away. Reinhardt heard her smothered sobs as she passed up the stairs. His first impulse was to follow her, but instantly recollecting himself, he remained behind. The girl still stood motionless in the hall, the money just given her in her hand. "What do you want?" asked Reinhardt. She started violently. "I want nothing more," said she. Then turning her head and fixing on him her piercing gaze, she retreated slowly towards the door. A cry, a name, burst from his lips; but she heard it not. With bowed head, and arms folded on her breast, she crossed the court-yard below; while in his ear there sounded the long-forgotten and ominous words, "Death, death will o'ertake me, For a few moments the very power of breathing seemed suspended; then he too turned, and sought the solitude of his own chamber. He seated himself, and tried to study: but he could not collect his scattered thoughts; and after wasting an hour in a fruitless effort to fix his attention, he went down to the general sittingroom. No one was there,- only the cool green twilight. On Elizabeth's work-table lay a red ribbon she had worn the previous day. He took it in his hand; but its very touch gave him pain, and he laid it down on its old resting-place. He could not rest. He went down to the lake, and unmooring the boat, he steered across, and once more went over every spot that he had visited so shortly before with Elizabeth. When he again returned to the house it was dark, and in the court-yard he met the coachman taking the carriage-horses to graze; the travelers were just returned. As he entered the hall, he heard Eric pacing up and down the garden-room. Reinhardt could not go to him. A moment he paused irresolute; then he softly mounted the stairs leading to his own room. Here he threw himself into an armchair at the window. He tried to persuade himself that he was listening to the nightingale which was already singing among the yew-trees beneath him; but he only heard the wild throbbing of his own heart. Below in the house all were going to rest. The night passed away; but he felt it not. For hours he sat thus. At length he rose, and lay down in the open window. The night-dew trickled between the leaves; the nightingale had left XXIV-879 off singing. Gradually towards the east the deep blue of the leaves was broken by a pale yellow flush; a fresh breeze sprang up and played on Reinhardt's burning forehead; the first lark sprang rejoicing in the air. Reinhardt turned quickly from the window, and went to the table. He felt for a pencil, with which he traced a few lines on a loose sheet of paper. This done, he took his hat and stick, and leaving the note on his desk, he carefully opened the door and descended into the hall. The gray dawn still rested in every corner: the great cat stretched herself out on the straw mat, and rubbed herself against the hand which he unconsciously held towards her. In the garden, however, the sparrows were already twittering among the branches, and proclaimed to every one that the night was past. Suddenly he heard a door open above. Some one came down the stairs, and as he looked up, Elizabeth stood before him. She laid her hand on his arm; she moved her lips, but he caught no sound. "Thou wilt never come back," said she at length. "I know it. Do not deceive me. Thou wilt never come back." "Never!" said he. She let her hand fall, and said no more. He crossed the hall to the door, and there he once more turned towards her. She stood motionless on the same spot, and gazed after him with dead, glazing eyes. He made one step forward, and stretched out his arms; then violently he tore himself away, and went out. Without lay the world in the fresh morning light. The dewdrops hanging in the spiders' webs sparkled in the first rays of the sun. He looked not behind. Quickly he hurried forward; and as he left that quiet home farther and farther behind, there rose before him the wide, wide world. Translation of H. Clark. verse. WILLIAM WETMORE STORY (1819-1896) ILLIAM WETMORE STORY made himself accomplished in two arts, like Blake or Rossetti. As a sculptor he was distinguished, and he was a graceful writer of both prose and His statues of Edward Everett, George Peabody, Francis Scott Key, Lowell, Bryant, Theodore Parker, or of such ideal or historical subjects as Cleopatra, Medea, and The African Spirit, gave him wide reputation. His published writings are of a varied nature, ranging from legal books to love lyrics and odes of occasion. He was one of those cultured Americans who by long residence abroad become cosmopolitan in spirit, and reflect their environment in their work. William Wetmore Story's father was Judge Joseph Story, the noted jurist, whose life the son wrote. William was born in Salem, Massachusetts, February 19th, 1819; and after being graduated from Harvard in 1838, studied law, was admitted to the bar, and published several legal works. But the desire to follow an art was strong in him; and in 1848 he went to Rome, became a sculptor, wrote many books, and resided at the Italian capital the remainder of his life, a conspicuous member of the American colony. He died there in 1896. > W. W. STORY As early as 1842 Story was editing and publishing law reports; and two years later appeared his Phi Beta Kappa poem at Harvard. His first book of 'Poems' dates from 1847; half a dozen volumes of verse were printed during a period of well-nigh half a century, the final volume being 'A Poet's Portfolio (1894), a volume of mingled prose and verse in dialogue form, continuing the earlier 'He and She: A Poet's Portfolio' (1883), and containing clever social verse and pungent prose comment on life. Perhaps his most picturesque and sympathetic prose is to be found in 'Roba di Roma: or Walks and Talks about Rome' (1862), to which a sequel was 'The Castle of St. Angelo and the Evil Eye.' Other books of essays are 'Conversations in a Studio (1890), and 'Excursions in Arts and Letters' (1891),— polished, vigorous, often suggestive in thought and happy in expression. Story's sympathies are broad, and he is sensitive to the finer issues of life and thought. In his mature poems he is the humanist and apostle of culture. A favorite verse form with him was the dramatic monologue made famous by Browning, and many of his lyrics and narratives show the influence of the Italy of art and literature. The most worthy of his poetry is that gathered in the two volumes entitled 'Poems,' published in 1886, and embodying several books previously issued. THE GHETTO IN ROME From Roba di Roma.' Copyright 1887, by William W. Story. Published by Houghton, Mifflin & Co. B UT first let us take a glimpse of the Ghetto. Its very name derived from the Talmud Ghet, and signifying segregation and disjunction — is opprobrious; and fitly describes the home of a people cut off from the Christian world, and banned as infamous. Stepping out from the Piazza di Pianto, we plunge at once down a narrow street into the midst of the common class of Jews. The air reeks with the peculiar frowzy smell of old woolen clothes, modified with occasional streaks of strata of garlic; while above all triumphs the foul human odor of a crowded and unclean population. The street is a succession of miserable houses, and every door opens into a dark shop. Each of these is wide open; and within and without, sprawling on the pavement, sitting on benches and stools, standing in the street, blocking up the passages, and leaning out of the upper windows, are swarms of Jews,-fat and lean, handsome and hideous, old and young,- as thick as ants around an ant-hill. The shop doors are draped with old clothes, and second-hand roba of every description. Old military suits of furbished shabbiness, faded silken court dresses of a past century with worn embroidery, napless and forlorn dress-coats with shining seams and flabby skirts, waistcoats of dirty damask, legs of velvet breeches,- in a word, all the cast-off riffraff of centuries that have "fallen from their high estate," are dangling everywhere overhead. Most of the men are lounging about and leaning against the lintels of the doors, or packed upon benches ranged in front of the shops. The children are rolling round in the dirt, and playing with cabbage ends and stalks, and engaged in numerous and not over-clean occupations. The greater part of the women, however, are plying the weapon of their tribe, with which they have won a world-wide reputation, the needle,— and, bent closely over their work, are busy in renewing old garments and hiding rents and holes with its skillful web-work. Everybody is on the lookout for customers; and as you pass down the street, you are subject to a constant fusillade of, "Pst, Pst," from all sides. The women beckon you, and proffer their wares. At times they even seize the skirts of your coat in their eagerness to tempt you to a bargain. The men come solemnly up, and whisper confidentially in your ear, begging to know what you seek. Is there anything you can possibly want? If so, do not be abashed by the shabbiness of the shop, but enter, and ask even for the richest thing. You will find it, if you have patience. But once in the trap, the manner of the seller changes: he dallies with you as a spider with a fly, as a cat with a mouse. Nothing is to be seen but folded cloths on regular shelvesall is hidden out of sight. At first, and reluctantly, he produces a common, shabby enough article. "Oh no, that will never do,too common." Then gradually he draws forth a better specimen. "Not good enough? why, a prince might be glad to buy it!" Finally, when he has wearied you out, and you turn to go, he understands it is some superb brocade embroidered in gold, some gorgeous portière worked in satin, some rich tapestry with Scripture stories, that you want; and with a sigh he opens a cupboard and draws it forth. A strange combination of inconsistent and opposite feelings has prevented him from exhibiting it before. He is divided between a desire to keep it and a longing to sell it. He wishes, if possible, to eat his cake and have it too; and the poor ass in the fable between the two bundles of hay was not in a worse quandary. At last, the article you seek makes its appearance. It is indeed splendid, but you must not admit it. It may be the dress the Princess d'Este wore centuries ago,-faded, but splendid still; or the lace of Alexander VI. the Borgia; or an ancient altar cloth with sacramental spots; or a throne carpet of one of the popes. Do you really wish to buy it, you must nerve yourself to fight. He begins at the zenith, you at the nadir; and gradually, by dint of extravagant laudation on his part, and corresponding depreciation on yours, |