonphilosophy. What is the Boston philosophy? Why, it is not to care aboutanything you do care about. 

The party that was arranged for this trip included Mrs. Cortlandtand her bevy of beauty and audacity, Miss Lamont and her uncle, Mrs. Farquhar, the artist, and the desperate pilgrim of love. Mrs. Farquharvowed to Forbes that she had dragged King along at the request of theproprietor of the hotel, who did not like to send a guest away, but hecouldn't have all the trees at Profile Lake disfigured with his cuttingand carving. People were running to him all the while to know what itmeant with "I. B. , " "I. B. , " "I. B. , " everywhere, like a grove ofBaal. 

From the junction to Fabyan's they rode in an observation car, all open, and furnished with movable chairs, where they sat as in a balcony. Itwas a picturesque load of passengers. There were the young ladies intrim traveling-suits, in what is called compact fighting trim; ladies inmourning; ladies in winter wraps; ladies in Scotch wraps; young men withshawl-straps and opera-glasses, standing, legs astride, consulting mapsand imparting information; the usual sweet pale girl with a bundle ofcat-tails and a decorative intention; and the nonchalant young man ina striped English boating cap, who nevertheless spoke American when hesaid anything. 

As they were swinging slowly along the engine suddenly fell intoa panic, puffing and sending up shrill shrieks of fear in rapidsuccession. There was a sedate cow on the track. The engine wasagitated, it shrieked more shrilly, and began backing in visible terror. Everybody jumped and stood up, and the women clung to the men, allfrightened. It was a beautiful exhibition of the sweet dependence of thesex in the hour of danger. The cow was more terrible than a lion on thetrack. The passengers all trembled like the engine. In fact, the onlycalm being was the cow, which, after satisfying her curiosity, walkedslowly off, wondering what it was all about. 

The cog-wheel railway is able to transport a large number ofexcursionists to the top of the mountain in the course of the morning. The tourists usually arrive there about the time the mist has creptup from the valleys and enveloped everything. Our party had the commonexperience. The Summit House, the Signal Station, the old Tip-top House, which is lashed down with cables, and rises ten feet higher than thehighest crag, were all in the clouds. Nothing was to be seen except thedim outline of these buildings. 

"I wonder, " said Mrs. Farquhar, as they stumbled along over the slipperystones, "what people come here for. "

"Just what we came for, " answered Forbes, "to say they have been on topof the mountain. "

They took refuge in the hotel, but that also was invaded by the damp, chill atmosphere, wrapped in and pervaded by the clouds. From thewindows nothing more was to be seen than is visible in a Russian steambath. But the tourists did not mind. They addressed themselves to thebusiness in hand. This was registering their names. A daily newspapercalled Among the Clouds is published here, and every person who gets hisname on the register in time can see it in print before the train goes. When the train descends, every passenger has one of these two-centcertificates of his exploit. When our party entered, there was a greatrun on the register, especially by women, who have a repugnance, as iswell known, to seeing their names in print. In the room was a hot stove, which was more attractive than the cold clouds, but unable to compete ininterest with the register. The artist, who seemed to be in a sardonicmood, and could get no chance to enter his name, watched the scene, while his friends enjoyed the view of the stove. After registering, the visitors all bought note-paper with a chromo heading, "Among theClouds, " and a natural wild-flower stuck on the corner, and then rushedto the writing-room in order to indite an epistle "from the summit. "This is indispensable. 

After that they were ready for the Signal Station. This is a greatattraction. The sergeant in charge looked bored to death, and in themood to predict the worst kind of weather. He is all day beset with acrowd craning their necks to look at him, and bothered with ten thousandquestions. He told King that the tourists made his life miserable;they were a great deal worse than the blizzards in the winter. And thegovernment, he said, does not take this into account in his salary. 

Occasionally there was an alarm that the mist was getting thin, that theclouds were about to break, and a rush was made out-of-doors, and thetourists dispersed about on the rocks. They were all on the qui vine tosee the hotel or the boarding-house they had left in the early morning. Excursionists continually swarmed in by rail or by carriage road. Theartist, who had one of his moods for wanting to see nature, said therewere too many women; he wanted to know why there were always so manywomen on excursions. "You can see nothing but excursionists; whicheverway you look, you see their backs. " These backs, looming out of themist, or discovered in a rift, seemed to enrage him. 

At length something actually happened. The curtain of cloud slowlylifted, exactly as in a theatre; for a moment there was a magnificentview of peaks, forests, valleys, a burst of sunshine on the lost world, and then the curtain dropped, amid a storm of "Ohs!" and "Ahs!" andintense excitement. Three or four times, as if in response to the callof the spectators, this was repeated, the curtain lifting every timeon a different scene, and then it was all over, and the heavy mistshut down on the registered and the unregistered alike. But everybodydeclared that they preferred it this way; it was so much better to havethese wonderful glimpses than a full view. They would go down and bragover their good-fortune. 

The excursionists by-and-by went away out of the clouds, glidingbreathlessly down the rails. When snow covers this track, descent issometimes made on a toboggan, but it is such a dangerous venture thatall except the operatives are now forbidden to try it. The velocityattained of three and a half miles in three minutes may seem nothingto a locomotive engineer who is making up time; it might seem slow to alover whose sweetheart was at the foot of the slide; to ordinary mortalsa mile a minute is quite enough on such an incline. 

Our party, who would have been much surprised if any one had calledthem an excursion, went away on foot down the carriage road to the GlenHouse. A descent of a few rods took them into the world of light andsun, and they were soon beyond the little piles of stones which mark thespots where tourists have sunk down bewildered in the mist and died ofexhaustion and cold. These little mounds help to give Mount Washingtonits savage and implacable character. It is not subdued by all the roadsand rails and scientific forces. For days it may lie basking and smilingin the sun, but at any hour it is liable to become inhospitable andpitiless, and for a good part of the year the summit is the area ofelemental passion. 

How delightful it was to saunter down the winding road into a regionof peace and calm; to see from the safe highway the great giants in alltheir majesty; to come to vegetation, to the company of familiar trees, and the haunts of men! As they reached the Glen House all the lineof rugged mountain-peaks was violet in the reflected rays. There werepeople on the porch who were looking at this spectacle. Among them theeager eyes of King recognized Irene. 

"Yes, there she is, " cried Mrs. Farquhar; "and there--oh, what atreacherous North----is Mr. Meigs also. "

It was true. There was Mr. Meigs, apparently domiciled with the Bensonfamily. There might have been a scene, but fortunately the porch wasfull of loungers looking at the sunset, and other pedestrians in couplesand groups were returning from afternoon strolls. It might be thecrisis of two lives, but to the spectator nothing more was seen than theeveryday meeting of friends and acquaintances. A couple say good-nightat the door of a drawing-room. Nothing has happened--nothing except alook, nothing except the want of pressure of the hand. The man loungesoff to the smoking-room, cool and indifferent; the woman, in herchamber, falls into a passion of tears, and at the end of a wakefulnight comes into a new world, hard and cold and uninteresting. Or thereverse happens. It is the girl who tosses the thing off with a smile, perhaps with a sigh, as the incident of a season, while the man, woundedand bitter, loses a degree of respect for woman, and pitches his lifehenceforth on a lower plane. 

In the space of ten steps King passed through an age of emotions, but the strongest one steadied him. There was a general movement, exclamations, greetings, introductions. King was detained a moment byMr. And Mrs. Benson; he even shook hands with Mr. Meigs, who had thetact to turn immediately from the group and talk with somebody else;while Mrs. Farquhar and Miss Lamont and Mrs. Cortlandt precipitatedthemselves upon Irene in a little tempest of cries and caresses anddelightful feminine fluttering. Truth to say, Irene was so overcome bythese greetings that she had not the strength to take a step forwardwhen King at length approached her. She stood with one hand graspingthe back of the chair. She knew that that moment would decide her life. Nothing is more admirable in woman, nothing so shows her strength, asher ability to face in public such a moment. It was the critical momentfor King--how critical the instant was, luckily, he did not then know. If there had been in his eyes any doubt, any wavering, any timidity, hiscause would have been lost. But there was not. There was infinite loveand tenderness, but there was also resolution, confidence, possession, mastery. There was that that would neither be denied nor turned aside, nor accept any subterfuge. If King had ridden up on a fiery steed, felled Meigs with his "mailed hand, " and borne away the fainting girl onhis saddle pommel, there could have been no more doubt of his resoluteintention. In that look all the mists of doubt that her judgment hadraised in Irene's mind to obscure love vanished. Her heart within hergave a great leap of exultation that her lover was a man strong enoughto compel, strong enough to defend. At that instant she knew that shecould trust him against the world. In that moment, while he still heldher hand, she experienced the greatest joy that woman ever knows--thebliss of absolute surrender. 

"I have come, " he said, "in answer to your letter. And this is myanswer. "

She had it in his presence, and read it in his eyes. With the delicioussense thrilling her that she was no longer her own master there camea new timidity. She had imagined that if ever she should meet Mr. Kingagain, she should defend her course, and perhaps appear in his eyes in avery heroic attitude. Now she only said, falteringly, and looking down, "I--I hoped you would come. "

That evening there was a little dinner given in a private parlor by Mr. Benson in honor of the engagement of his daughter. It was great larksfor the young ladies whom Mrs. Cortlandt was chaperoning, who behavedwith an elaboration of restraint and propriety that kept Irene in aflutter of uneasiness. Mr. Benson, in mentioning the reason for the"little spread, " told the story of Abraham Lincoln's sole responseto Lord Lyons, the bachelor minister of her majesty, when he cameofficially to announce the marriage of the Prince of Wales--"Lord Lyons, go thou and do likewise;" and he looked at Forbes when he told it, whichmade Miss Lamont blush, and appear what the artist had described herto King--the sweetest thing in life. Mrs. Benson beamed with motherlycontent, and was quite as tearful as ungrammatical, but her mind waspractical and forecasting. "There'll have to be, " she confided to MissLamont, "more curtains in the parlor, and I don't know but new paper. "Mr. Meigs was not present. Mrs. Farquhar noticed this, and Mrs. Bensonremembered that he had said something about going down to North Conway, which gave King an opportunity to say to Mrs. Farquhar that she oughtnot to despair, for Mr. Meigs evidently moved in a circle, and wascertain to cross her path again. "I trust so, " she replied. "I've beenhis only friend through all this miserable business. " The dinner was nota great success. There was too much self-consciousness all round, andnobody was witty and brilliant. 

The next morning King took Irene to the Crystal Cascade. When he usedto frequent this pretty spot as a college boy, it had seemed to him theideal place for a love scene-much better than the steps of a hotel. He said as much when they were seated at the foot of the fall. It is acharming cascade fed by the water that comes down Tuckerman's Ravine. But more beautiful than the fall is the stream itself, foaming downthrough the bowlders, or lying in deep limpid pools which reflect thesky and the forest. The water is as cold as ice and as clear as cutglass; few mountain streams in the world, probably, are so absolutelywithout color. "I followed it up once, " King was saying, by way offilling in the pauses with personal revelations, "to the source. Thewoods on the side are dense and impenetrable, and the only way was tokeep in the stream and climb over the bowlders. There are innumerableslides and cascades and pretty falls, and a thousand beauties andsurprises. I finally came to a marsh, a thicket of alders, and aroundthis the mountain closed in an amphitheatre of naked perpendicular rocka thousand feet high. I made my way along the stream through thethicket till I came to a great bank and arch of snow--it was the last ofJuly--from under which the stream flowed. Water dripped in many littlerivulets down the face of the precipices--after a rain there are said tobe a thousand cascades there. I determined to climb to the summit, and go back by the Tip-top House. It does not look so from a littledistance, but there is a rough, zigzag sort of path on one side of theamphitheatre, and I found this, and scrambled up. When I reached the topthe sun was shining, and although there was nothing around me but pilesof granite rocks, without any sign of a path, I knew that I had mybearings so that I could either reach the house or a path leading to it. I stretched myself out to rest a few moments, and suddenly the scenewas completely shut in by a fog. [Irene put out her hand and touchedKing's. ] I couldn't tell where the sun was, or in what direction the hutlay, and the danger was that I would wander off on a spur, as the lostusually do. But I knew where the ravine was, for I was still on the edgeof it. "

"Why, " asked Irene, trembling at the thought of that danger so longago--"why didn't you go back down the ravine?"

"Because, " and King took up the willing little hand and pressed it tohis lips, and looked steadily in her eyes--"because that is not myway. It was nothing. I made what I thought was a very safe calculation, starting from the ravine as a base, to strike the Crawford bridle-pathat least a quarter of a mile west of the house. I hit it--but it showshow little one can tell of his course in a fog--I struck it within arod of the house! It was lucky for me that I did not go two rods furthereast. "

Ah me! how real and still present the peril seemed to the girl! "Youwill solemnly promise me, solemnly, will you not, Stanhope, never to gothere again--never--without me?"

The promise was given. "I have a note, " said King, after the promise wasrecorded and sealed, "to show you. It came this morning. It is from Mrs. Bartlett Glow. "

"Perhaps I'd rather not see it, " said Irene, a little stiffly. 

"Oh, there is a message to you. I'll read it. "

It was dated at Newport. 

 "MY DEAR STANHOPE, --The weather has changed. I hope it is more congenial where you are. It is horrid here. I am in a bad humor, chiefly about the cook. Don't think I'm going to inflict a letter on you. You don't deserve it besides. But I should like to know Miss Benson's address. We shall be at home in October, late, and I want her to come and make me a little visit. If you happen to see her, give her my love, and believe me your affectionate cousin, PENELOPE. "

The next day they explored the wonders of the Notch, and the next wereback in the serene atmosphere of the Profile House. How lovely it allwas; how idyllic; what a bloom there was on the hills; how amiableeverybody seemed; how easy it was to be kind and considerate! Kingwished he could meet a beggar at every turn. I know he made a greatimpression on some elderly maiden ladies at the hotel, who thought himthe most gentlemanly and good young man they had ever seen. Ah! if onecould always be in love and always young!

They went one day by invitation, Irene and Marion and King and theartist--as if it made any difference where they went--to Lonesome Lake, a private pond and fishing-lodge on the mountain-top, under the ledge ofCannon. There, set in a rim of forest and crags, lies a charming littlelake--which the mountain holds like a mirror for the sky and the cloudsand the sailing hawks--full of speckled trout, which have had to beeducated by skillful sportsmen to take the fly. From this lake one seesthe whole upper range of Lafayette, gray and purple against the sky. Onthe bank is a log cabin touched with color, with great chimneys, and asluxuriously comfortable as it is picturesque. 

While dinner was preparing, the whole party were on the lake in boats, equipped with fishing apparatus, and if the trout had been in half aswilling humor as the fisher, it would have been a bad day for them. Butperhaps they apprehended that it was merely a bridal party, and theywere leaping all over the lake, flipping their tails in the sun, andscorning all the visible wiles. Fish, they seemed to say, are not soeasily caught as men. 

There appeared to be a good deal of excitement in the boat thatcarried the artist and Miss Lamont. It was fly-fishing under extremedifficulties. The artist, who kept his flies a good deal of the time outof the boat, frankly confessed that he would prefer an honest worm andhook, or a net, or even a grappling-iron. Miss Lamont, with a great dealof energy, kept her line whirling about, and at length, on a successfulcast, landed the artist's hat among the water-lilies. There was nothingdiscouraging in this, and they both resumed operations with cheerfulnessand enthusiasm. But the result of every other cast was entanglement ofeach other's lines, and King noticed that they spent most of their timetogether in the middle of the boat, getting out of snarls. And at last, drifting away down to the outlet, they seemed to have given up fishingfor the more interesting occupation. The clouds drifted on; the fishleaped; the butcher-bird called from the shore; the sun was purplingLafayette. There were kinks in the leader that would not come out, thelines were inextricably tangled. The cook made the signals for dinner, and sent his voice echoing over the lake time and again before thesedevoted anglers heard or heeded. At last they turned the prow to thelanding, Forbes rowing, and Marion dragging her hand in the water, andlooking as if she had never cast a line. King was ready to pull the boaton to the float, and Irene stood by the landing expectant. In the bottomof the boat was one poor little trout, his tail curled up and his spotsfaded. 

"Whose trout is that?" asked Irene. 

"It belongs to both of us, " said Forbes, who seemed to have somedifficulty in adjusting his oars. 

"But who caught it?"

"Both of us, " said Marion, stepping out of the boat; "we really did. "There was a heightened color in her face and a little excitement in hermanner as she put her arm round Irene's waist and they walked up to thecabin. "Yes, it is true, but you are not to say anything about it yet, dear, for Mr. Forbes has to make his way, you know. "

When they walked down the mountain the sun was setting. Half-way down, at a sharp turn in the path, the trees are cut away just enough tomake a frame, in which Lafayette appears like an idealized picture ofa mountain. The sun was still on the heights, which were calm, strong, peaceful. They stood gazing at this heavenly vision till the rose haddeepened into violet, and then with slow steps descended through thefragrant woods. 

In October no region in the North has a monopoly of beauty, but thereis a certain refinement, or it may be a repose, in the Berkshire Hillswhich is in a manner typical of a distinct phase of American fashion. There is here a note of country life, of retirement, suggestive of theold-fashioned "country-seat. " It is differentiated from the caravansaryor the cottage life in the great watering-places. Perhaps it expressesin a sincerer way an innate love of rural existence. Perhaps it is onlya whim of fashion. Whatever it may be, there is here a moment of pause, a pensive air of the closing scene. The estates are ample, farms infact, with a sort of villa and park character, woods, pastures, meadows. When the leaves turn crimson and brown and yellow, and the frequentlakes reflect the tender sky and the glory of the autumn foliage, thereis much driving over the hills from country place to country place;there are lawn-tennis parties on the high lawns, whence the players inthe pauses of the game can look over vast areas of lovely country;there are open-air fetes, chance meetings at the clubhouse, chats on thehighway, walking excursions, leisurely dinners. In this atmosphere oneis on the lookout for an engagement, and a wedding here has a certaineclat. When one speaks of Great Barrington or Stockbridge or Lenox inthe autumn, a certain idea of social position is conveyed. 

Did Their Pilgrimage end on these autumn heights? To one of them, Iknow, the colored landscape, the dreamy atmosphere, the unique glorythat comes in October days, were only ecstatic suggestions of the lifethat opened before her. Love is victorious over any mood of nature, evenwhen exquisite beauty is used to heighten the pathos of decay. Ireneraved about the scenery. There is no place in the world beautiful enoughto have justified her enthusiasm, and there is none ugly enough to havekilled it. 

I do not say that Irene's letters to Mr. King were entirely taken upwith descriptions of the beauty of Lenox. That young gentleman had goneon business to Georgia. Mr. And Mrs. Benson were in Cyrusville. Irenewas staying with Mrs. Farquhar at the house of a friend. These lettershad a great deal of Lovers' Latin in them--enough to have admitted thewriter into Yale College if this were a qualification. The lettersshe received were equally learned, and the fragments Mrs. Farquhar waspermitted to hear were so interrupted by these cabalistic expressionsthat she finally begged to be excused. She said she did not doubt thatto be in love was a liberal education, but pedantry was uninteresting. Latin might be convenient at this stage; but later on, for little tiffsand reconciliations, French would be much more useful. 

One of these letters southward described a wedding. The principals in itwere unknown to King, but in the minute detail of the letter there was apersonal flavor which charmed him. He would have been still more charmedcould he have seen the girl's radiant face as she dashed it off. Mrs. Farquhar watched her with a pensive interest awhile, went behind herchair, and, leaning over, kissed her forehead, and then with slow stepand sad eyes passed out to the piazza, and stood with her face to thevalley and the purple hills. But it was a faded landscape she saw.