care particularly to examine it, I won't go | to the expense of lighting up. You might pick up a good many odd pieces of bric-àbrac around here if you chose to strike a match and investigate; but I would not advise you to do so. It would pay better to throw the things out of the window than to carry them down stairs. The particular piece of indoor decoration to which I wish to call your attention is this,' and he led me to a little wooden frame which hung against the wall near the window. Behind a dusty piece of glass it held what appeared to be a leaf from a small magazine or journal. "There," said he, you see a page from The Grasshopper, a humorous paper which flourished in this city some half-dozen years ago. I used to write regularly for that paper, as you may remember." 66 “Oh, yes, indeed!" I exclaimed, "and I shall never forget your Conundrum of the Anvil' which appeared in it. How often have I laughed at that_most_wonderful conceit, and how often have I put it to my friends!" Barbel gazed at me silently for a moment, and then he pointed to the frame. "That printed page," he said solemnly, contains the 'Conundrum of the Anvil.' I hang it there, so that I can see it while I work. That conundrum ruined me. It was the last thing I wrote for The Grasshopper. How I ever came to imagine it I cannot tell. It is one of those things which occur to a man but once in a lifetime. After the wild shout of delight with which the public greeted that conundrum my subsequent efforts met with hoots of derision. The Grasshopper turned its hindlegs upon me. I sank from bad to worse--much worse-until at last I found myself reduced to my present occupation, which is that of grinding points to pins. By this I procure my bread, coffee, and tobacco, and sometimes potatoes and meat. One day, while I was hard at work, an organ-grinder came into the street below. He played the serenade from Trovatore; and the familiar notes brought back visions of old days and old delights, when the successful writer wore good clothes and sat at operas, when he looked into sweet eyes and talked of Italian airs, when his future appeared all a succession of bright scenery and joyous acts, without any provision for a drop-curtain. And as my ear listened, and my mind wandered in this happy retrospect, my every faculty seemed exalted, and, without any thought upon the matter, I ground points upon my pins so fine, so regular, and smooth, that they would have pierced with ease the leather of a boot, or slipped among, without abrasion, the finest threads of rare old lace. When the organ stopped, and I fell back into my real world of cobwebs and mustiness, I gazed upon the pins I had just ground, and, without a moment's hesitation, I threw them into the street, and reported the lot as spoiled. This cost me a little money, but it saved me my livelihood." After a few moments of silence, Barbel resumed, "I have no more to say to you, my young friend. All I want you to do is to look upon that framed conundrum, then upon this grindstone, and then to go home and reflect. As for me, I have a gross of pins to grind before the sun goes down. I cannot say that my depression of mind was at all relieved by what I had seen and heard. I had lost sight of Barbel for some years, and I had supposed him still floating on the sun-sparkling stream of prosperity where I had last seen him. It was a great shock to me to find him in such a condition of poverty and squalor, and to see a man who had originated the "Conundrum of the Anvil" reduced to the soul-depressing occupation of grinding pin-points. As I walked and thought, the dreadful picture of a totally eclipsed future arose before my mind. The moral of Barbel sank deep into my heart. When I reached home I told my wife the story of my friend Barbel. She listened with a sad and eager interest. "I am afraid," she said, "if our fortunes do not quickly mend, that we shall have to buy two little grindstones. You know I could help you at that sort of thing." For a long time we sat together and talked, and devised many plans for the future. I did not think it necessary yet for me to look out for a pin-contract; but I must find some way of making money, or we should starve to death. Of course, the first thing that suggested itself was the possibility of finding some other business; but, apart from the difficulty of immediately obtaining remunerative work in occupations to which I had not been trained, I felt a great and natural reluct ance to give up a profession for which I had carefully prepared myself, and which I had adopted as my life-work. It would be very hard for me to lay down my pen forever, and to close the top of my inkstand upon all the bright and happy fancies which I had seen mirrored in its tranquil pool. We talked and pondered the rest of that day and a good deal of the night, but we came to no conclusion as to what it would be best for us to do. The next day I determined to go and call upon the editor of the journal for which, in happier days, before the blight of His Wife's Deceased Sister" rested upon me, I used most frequently to write, and, having frankly explained my condition to him, to ask his advice. The editor was a good man, and had always been my friend. He listened with great attention to what I told him, and evidently sympathized with me in my trouble. As we have written to you," he said, "the only reason why we did not accept the manuscripts you sent us was, that they would have disappointed the high hopes that the public had formed in regard to you. We have had letter after letter asking when we were going to publish another story like 'His Wife's Deceased Sister.' We felt, and we still feel, that it would be wrong to allow you to destroy the fair fabric which yourself has raised. But," he added, with a kind smile, "I see very plainly that your well-deserved reputation will be of little advantage to you if you should starve at the moment that its genial beams are, so to speak, lighting you up." 66 Its beams are not genial," I answered. "They have scorched and withered me." "How would you like," said the editor, after a short reflection, to allow us to publish the stories you have recently written under some other name than your own? That would satisfy us and the public, would put money in your pocket, and would not interfere with your reputation. Joyfully I seized that noble fellow by the hand, and instantly accepted his proposition. "Of course, said I, "a reputation is a very good thing; but no reputation can take the place of food, clothes, and a house to live in; and I gladly agree to sink my over-illumined name into oblivion, and to appear before the public as a new and unknown writer." "I hope that need not be for long," he said, "for I feel sure that you will yet write stories as good as 'His Wife's Deceased Sister.' All the manuscripts I had on hand I now sent to my good friend the editor, and in due and proper order they appeared in his journal under the name of John Darmstadt, which I had selected as a substitute for my own, permanently disabled. I made a similar arrangement with other editors, and John Darmstadt received the credit of everything that proceeded from my pen. Our circumstances now became very comfortable, and occasionally we even allowed ourselves to indulge in little dreams of prosperity. Time passed on very pleasantly; one year, another, and then a little son was born to us. It is often difficult, I believe, for thoughtful persons to decide whether the beginning of their conjugal career, or the earliest weeks in the life of their firstborn, be the happiest and proudest period of their existence. For myself I can only say that the same exaltation of mind, the same rarefication of idea and invention, which succeeded upon my wedding-day came upon me now. As then, my ecstatic emotions crystallized themselves into a motive for a story, and without delay I set myself to work upon it. My boy was about six weeks old when the manuscript was finished; and one evening, as we sat before a comfortable fire in our sittingroom, with the curtains drawn, and the soft lamp lighted, and the baby sleeping soundly in the adjoining chamber, I read the story to my wife. 66 When I had finished, my wife arose, and threw herself into my arms. was never so proud of you," she said, her glad eyes sparkling, as I am at this moment. That is a wonderful story! It is, indeed I am sure it is, just as good as 'His Wife's Deceased Sister.' As she spoke these words, a sudden and chilling sensation crept over us both. All her warmth and fervor, and the proud and happy glow engendered within me by this praise and appreciation from one I loved, vanished in an instant. We stepped apart, and gazed upon each other with pallid faces. In the same moment the terrible truth had flashed upon us both. This story was as good as "His Wife's Deceased Sister!" We stood silent. The exceptional lot COURCY. of Barbel's super-pointed pins seemed to THE LAY OF THE FEARLESS DE pierce our very souls. A dreadful vision rose before me of an impending fall and crash, in which our domestic happiness should vanish, and our prospects for our boy be wrecked, just as we had begun to build them up. 66 A My wife approached me, and took my hand in hers, which was as cold as ice. "Be strong and firm," she said. great danger threatens us, but you must brace yourself against it. Be strong and Be strong and firm.' I pressed her hand, and we said no more that night. The next day I took the manuscript I had just written, and carefully enfolded it in stout wrapping-paper. Then I went to a neighboring grocery store, and bought a small, strong, tin box, originally intended for biscuit, with a cover that fitted tightly. In this I placed my manuscript; and then I took the box to a tinsmith, and had the top fastened on with hard solder. When I went home I ascended into the garret, and brought down to my study a ship's cash-box, which had once belonged to one of my family who was a sea-captain. This box was very heavy, and firmly bound with iron, and was secured by two massive locks. Calling my wife, I told her of the contents of the tin case, which I then placed in the box, and, having shut down the heavy lid, I doubly locked it. "This key," said I, putting it in my pocket, "I shall throw into the river when I go out this afternoon." My wife watched me eagerly, with a pallid and firm, set countenance, but upon which I could see the faint glimmer of returning happiness. "Wouldn't it be well," she said, "to secure it still further by sealing-wax and pieces of tape?" no one "No," said I. "I do not believe that any one will attempt to tamper with our prosperity. And now, my dear," I continued in an impressive voice, but you, and, in the course of time, our son, shall know that this manuscript exists. When I am dead, those who survive me may, if they see fit, cause this box to be split open, and the story published. The reputation it may give my name cannot harm me then." [Menella B. Smedley, an English lady, who has written poems and stories of great interest and literary merit, was born early in the present century, and published anonymously, in 1845, a little volume, now rare, entitled Lays and Ballads from English His tory, by S. M. From this production we cite the noble and spirited lyric that follows-and we make room for it the more gladly since its comparative rarity has caused it to miss insertion in the various poetical anthologies.] The fame of the fearless De Courcy With his own right hand he won the land Powerless, in proud despair; At morn, and eve, and noon; Of the dim unfriendly sky, But when the trumpet-note of war Of knight, and steed, and plume; Night closeth darker round. The false king sate in his hall of state 'Mid knights and nobles free: "Who is there," he cried, "who will cross the tide, And do battle in France for me? 1 Prince Arthur, of Brittany, whose melancholy fate has been too often the theme of song and story to require notice here. My knights and my nobles? Frowning and pale | With his silver hair, that aged knight, Your faces grow as I tell my tale! Is there not one of this knightly ring Who dares do battle for his king?" Like a rock o'erhung with foam-clouds white, Proudly and calmly stands. He gazes on the monarch With a stern and starlike eye; The warriors they heard, but they spake not And the company muse and marvel much, a word; The earth some gazed upon, And some did raise a steadfast gaze To the face of false King John. Think ye they feared? They were Englishmen all, Though mutely they stood in their monarch's hall; The heroes of many a well-fought day, 'Twas a coward whiteness then did chase That the light of the old man's eye is such, After long captivity. His fetters hang upon him Like an unheeded thing; How the false king look'd aside; Is greater than pomp and pride! The false king spake to his squires around, For the knight still gazed upon him, The glow of shame from the false king's face; He paused, and a cloud on his dark brow fell; Oh, out then spake the beauteous queen:1 Were true De Courcy here this day, Freed from his galling chain, Never, oh never, should scoffers say, That, amid all England's rank and might, Their king had sought him a loyal knight, And sought such knight in vain!" Up started the monarch, and clear'd his brow, And bade them summon De Courcy now. Swiftly his messengers hasted away, And sought the cell where the hero lay; They bade him arise at his master's call, And follow their steps to the stately hall. He is brought before the council, There are chains upon his hands; Isabella, of Angoulême, wife to King John, celebrated for her beauty and high spirit. And his eye was like a star; And the words on the lips of the false king died, Like the murmuring sounds of an ebbing-tide By the traveller heard afar. From the warrior's form they loosed the chain; Was in the voice of the gray-hair'd knight; But a low stern sound, like that ye hear In the march of a mail-clad host by night. "Brother of Cœur de Lion," said he, "These chains have not dishonor'd me!" There was crushing scorn in each simple word Mightier than battle-axe or sword. Not long did the heart of the false king thrill Pleading his cause right craftily; ' Skill'd was his tongue in specious use Of promise fair and of feign'd excuse, Blended with words of strong appeal To love of fame and to loyal zeal. At length he ceased; and every eye Gazed on De Courcy wistfully. "Speak!" cried the king, in that fearful pause; "Wilt thou not champion thy monarch's cause?" The old knight struck his foot on the ground, Solemn and fierce in tone, Who stood by the monarch's throne, As a warrior might wave his flashing glaive He turn'd and strode from the lofty hall, Nor seem'd to hear the sudden cheer Which burst, as he spake, from the lips of all. And when he stood in the air without, He paused as if in joyful doubt; To the forests green and the wide blue sky Stretching his arms embracingly, With stately tread and uplifted head, As a good steed tosses back his mane When they loose his neck from the servile rein: Ye know not, ye who are always free, How precious a thing is liberty! "O world!" he cried; "sky, river, hill! Ye wear the garments of beauty still; How have ye kept your youth so fair, While age has whiten'd this hoary hair?" But when the squire, who watch'd his lord, Gave to his hand an ancient sword, The hilt he press'd to his eager breast, Like one who a long-lost friend hath met; And joyously said, as he kiss'd the blade, "Methinks there is youth in my spirit yet. For France! for France! o'er the waters blue; False king, dear land, adieu, adieu!" He hath crossed the booming ocean, On the shore he plants his lance; Queen of the silver main! To guard her fame and cleanse her name Lo, here I stand for England! From the east and the north came champions forth They came in a knightly crowd; From the south and the west each generous breast Throbb'd at that summons proud. But though brave was each lord, and keen each sword, No warrior could withstand The strength of the hero-spirit Which nerved that old man's hand. He is conqueror in the battle; He hath won the wreath of bay; He hath drawn his sword for England; He hath fought for her spotless name; And the isle resounds to her farthest bounds With her gray-hair'd hero's fame. In the ears of the craven monarch |