edge produced by study? by his old pain? Perhaps it was his gladness at getting back, as he called it, to nature. Never had he seemed so overflowing with high spirits, so eager, impatient. He seized upon his solid and stolid friend, and swung him hither and thither in the exuberance of his joy. The wagon was rejected with disdain.

"Put my trunk in it, Jack, and get somebody to drive it to the house. You and I will walk. I'm like a bird out of a cage," he explained. "I can't bear the confinement of a wagon even, I've been so cooped up. But I am done with the university, Jack. I have taken a perfect grade on my whole course, Jack-a round hundred. They are all wild about me. I am to graduate with tremendous honor. The Governor of the State is to be there, the President of the United States, too, with his Cabinet; it is his Alma Mater, you know. I am to make a blazing address to them, old fellow. There are about thirty yards of silk in my commencement gown. They are pressing a professorship on me; funny idea, isn't it? But I came to consult Oak Hollow first."

He said this holding on to his friend as he used to do, laughing gayly, looking up at the other with his happy and birdlike eyes, limping eagerly along. "But, what a fool I am," he continued, "to talk about myself so! How are you coming on?" And he listened with interest, asking incessant questions while his friend told him of his slow but steady progress toward paying off his debts and establishing himself as a farmer.

"Debts be hanged!" he said. "I forgot to tell you that I'm come into my property since I saw you. I have millions of money, and don't know what to do with it. Have some. It will be a favor to me. How would they like me to build a new church for them out here? a fivestory schoolhouse? a hospital for infirm farmers or something of the kind? I'm ready!"

To the dull and steady-going young farmer his friend was like a sort of electric storm, clinging so to him, shaking him as they walked; yet almost womanly too in his affection and eager sincerity. And he was so happy, too happy! His gladness was as excessive as were his seasons of suffering. It was impossible for him to be still.

"I got tired of writing ten letters to your one," he said at last. "But I know how it is, of course. You come in of nights tired out with hard work. Naturally you don't feel like writing; and I know how you hated to write when you were in the university. We will talk up arrears, and I will do it for both. I have got something to tell you, Jack-something superlative.

Not just yet. But it almost makes me a poet to think of it-crazy that means, you know. I haven't thought of anything else since I saw you. You know what Juvenal says about the children trooping to school along the streets of Rome to get their shilling's worth of Minerva. I won't bore you with the Latin. Well, I've got all of the old lady, they had on hand, and I don't value it a turnip. I've been reading up 'The Bucolics.' I'm going to be a farmer, and live in Oak Hollow. But that isn't my secret, though it is next door to it. How are old Mr. Gardner and Mrs. Gardner? and how is But I'll ask her myself. Tell a fellow something more about yourself."

She?" his companion asked; and Jack Smith might have observed that the hand of his friend suddenly lay like lead on his arm, if he had not been so much taken up, coloring all over his homely face as he did so, with what he was saying.

"Yes, we've been engaged for a long time," he continued; "but we kept it close to ourselves. It was out of the question for me to think of marrying for years. But that was one reason I couldn't study. I am doing so well paying off the debt to the church people, you see. Mr. Gardner and his wife have found me so handy on the farm, and then they are getting so old. Besides, it would come out; she is their only daughter, you know—”

The other hung of a sudden so heavily upon the arm of Jack Smith, his head fallen upon his bosom as he limped along, that the farmer stopped. "You are not going to have your pain, Guernsey?" he asked anxiously.

"No," the other said slowly and in a strange tone; "but let me sit down on this log a moment."

The new-comer had adopted for country wear a felt hat, which was slouched down, now, over his face, and, stooping over as he sat, he seemed to be trying to tie his shoe, but it was with feeble and wandering hands as if he was blind. Jack Smith was absorbed just then in his own matters. Moreover, he had never dreamed of such a thing. To him Guernsey was as much a creature of another grade as if he had been an eagle circling in the sky far above Oak Hollow and all it contained. The visits Guernsey had made there, and the pleasure he had taken in its people, were

to Jack Smith merely whims of genius; only the freaks of a loving but eccentric nature. The countryman stood looking down at his friend, wondering what new whim this was. His companion seemed to be suddenly drawn up upon himself, more like a wounded worm than an eagle.

bridge. The bridge for wagons and foot-passengers was not a dozen yards down to the right hand, but outside of the heavy framework of the railroad crossing of the river was a narrow ledge for the convenience of the hands upon the road-a ledge which was the dread of the mother of every child in Oak Hollow-the boys

'There it is," the other said, producing the key with some difficulty, and handing it to him without looking up. By the by," he added slowly, "there are some little things in the trunk for the old people, and for Mary—for Miss GardPlease tell her to take them out." "Plenty of time for that-but," the other added, lingering, "I hate to leave you. I'll hurry back with the wagon as soon as I can. How is the pain now?"

ner.

'It isn't the pain," the stricken man replied. "I want to go back to the depot. I've lost something. Go!" he added with a gesture, trying to lift up his head-"go!"

Jack Smith had become used to obeying every caprice of his friend, and he started off. "I wonder," he said to himself, as he struck into his usual gait for a long walk, "what Guernsey is up to now? I wouldn't be surprised if those are wedding presents he has brought for Mary. He is so sharp, of course he knew it." He stopped when he had got to the bend of the road, and looked back. Guernsey was still seated upon the wayside log, coiled up upon it as it were. "He's in terrible pain, I guess," said Jack Smith; "I'll make haste."

Mary Gardner was waiting upon the old, unpainted porch when Smith got to her house. The wagon was standing there, the trunk still in it, waiting till Jack should come to take it out.

"I'll drive back with it," Jack said, when he had explained the circumstances; "he can lay his hand on his things right off. Jump in and ride back with me, Mary. You know he always thought the world of you."

"Did you tell him, Jack?" she asked, holding back. She was a good deal browner and plumper than she had been, and was quite dressed up in honor of Mr. Guernsey's coming.

"I told him to wait. But it's just like him!” Jack Smith exclaimed, as he came in full view of this ledge, which was on the side of the bridge toward them.

Guernsey was in the act of crossing upon it, the river flowing underneath, narrow, swift, and black as ink from the saw-mills above.

"Take the reins, Mary. I'll make him stop," Jack Smith said; and, putting the tips of two of his fingers in his mouth, as when he called his dog from a distance, he gave a shrill whistle. Sure enough, his friend heard. He looked up and saw the farmer and the woman he was to marry seated beside him. It was a pity. Perhaps Guernsey missed his footing as he looked up, for he always walked with difficulty. Possibly he was seized just then with his terrible pain.

"Oh, catch him!" Mary Gardner shrieked, springing to her feet in the wagon and grasping toward him with her hands, for, on the instant, Guernsey fell headlong into the river!

It was more than a year after this that a tall, severe-faced gentleman called at the Gardners'. Nobody was at home but Mary, now Mrs. Smith. She had never been anything more than a plain country girl, and she was even plainer now as a married woman, what was plump having become portly. Although the visitor seemed to know everything about Guernsey already, he asked many questions, looking curiously at her as he did so. This sharp-featured stranger had felt for years the deepest interest in Guernsey. After the death of the genius of the university he had proposed the case to himself as a problem of the highest of all possible mathematics, had taken the necessary steps to that end, and had solved it!

'It was ever so long," Mrs. Smith told him, 'before we got the body. We put off our wedding a whole month. My husband was with him where they studied," she continued, "and says he was one of the smartest men in the world. I don't know as to that, I'm sure. But he was so good, so fond of us all, and so fond of his fun, too! I never bake cookies Saturdays without thinking of him. He was a nice man. We all liked him ever so much. Why, sir, my husband he wanted dreadfully to name our baby there after him. But pa wouldn't have liked it, so we call baby Ebenezer, after him. But," the good

woman added, "we all liked Mr. Guernsey so much-we thought the world of him!"

"Reaction," her visitor said, looking at her as if he did not see her, "is always equal to action. If he had been less of a genius, the reaction would not have been so dreadful. But it was best," the visitor added, as he rose to leave, although not addressing the woman, "that he should have died in that manner; it was swifter than if he had had his foolish way.-Good day, madam."

"I didn't like him at all," Mrs. Smith said to her husband when he came in at night. "He never looked at the baby once, and he kept looking at me as if I was a kind of-of bug. Who could it have been, Jack? He barely bowed to me as he went out, and he never asked after you once. Who could it have been?"

"I know who it was," her husband said very thoughtfully. "It was our Professor of Mathematics!" W. M. BAKER.

THE

HE period which embraces the life of this extraordinary priest is a creative period. The latter half of the fifteenth century, and the former half of the sixteenth, have such virtue for the production of great men that the human race seems of superior origin, almost angelic. Never have the presages of time beheld stars of the first magnitude such as appeared in this dazzling age. It might be said that the modern spirit, in forming itself, emitted from itself, like magic scintillations, souls illumined and fired with the passion of celestial inspirations. All things flourished in those days, from the material earth which we tread with our feet of clay, to the impalpable spirit whose faculties unite us to God with their ideas of light. Would that we might have beheld that crepuscle, in which the Gothic element bloomed only to die, and the triumphal arches of the Renaissance arose to wait for liberty; in which legions of statuesque forms, animated by a breath of the new life, and beautified by new graces, sprang from the roseate Gothics, whose brightness was as that of the setting sun; in which

*This essay, by the renowned Spanish orator and statesman, Emilio Castelar, was published in "La Epoca," a daily political journal of Madrid, January 30, 1879, and was suggested by a recent literary production on the same subject by Carlos Gutierrez. Few writers are more difficult to translate than Castelar, both because of the habitual lengthiness of Spanish phrasing, which is hardly elegant in English, and because of the characteristic floweriness and delicate imagery of his language. Perhaps, in order to convey his words more literally, I have sometimes, in my translation, sacrificed the smoothness of the English. All who have listened to Castelar himself know, however, that his written essays are but poor shadows of his spoken orations: his words fall unhesitatingly from his impassioned lips-or, to speak more comprehensively, from his animated being-like a sun-reflecting cascade, never tiring, never repeating, and with all its varied and subtile changes of color and phase.

-TRANSLATOR.

classic antiquity transmitted, by the coming of the Hellenes to our Western world, all the treasure of its sciences, and by the Roman excavations opened all the treasure of its arts; in which the painters, divinely inspired, instilled the ideas of Christianity with all its mysticism into Greek beauty with all its harmony; in which even the Pontificate from the height of the Vatican invoked all the dioceses, conjuring them to revive the state in all its ancient splendor, while the bold reformers lifted above the exuberant paganism the disk of human conscience and its immaculate purity; in which there in heaven was fixed the sun, heretofore regarded as a satellite of earth, now as the center of the planets, while here on earth was discovered a New World, so beautiful that it seemed to offer to the human race, revindicating its liberty, an immaculate paradise for expansion and enjoyment.

Those days beheld Da Vinci, Raphael, Michael Angelo, Gonzalez de Cordoba, Columbus, Luther, Copernicus, Savonarola, Machiavelli, Charles V., Titian, the greatest men perhaps of modern times. Much glory should he have who shone in those heavens and amid those spheres. And with true glory shone Fray BARTOLOME de las Casas, whose voice obtained a hearing in a choir of voices so divine, and whose figure stood forth amid a legion of shapes so gigantic. It is true that to reach this he was born with two splendid virtues-the virtue of believing, and the virtue of feeling what he believed. In the soul, intelligence is the ethereal light which illumines, and sensibility is the vivid heat which fecundates.

Without ideas one is as though blind, and without sentiment as though dead. Thought is the exercise of a spirit so divine that it exceeds the limits of our nature; and feeling what we think, diffusing it, embodying it in a living reality, is human ministry par excellence. Therefore