Our readers have doubtless noted from the sketches which from time to time appear in THE CALEDONIAN how various a man the Scot abroad proves himself, but it remains for us, introducing the subject of this article, to point out a path in life trodden by Scotsmen, yet comparatively few which, once entered upon, has always been followed with credit, and not inIn both frequently with distinction.

these counts James Henry Stoddart stands in the front rank of his profession. Born October 13, 1827, he made his first appearance at the age of five, on a Glasgow stage, in a play entitled, "Rent Day." In his book, "Recollections of a Player,"* Mr. Stoddart recalls the event as a most unpromising beginning, since with a child's, rather than with an actor's, instinct, he, during a most pathetic scene, rushed from his stage parent into the arms of his own father (who was playing the part of the inexorable landlord) much to the amusement of his audience, but, of course, to the complete ruin of the scene. It will be observed that Mr. Stoddart rounds out a stage career of seventy-two years this season, a phenomenal record only approached by that other distinguished veteran of the stage, Joseph Jefferson. In his early days Mr. Stoddart found his profession anything but the inviting field it has

credit of Stoddart, the boy, (though illadvised his choice of an avenue of escape) that the instinct to better his condition caused him to run away to sea. Fortunately this enterprise miscarried, and the stage retained an artist while the quarterdeck doubtless lost, later on, a good officer. This experience was bitter, short and sharp, and he returned to his mother's arms chastened, and wiser no doubt. At the age of seventeen with an elder brother the young actor sought to "try the world," and both lads finally secured a long term contract with the management of Market Street Theatre, Aberdeen. Here James bid fair at the very start to respect his experience as a child. Greviously misscast to play a part quite unsuited to him, his work gave such umbrage to the manager as brought next morning a curt notice of dismissal to take effect at the close of his second week. In the meantime, a recast placed him in the part of an old man. Here at last the youth met his opportunity. So well did he utilize it that the manager in 1 note, as facile as the first was brusque and unsentimental, withdrew the notice and invited him to remain. Up until the time he came to America Mr. Stoddart continued under the Market Street management, where he donned his first grey wig, which he continued to wear in many parts until time had snowed his own locks as we see them now.

His first appearance in America was made at the late Wallack's Theatre, New York, September, 1851. Hence his American career covers over half a century. During this period he has been the intimate of all the great lights whose histrionic abilities illuminate the

pages of our dramatic history during the past sixty years. He has never sought distinction as a star, content rather to play the role, less prominent but no less useful and meritorious, of those described in Hamlet as "The abstract and brief chronicles of the time." Yet that distinction comes to him now as the crown to a long life of diligent, earnest, zealous effort in the art which he continues to adorn with modesty and grace. As a star Mr. Stoddart enacted the part of Luchlan Campbell, in Dr. Watson's "Beside the Bonnie Brier Bush," as dramatized by McArthur. This creation must be seen to be appreciated. The bitter struggle between an overmastering sense of religious duty and the promptings of parental affection are depicted with a power at once deeply moving and in-structive. It is refreshing in these days of "risque" and thistledown productions to note how well this sweet pastoral (now running its fourth season) holds the boards. Much of its popularity is undoubtedly due to the virile Stoddart. A great lesson may be learned from the accomplishments of this distinguished Scot in the example he holds up of a life well ordered and clean. No one can witness his unflagging energy when on the stage, aside from the artistic phase of his work, without marvelling. At seventy-seven there are few such men before the public eye. Mr. Stoddart has always been the most domestic of men. Twice married, he has several grown-up children. Now a widower the second time, he lives in quiet seclusion at his own home, Sewaren, N. J., during the summer vacation.

If ever this great and enlightened realm of England produced a paragon of propriety, that paragon was surely Miss Rosamond Raynor, who dwelt in the most cultured suburb of the cultured cathedral city of Silchester. Miss Raynor was reckoned a fortunate lady. She had enjoyed many advantages. Her lamented father was a canon, who left behind him an odor of sanctity and a snug thing in consols.

Her sainted mother was the daughter of a bishop whose wife was own cousin to the Earl of Borrowmore. Miss Rosamond was an only child, and no expense had been spared to bestow upon her an education and a training suitable to her position. She passed for a lady of tolerable accomplishment, without much original talent. She played a piano a little, sang a little, painted a little, and went to church a great deal.

She was not precisely a beauty, being swarthy of complexion, somewhat short, and even what an unchivalrous person might have called dumpy. But she had pretty hands and feet, and, when she wished to be agreeable, quite an engaging address. She was in comfortable circumstances, with a snug capital at her command. And yet—and yet, Miss Raynor was rising thirty-nine and remained unmarried. It was strange, very strange, said the wiseacres, that none of the clergy had "snapped her up."

True, Miss Raynor's maid, Selina Dobbs, had been known to speak of a tyrannous temper. But the bulk of those who witnessed the lady's demean

or at church inclined to the belief that the canon's daughter was excessively particular and had never met with a suitor to suit her.

It was Miss Rosamond's custom to spend August and September at the seaside, and in due course she and Dobbs repaired to the well-known and fashionable resort known as Flirton-bythe-Sea, where Miss Raynor underwent her annual course of holiday. For ten years she had visited Flirton without other protection than that of the faithful Dobbs.

Once more the pair found themselves in the same select (that is, expensive) hotel, installed in the same rooms and going through the old processes, Miss Raynor conducting herself with the dignified exclusiveness of one who had been educated in the Silchester High School, was the daughter of a canon, the granddaughter of a bishop, and the blood relation of the Earl of Borrowmore, through whose veins ran a liquid so blue as to border upon ultramarine.

But though Miss Raynor was, as ever, the pink of propriety, she could not control the hand of Fate. Driving on the cliffs in a hired wagonette, with a pony extolled as supreme among the equine race for steadiness, Miss Raynor and Dobbs found themselves in a startling predicament. A flash of lightning was the disturbing cause, and what might have happened is something too terrible to surmise.

At the critical moment a tall, dark stranger of distinguished appearance

suddenly appeared, seized the bridle, and having with difficulty quieted the pony, convoyed the expedition safely home. Miss Raynor had a proper horror of strange gentlemen, but her rescuer was evidently a person of distinction. His accent was perfect, his manner all that the most fastidious could desire.

Arrived at the hotel, he took his leave with a deferential bow and a request for permission to make inquiries as to the well being of Miss Raynor on the following day. These adventures were apt to tell on the nerves, and he would feel a certain anxiety. Miss Raynor graciously accorded the desired permission.

How the acquaintance developed it avails not to curiously inquire. The stranger, a handsome man of forty-five, was constantly on the pier, and after his call at the hotel continued the acquaintance through Miss Raynor's accidental dropping of a lace handkerchief, which he had the good fortune to notice and restore. From this moment his attentions were marked. Even the inexperienced Miss Raynor could not fail to notice that, and her virgin bosom. throbbed as it had never throbbed before. About this time she surprised Dobbs by a novel amiability. "Dobbs," she said, "it must be irksome to be always with the same person. Take a coach drive or two, I will spare you in the afternoons."

When Miss Raynor sat in her favorite nook of the pier with a volume of her father's sermons, the distinguished stranger invariably came to keep her company, apparently as a matter of

course.

At first conversation turned on general subjects, but later on theology and the late canon's sermon to prove the

personality of the Evil One, a point in which Miss Raynor's friend emphatically concurred, which naturally gratified the canon's daughter excessively. Day by day, almost hour by hour, the attentive. cavalier grew warmer until there could be no possibility of mistake. He was in love with the charming Rosamond, who, despite her chilling propriety, was not without a feminine weakness for romance. It might be that the matter was not progressing strictly within the bounds of the most rigid etiquette, but Miss Raynor was old enough to take care of herself, and her squire was. clearly a gentleman and a scholar.

True, it was strange that he had never presented his card, but when she had delicately afforded the opportunity he had seemed to imagine himself perfectly well known, and Miss Raynor had unluckily pleaded ignorance. He regularly descanted on the woes of celebrity.

"My name," he said, "is in everybody's mouth, and not always with the respect which should be its due."

More and more Miss Raynor wondered and regretted her timidity in fearing to acknowledge her ignorance at first. Who could he be? A musician? No. A statesman, a diplomat, a poet? Ah! a poet, no doubt. That melancholy air, that momentary look of eccentricity, that strange flash of the expressive eye, a flash almost alarming at times. Miss Raynor arrived at this conclusion one' evening when the interesting unknown had said something of the commingling of souls, and of persecution which had until recently debarred him from seeking his affinity. "But now," he said, "let me tell you who and what I really am."

He had taken her unresisting hand. in his when a rough voice exclaimed,

"A pretty jaunt you have given us," said the possessor of the voice, who was accompanied by two determined-looking companions. The mysterious. celebrity rose, bowed to Miss Raynor, and walked away with the two men who had not spoken, the other remaining with the lady, who was dumb with surprise and alarm.

"Insane!" gasped poor Rosamond. "He conceals it very cleverly on every point except one. Did he tell you he was a celebrity, and that his name was in every mouth?"

"Yes, but he didn't say

"He believes himself to be the devil."

The canon's daughter will spend her next holiday at Blackpool or Scarborough. She declares she is tired of Flir

It was not the sound of a foghorn out on the misty bay. It was only Editor Littlejohn blowing his long nose preparatory to charging it with snuff from an old horn snuff-box presented to him by his father and cherished as a relic around which hallowed associations and sanctified memories clustered.

"How much do you think Snuffy Littlejohn's nose costs him a week?" asked a taxpayer of a neighbor who was aspiring to a seat in the town council of the borough in which Editor Littlejohn's paper, The Free Lance, was published.

"They say he uses three ounces of snuff a day and half a dozen handkerchiefs," was the reply.

This probably was correct, for the editor generously offered a pinch to almost everybody with whom he came in

contact.

It was common talk among the borough officials that the more snuff the editor consumed the more biting was his sarcasm and the more bitter his denunciation. And so, when any one prominent in the affairs of the town exhibited

weakness or showed signs of vacillation. the local critics of men and things would say that he ought to take snuff.

Editor Littlejohn's aggressiveness and pugnacity made bitter enemies for him in the community. One of these always referred to him as "The Nose." "Have you seen The Nose to-day?" "The Nose has been at it again," "The snuff bill must be high this week," were common expressions among the editor's enemies, but nothing seemed to disturb his serenity. He just tapped his snuff-box with his thumb three times, deposited three big pinches in each of the compartments of his probocis to set his generator of ideas in full play, and dashed off two or three leading articles so easily and expeditiously that the compositors verily marveled.

When the question of improving the footpaths or sidewalks in the town was under consideration, a town councilor was suspected of attempting to make money by a corrupt agreement with at contractor. This was the editor's opportunity. He visited the councilor,