therefore beg you will write to me, on receipt of this, to appoint a place of meeting in Paris. We will, as in bygone days, have a stroll through the big town, we will dine together in the evening, and then bid each other 'good-night,' as we have done for the last ten years. On the morrow I will leave Paris. You will then be able to think of me as of an absent friend from whom you have parted in peace and goodwill. My anger lasted but a few days. Since I have become cool and collected I feel the same old friendship for you which I shall ever feel, even if you reject my proposal. Believe me, dear Tisson, your faithful friend, The letter fell from the colonel's hands, and all seemed dark for a moment. When he had recovered a little he went to Pascal. She had received no tidings of her master. Coste then telegraphed to the landlord in Paris begging to be informed of the health of the professor. In a few hours the answer came back,- Professor Tisson had died suddenly. He had been found dead in his bed on the morning of the preceding day. The funeral was to take place on the morrow. The daughters of the professor had been communicated with. Coste started that same evening for Paris, and arrived there a few hours after the funeral. He saw the daughters and sons-in-law of his friend at the hotel. They were in deep mourning, but appeared to bear their loss with great equanimity. They seemed surprised at the colonel's troubled countenance when he entered their room unannounced in his dusty travelling-dress, and they answered his inquiries briefly and precisely. Their father had had a stroke. He had gone to bed in his usual health at ten o'clock, and had been found dead the next morning. The doctor thought he must have died about eleven. At any rate he had been dead some hours when found; and he had died, they hoped, without pain. Coste went the next morning to visit the grave. On his return to the hotel he was informed that "the family from the south" had left Paris, after ordering a pretty "tombstone to be placed on the professor's grave. 66 The landlord, M. Doucet, a great talker, who had known Coste for many years, and was particularly fond of having a chat with him under ordinary circumstances, became unusually silent and reserved when the colonel asked him for He was evidently concealing the truth, the particulars of his friends's death. and Coste determined to find it out. He bribed the waiter, who at first held back; but when the colonel promised faithfully not to betray him, the man related in a nervous, frightened manner all he knew. M. Tisson had arrived five days ago. He went out little, dined alone in his own room, and spoke to no one in the house. On Friday morning he wrote several letters, which he posted himself. About ten o'clock he ordered some tea, and told the waiter that he was going to bed, adding that he did not wish to be disturbed before the next morning. "When I knocked at his door on Saturday morning at nine, to give him a letter that had arrived from Montpellier, I received no answer, and finding the door was locked on the inside I became alarmed. I called M. Doucet, who sent at once for the police, and in presence of the commissaire the door was opened. M. Doucet, the commissaire, and a doctor who had come with him, were the only people who went into the room. My master told me to stand at the door and not to let any one go in. I had to wait a long while. When those three came out of the room, M. Doucet was as pale as a ghost. He took me aside and said: "I trust that you, an old servant of the house, will not talk. It would damage the reputation of the hotel." I promised to be silent, and up to this moment I have not opened my lips about it to a single soul, nor will I do so again. But you were an old friend of M. Tisson's, and day." ought to know the truth. A little later to-night; in the mean time you may go on the doctor returned with an assistant. with the medicine I prescribed yesterThey locked themselves into the room where the dead body was lying, and remained there about an hour. Late at night, so as not to alarm the other visitors, the coffin was brought quietly into the house. The next morning M. Tisson's relations arrived. They asked to see the body, and I followed them into the little drawing-room where it was laid out. The features of the dead man were not distorted, they were yellow as wax. Round the neck was placed a broad white cravat, which reached up almost to the ears. I felt a cold shudder when I saw it. I told M. Doucet in a whisper that it looked very horrible. He made me a sign to be silent, and seemed very agitated. It's my opinion, sir, that M. Tisson laid violent hands upon himself and " Coste turned deadly pale, staggered back, and sank into a chair. The waiter sprinkled some cold water on his face and gave him something to drink. When he had recovered from the shock, the man entreated him once more not to betray him, and then quietly left the room. A few days later Colonel Coste returned to Montpellier, but only to superintend the removal of his simple fnrniture and belongings to Paris, where he settled in a remote part of the town at no great distance from the cemetery where Tisson was buried. He lived there for a year in sadness and solitude. Then his health began to fail, and at the end of a few weeks he was confined to his bed. The doctor advised him to take a sister of charity as a sick-nurse, as he had no relation or friend to take care of him. Coste assented to everything. The nurse came, and performed her duties carefully. She was a strong young woman, with a smooth calm face, fair, with rosy cheeks - a face that looked as if it belonged to one pure in body and mind. She nursed the lonely, helpless old man carefully, unwearyingly, without anxiety and without hope, as she had nursed for years many other sick and dying people. "He is getting weaker and weaker," she said one day to the doctor. "He does not know me now." The colonel lay on his bed, with halfclosed eyes, breathing feebly. The doctor felt the pulse, forehead, and heart of his patient, and said, while slowly drawing on his gloves, "I do not think he will hold out through the day. I will look in again The sister nodded, and when the doctor was gone, took up some needle-work with which she busied herself whenever the patient did not require her attendance. The day passed quietly, without any perceptible change in the state of the dying man. When it grew dark the sister left the room noiselessly to fetch a lighted lamp. The door had remained ajar. From the next room she thought she heard the patient speak, and hurried back to his bedside. He had raised himself from his pillows, and his face, which she could not well distinguish in the dim twilight, seemed to her to have grown younger. His eyes, which, during the whole day had remained half closed, were now wide open, and looked kindly and peacefully around. That indescribably sweet smile with which so many weary ones greet the approach of peace-bringing death lighted up his countenance. "It is getting dark," he whispered. "Wait for me, Isidore; we will go home together." He fell back on the pillow. His breathing became slower- slower and fainter then ceased. The sister remained for a few moments perfectly still. She then left the room, and soon returned with the lighted lamp. She raised it above the head of the dead man, so that the bright light fell upon his pale, emaciated, and calm features. She looked at him attentively, without tenderness, without sorrow, or indeed any visible sign of emotion, turned quietly away, and after placing the lamp on the table, returned to the bed to close the eyes of the departed. In the same methodical way she smoothed the pillow and placed the quiet head carefully and gently upon it, drew the sheet up to the chin of the dead man, and placed a crucifix in the cold hands after having folded them above the counterpane. Then she lighted two candles, and placed one at the head and the other at the foot of the bed. Lastly, she took a small bottle and poured the holy water which it contained into a saucer, already prepared for the purpose, which stood by the bedside. When she had attended to all this without hurry, as without hesitation, she looked around as if to see if anything else remained to be done. Her calm, searching glance surveyed with the same serious composure the corpse, the tapers, the cru cifix, the saucer with the holy water; and when she had satisfied herself that nothing had been omitted, and that everything was in perfect order, she drew from her pocket a little, well-worn black book, opened it with unerring hand at an accustomed place, knelt down, made the sign of the cross, and her silent, moving lips recited the prayers for the dead. From The Nineteenth Century. THE LITERARY CALLING AND ITS FUTURE. take precedence in going down to dinner, for example - even of an et cetera ; but who are burgesses? I have a dreadful suspicion they are not gentlemen. Are they ladies? Did I ever meet a burgess, I wonder, coming through the rye? At all events, after so authoritative a statement of its social position, I feel that to speak of literature as a profession would be an hyperbole. On the other hand, "The Literary Calling" is not a title that satisfies me. For the word "calling" implies a certain fitness; in the religious sense it has even more significance; and it cannot be denied that there are a good many persons ONE would think that in writing about who devote—well, at least, their time to literary men and matters there would be literature, who can hardly be said to have no difficulty in finding a title for one's "a call" in that direction, or even so essay, or that any embarrassment which much as a whisper. At the same time I might arise would be from excess of ma- will venture to observe, notwithstanding terial. I find this, however, far from a great deal of high-sounding twaddle being the case. "Men of Letters," for talked and written to the contrary, that it example, is a heading too classical and is not necessary for a man to feel any pretentious. I do indeed remember its miraculous or even extraordinary attracbeing used in these modern days by the tion to this pursuit to succeed in it very sub-editor of a country paper, who, hav- tolerably. I remember a now distining quarrelled with his proprietor, and guished personage (in another line) who reduced him to silence by a violent kick had written a very successful work, exin the abdomen, thus addressed him. "I pressing his opinion to me that unless a leave you and your dirty work forever, certain divine afflatus animated a man, he and start to-night for London, to take up should never take up his pen to address my proper position as a man of letters." the public. The writing for pay, he added But this gentleman's case (and I hope (he had at least 5,000l. a year of his own), that of his proprietor) was an exceptional was the degradation of literature. As I one. The term in general is too ambitious had written about a dozen books myself and suggestive of the author of "Cato," at the time, and most decidedly with an for my humble purpose. "Literature as a Profession," again, is open to objection on the question of fact. The professions do not admit literature into their brotherhood. "Literature, science, and art,” are all spoken of in the lump, and rather contemptuously (like "reading, writing, and arithmetic "), and have no settled position whatever. In a book of precedence, how ever- a charming description of literature, and much more full of humor than the peerage I recently found indicated for the first time its relative place in the social scale. After a long list of eminent personages and notables, the mere perusal of which was calculated to bring the flush of pride into my British cheek, I found at the very bottom these remarkable words, "Burgesses, literary persons, and others." Lest haughtiness should still have any place in the breasts of these penultimates of the human race, the order was repeated in the same delightful volume in still plainer fashion, "Burgesses, literary persons, etc." It is something, of course, to eye to profit, and had never experienced much afflatus except in the way of indigestion, this remark discouraged me very much. However, as the gentleman in question did essay another volume, which was so distinct a failure that he promptly took up another line of business (far above that of burgesses), it is probable he altered his views. For my Nature of course is the best guide in the matter of choosing a pursuit. When she says "This is your line, stick to it," she seldom or never makes a mistake. But, on the other hand, her speech must be addressed to mature ears. part I do not much believe in the predilections of boyhood. I was never so simple as to wish to go to sea, but I do remember (when between seven and eight) having a passionate longing to become a merchant. I had no notion, however, of the preliminary stages; the high stool in the close street; luncheon at a counter, standing (I liked to have my meals good, plentiful, often, and in com with nine hundred and ninety-nine out of a thousand of us, second nature, use, is the true mistress; and what will doubtless strike some people as almost paradoxical, but is nevertheless a fact, literature is the calling in which she has the greatest sway. fort, even then); and imprisonment at the | ter than another. With the geniuses I Boys have rarely any special aptitude for anything practical beyond punching each others' heads, or (and these are the clever ones) for keeping their own heads unpunched. As a rule, in short, nature is not demonstrative as respects our professional future. It must nevertheless be conceded that if the boy is ever father to the man in this respect, it is in connection with literature. Also, however prosaic their works are fated to be, it is curious that the aspirants for the profession below burgesses always begin with poetry. Even Harriet Martineau wrote verses in early life bad enough to comfort the soul of any respectable parent. The approach to the temple of literary fame is almost always through double gates — couplets. And yet I have known youthful poets, apparently bound for Paternoster Row, bolt off the course in a year or two, to the delight of their friends, and become, of their own free will, drysalters. There is so much talk about the "indications of immortality in early childhood" (of a very different kind from those referred to by Wordsworth), and it is so much the habit of biographers to use magnifiers when their subject is small, that it needs some courage to avow my belief that the tastes of boys have very little significance. A clever boy can be trained to almost anything, and an ordinary boy will not do one thing much bet It is the fashion with that enormous class of people who don't know what they are talking about, and who take up cuckoocries, to speak contemptuously of modern literature, by which they mean (for they are acquainted with little else) periodical literature. However small may be its merits, it is at all events ten times as good as ancient periodical literature used to be. A very much better authority than myself on such a subject has lately informed us that the majority of the old essays in the Edinburgh Review, at the very time when it was supposed to be the most "trenchant," "masterly," " "exhaustive," and a number of other splendid epithets, are so dull and weak and ignorant, that it is impossible that they or their congeners would now find acceptance in any periodical of repute. And with regard to all other classes of old magazine literature, this verdict is certainly most just. Let us take what most people suppose to be "the extreme case," magazine poetry. Of course there is to-day a great deal of rant and twaddle published under the name of verse in magazines; yet I could point to scores and scores of poems that have thus appeared during the last ten years,* which half a century * I take up a half-yearly volume of a magazine (price 1 1-2d. weekly) addressed to the middle classes, and find in it, at haphazard, the five following pieces, the authors of which are anonymous. AGATHA. Her gold-tinted hair in a long braided plait Tosses her hat off, and blows in her face! And happily, too, she has wholly forgotten The nurse and her charge to be better behaved. Must a time come when this child's way of caring And grow rather fond of consulting the glass? ago would have made - and deservedly have made- a high reputation for their authors. Such phrases as "universal necessity for practical exertion," "prosaic Well, never mind; nothing really can change her; Can there be anything fairer on earth? character of the age," etc., are, of course, common enough; but those who are acquainted with such matters, will, I am sure, corroborate my assertion that there was never so much good poetry in our general literature as exists at present. Persons of intelligence do not look for such things perhaps, and certainly not in magazines, while persons of culture are too much occupied with old china and high art; but to humble folks, who take an interest in their fellow-creatures, it is very pleasant to observe what high With naïve self-unconsciousness, charms me the most. thoughts, and how poetically expressed, What hearts that unthinkingly under short jackets Are beating to-day in a wonderful wise About racing, or jumping, or cricket, or rackets, And see that sweet smile no ill humor shall damp, Or cheerfully bright in the light of the lamp. Ah, little fairy! a very short while, Just once or twice, in a brief country stay, CHARTREUSE. Who could refuse Turks, Christians, or Jews; (The green, not the yellow), O the delicate hues That thrill through the green! With thee would De Musset (The green, not the yellow.) O the taste and the smell! O Never refuse A kiss on the lips from Jealous Chartreuse! The Life-Ledger. Our sufferings we reckon o'er With skill minute and formal; I wonder, do we calculate Our happinesses also! Were it not best to keep account Perhaps the dark ones might amount Men's looks are nigh as often gay are now to be found about our feet, and, as it were, in the literary gutter. I don't compare these writers with Byrons and Shelleys; I don't speak of them as born poets at all. On the contrary, my argument is that second nature (cultivation, opportunities of publication, etc.) has made them what they are; and it is immensely creditable to her. And what holds good of verse holds infinitely better in respect to prose. The October. The year grows old; summer's wild crown of roses The dew lies heavy in the early morn, Across the leaf-strewn lanes, from bough to bough And crimson-berried bryony garlands glow The woods are still, but for the sudden fall And from the garden lawn comes, soft and clear, PROSPERITY. I doubt if the maxims the Stoic adduces The heart that is tried by misfortune and pain, Yet worn by long waiting and wishing in vain, But the heart that is softened by ease and contentment, And its charity, roused by no moody resentment, So, although in the season of rain-storms and showers, It needs the warm brightness of sunshiny hours Observe, not only the genuine merit of these five pieces, but the variety in the tones of thought: then compare them with similar productions of the days, say, of the once famous L. E. L. |