why, thirteen shillings as well. Come, running to and fro in the street, and that's good to remember. What luck! the news soon spread that the Conger And like enough they'll give me the had found another in the night, and that other seven and tuppence if he isn't it was even now laid in the stable of the claimed. And then there's the five shil- inn. People naturally flocked to see it, lings. What luck! Now to report him, full of curiosity and comfortable, disinlest some one else sees him and claims terested sympathy, a luxury only to be first." enjoyed when, as in this case, they need have no dread of personal loss, since none of their own fishing-boats had been out in the night. The body of a stranger was an attraction which few could resist.

So he covered up the hole, and clambered out into the dreary night again. It was not far to the coastguard station, and there was a light within. He pushed open the door and stood on the threshold of the cosy little room. A drowsy officer who had been dozing on his chair near the fire started up at the sound, and stared with dazed alarm at the gaunt apparition in the doorway until he had time to gather his wits and recognize the Sand-walker. The old man's shivering dog peeped timidly past his master's legs into the warm interior, and eyed with envious hate the fat, comfortable cat on the rug near the fire.

"Hallo, Conger!"

exclaimed the coastguard as soon as he had found his voice. "What brings your ugly face here at this time of the morning? You surely haven't found another, have you ? Yes? What a nose you have for them, to be sure! Where have you left it then?"

The old man pointed to the south, and muttered, "Two miles," and the officer understood him. "All right. I'll send a couple of men to fetch it at once. We know your ways, Conger! There, I've seen enough of you now, so off you go and come down here after the inquest and I'll see that you get your money." And he shut the door in the old man's face.

IV.

A policeman stood on guard at the door of the stable, dispensing the right of admission with dignity to adults as a personal favor worth remembering, and keeping a sharp eye to prevent the intrusion of the little boys who were prowling round the place with white faces, anxious and yet fearful to see it. Mother Harmby hastened thither with the rest, full of pity and inquisitiveness. "Poor fellow," she said, "I wonder whose man he is?" The people fell away from the door to let her enter as if they recognized her right to be there, and then crowded after her. It was so dark inside that for a moment she could see nothing, and she called out to them anxiously to stand aside from the doorway. Then the dull grey light streamed in, and with a loud shriek she sank on her knees beside the body. She seized the clammy hand and bent close over the bearded face. "Oh, John! John!" she wailed. "Oh, my own dear man! How came you here? How came you here?"

The inquisitive crowd outside melted away as if ashamed of themselves, and only a few neighbors with pitying faces came in to try to comfort her or to share her sorrow. It was in vain that they bade her bear up; she was beside herself with grief. They were aghast to see that she whom they had come to look upon as their main helper and comforter in times of trouble should be so powerless and helpless now.

BEFORE daybreak next day the storm had broken upon Abblesey, and it was late before the dim light of a November day could struggle through the blinding sheets of sleet and spray that came in straight from the sea like flights of An inquest was held late in the afterarrows shot low. The billows clapped noon. The widow had been led away and crashed upon the rocks of the head- to her desolate home, and was not land and boomed across the sands. But called, since there were people enough in spite of the weather there was much who had known John Harmby ready

called so loudly on the Bommer rocks, the old man never came forth. What might it mean? The fishermen became uneasy as they talked of this; it seemed to them unnatural, and they feared that it might be a bad omen. None of the simple folk knew of the bitter anguish there was that day in the cuddy of the Sarah and Ann. An old man, lonely and wretched, was fighting against himself for all that he had held dearest, for life itself. For all these years he had gone steadily on in one course with one aim, and only one. And now sudden shipwreck, and all lost!

to identify the body. But they sent That day something happened in Abfor the Sand-walker to tell where and blesey which had not been known to how he had found the corpse. The happen for thirty years. The tide went constable who fetched him was aston-down without the Sand-walker followished at the old man's behavior when ing it. Notwithstanding that the sea he told him of the identification. It was universally recognized in Abblesey that the Conger had long since lost all human feeling. And yet as the constable described it, "his eyes went open like a codfish's, and his mouth like a gurnard's, and he had to hold himself up by the boat" when he heard the news. Even when he reached the room where the jury sat, he was trembling too much for speech. They baited him with questions, but he glared wildly round from face to face in silence like a wolf among dogs. Knowing his natural moroseness they were not greatly surprised and, interpreting his signs as best they could, they soon let him go. But one thing did indeed surprise them. When they offered to give him the order of payment for the five shillings to which he was entitled, he thrust it away from him and shrank back with his face to the wall as though it were something he could not bear to look upon. "See that," remarked Jim Bates, who was one of the jury, when the old man had gone; "that shows the old chap's not so bad as they make out. He couldn't abide the thought of making anything out of the body of Mother Harmby's husband, just 'cos she's been so kind to him!"

Meanwhile news had come from a neighboring port of a collision off the coast in the night, which explained the mystery surrounding John Harmby's presence there. A steamer, in the obscurity of a snowstorm, had crashed into the side of a large sailing-ship homeward bound and had sent her almost instantly to the bottom. Four of the ship's crew had just managed to save themselves by scrambling into one of their boats, but the rest were supposed to have gone down with the ship; and among them was the mate, John Harmby. It was evident that he had made a hard struggle for his life. "Death by drowning," was of course the verdict of the jury.

He crouched there on his rags, his hands clasping his knees, his wild eyes staring blankly into the darkness of his den, striving to realize what had happened. For hours he never stirred, and no hunger, no thirst, no sleep came to him. And all this time he thought of two things and only two of his money, and of his one friend. These two interwove themselves in his mind in a vague delirium, and through it all he heard the cruel sea calling and mocking him.

It was safe, his money, quite safe; it was all there in the hole beneath him; he had not lost anything! Yes, but the woman, she who was his own, his one friend. What had happened to her? It was she who had lost, lost everything, and by his hand! The life of the man was nothing, the lives of a hundred such were nothing; the sea gave them to him, and they were his to treat as he liked. But her husband! What could he do? How could he make amends?

The mockery of the sea came louder and louder through the timbers of his cell. The sea knew what he could do, and shouted it out to him over and over again, laughing all the while at his misery. He shut out the sound with his hands, but he heard it just the same. He knew he would have heard it even without ears. It sounded ever louder

and more peremptory. For a long time, I could see distinctly into the little room. a very long time, he refused to obey, She sat there alone, with her head bent and sat and suffered obstinately. But low on the table. Her neighbors had at last it was more than he could bear, and he moaned in anguish and gave way.

all hastened down to the beach. In times past she would have been the first there herself; but now there was no place in her heart for anything but her sorrow.

Trembling so that he could scarce sustain himself even on his knees, he slowly uncovered the hole where his The old man never hesitated, but treasure lay hid, and began to rake the passed up the garden, path, and pushed coins out of the dark water. He piled open the door. The woman lifted her them up beside him, never pausing in head at the noise, and looked drearily at his task till the last one had been found. the wild figure on her doorstep. She All were there, the new gold he had got showed no surprise. "Don't talk to but yesterday, and the ancient pieces me," she said. "Don't tell me how washed out of the wrecks of Spaniards you found him, I can't bear it yet! If and Dutchmen of long ago, guineas, you're hungry, there's plenty to eat in half-guineas, pistoles, dollars, doub- there. Get something and go. Oh! loons, pieces of eight, and modern but it's hard, Conger, it's very hard!" money. There lay the distillation of And then she bowed down her head the unceasing labors of a lifetime, all again. heaped in one small pile. For the last time he told them over to see that there were none missing, kneeling and shedding hot tears over them like a father over his dead child. And still the sea laughed outside. It was hard, very hard, but he could not help himself; there was no other way.

In feverish haste he wrapped the coins in a cloth, and bound it tightly round with a piece of rag. Kissing the heavy bundle he hid it in his breast, and then slid back the shutter, and crept out. It was night again. He saw through the darkness the white billows bounding towards him with delight, while far out over the raging waters an unsteady light flickered and flashed. It was the signal of a ship in peril, and his eye fell on it instinctively, but its meaning secmed not to reach his mind, and the sight gave him no pleasure. He heard without heeding the crash of the rocket which called together the lifeboat crew, and gave no thought to dim shapes hurrying through the gloom to the beach. One thing alone he heeded, the voice behind him driving him on.

He took the road away from the sea, up into the dismal lane where stood the widow's house, his dog following. A light shone from her unshuttered window, and when he reached her gate he

He was shaking like the rag of a sail, so that it took him a long time, to unfasten the cord. "Look," he gasped, "here's this, take it." He stretched out his dripping arm into the little room, and placed his burden tenderly upon the table beside her, and the rag unfolding revealed the heap of money. That was his errand, and he had not meant to stay for an instant; but he could not tear himself away, and lingered, gazing wistfully on the coins.

The widow raised her head but could not at first comprehend, and looked now at the money and now at the man. Then suddenly she started up, and peered eagerly into the glittering heap. She grasped one of the coins ; it seemed only an ordinary old crownpiece, but she shuddered as she held it close to the light as though she had seen something terrible in it, and then burst into a savage cry. Coming close to the man and looking fiercely into his face, "How came you by this? she shrieked.

The Sand-walker shrunk down before her to half his height, watching her blazing eyes in terror, but speaking not a word. "How came you by this, I say?" Lower still he sank, like a beaten dog, but made no sound.

"It was his," she moaned, "and his father's before him. Nay, shake not

once more grasped the treasure he had not stirred. At last his dog, tempted by the inexplicable silence, stole up the garden path till he found his master lying there, and thrust his black muzzle against his face. The old man moved at that touch, and slowly raising himself, crept away, carrying his money with him.

thy head then, thou wretched hound. | there with his burning brow on the It was his, I say; I could tell it among cold stone. Except that his fingers had a thousand. Are not these his very own marks upon it? It was his, his lucky piece, and he carried it always, sleeping and waking, as his father had before him, and not all the world could have tempted him to part with it. It was his charm, his holy charm and protection. They said no mortal hurt could come to him the while he kept it. Oh, how I've wondered and wondered, when they said it was not there, how he had come to lose it! Oh, John, John! what has this old man done?"

Her voice was choked, and she kissed the coin again and again, while the figure at her feet sank grovelling to the earth. He raised one hand in feeble supplication, but she spurned him aside. "What hast thou done?" she asked him fiercely. "Take it,

take it all!" he moaned. "But what hast thou done?"

At the end of the lane he stood and listened. The storm still raged, but it was ebb tide now, and the sea had altered its tone. The air was filled with a seething hum, through which he heard the savage rattle of pebbles drawn down in the undertow. At the sound of it he knew there was nothing more to be done, and a dull, hopeless despair took hold of him.

So he turned northward up the road and went towards the headland. Through all the darkness he could see

"Oh, take it-take it I have no the gleaming white waters draw to and more !

་་་་་?L.

fro amid the rocks, and he crawled painfully down until he was so near that several times the sea flung broad flecks of foam upon him. But still he struggled on, till he reached the great ledge of rocks which overhang the deep water. There he clambered to their outermost edge, and stood facing the

66 Take it?" she shrieked. "Take it? Take the robbings of dead men's bodies? Take the price of dead men's flesh?' Thou vile, thou wretched hound! They have often said it of thee, and I would not believe it, and told 'em they lied. But now I know it! Thou hast robbed him-ay, even tempest. Then with one great effort he him hast robbed him of his holy flung the bundle he carried far out into charm! Oh, how do I know, thou the wild confusion. The cords gave mayest even have robbed him of way, and the coins, scattering, fell in a life!"'! precious shower and passed without a trace into the seething flood. In another instant, as if in response to a wizard's spell, a great surge burst suddenly upward upon the rock and swept tumultuously over the ledges.

his

His head was down on the wet ground now, but still he 'moaned, "Take ittake it all!"

She seized the cords of the cloth, flung his treasure to the ground beside him, and slammed and bolted the door. Next day the heads and tongues of He heard her last words from within. the Abblesey folk were kept fully occu"Never again let me behold thy face, pied. A vessel had gone ashore in the thou vile, corpse-eating wolf! Off, | night, and in spite of the efforts of the quick, to thy den out of the sight of lifeboat men, two of her crew had been human folk! 'Tis horrible even to drowned. "More work for old Contouch what thou hast touched!" And ger," said the fishermen. But at ebb a then there was nothing but wild sob- coastguardsman came in with strange bing mingling strangely with the howl-news. He had heard the yelping of a ing of the wind around him.

Long after the sound of the sobbing within had subsided the old man lay

dog among the great rocks under the headland and had gone towards the sound. The dog was Conger's, and

"Whatever could he have been up to at that side of the town?" asked several voices.

"Nay, I can't understand that," replied the coastguardsman. "It must have been the first and last time he ever went there."

From The Nineteenth Century.
ASPECTS OF TENNYSON.

I.

66

just below, tightly wedged in among the This is, I think, reassuring; not only boulders, was the dead body of the old because the judgments of the critical leader-writer, 66 man himself. even the youngest and swiftest of us, are not infallible, and it is therefore well that they should be reserved for a day or two; but also because it may possibly indicate the dawning of a suspicion in the mind of criticism that the prediction must necessarily be guesswork, and that the classification can hardly help being arbitrary. As to posterity, there are, happily, signs that that bumptious abstraction is beginning to be found out, and, by the more sensible and independent, among us, defied. A plain word IT is a hopeful sign of the times - has, I rejoice to see, been recently adto use an expression which has been dressed to it in one of the public prints somewhat hackneyed out of its original on this very matter, A writer has been significance — that among the chorus found. bold enough to say that, if posof eulogists, critical and uncritical, who terity should not rate Lord Tennyson have been moved to utterance by Lord as highly as he was rated by his contemTennyson's death, two notes have been poraries, so much the worse for posless obtrusively audible than usual. terity." That, it seems to me, is the One is the note of that prophetic voice proper tone to be taken on the question. that tells us what posterity intends to To treat it in any other way is to sugthink and say of a departed poet; in gest that art, because its forms are inthe other we catch the utterances of finitely various, is mutable, instead of that judicial voice which "fixes his being, as it is, immutable, in its essence. place in literature. The owners, nu- Tennyson, considered as the artist, is merous as they are- and they are very what he is for all time; his rank in the of one or other or both of corps is fixed, unchangeable; and it is these two voices have, on the whole, not in the power of any critical courtimposed upon themselves a most credit-martial of the future to "break" him, able reserve. It was, indeed, displayed any more than it could hereafter break in quarters where we have the least Pope, or than it has broken him in the traditional right to look for it. Even past. The position of the one, as of the obituary criticisms of the morning the other, is superior to all changes of after the melancholy event showed no fashion; for such changes affect only traces of any endeavor to “anticipate the estimated value of the poet's matethe verdict of Posterity" before "we rial, and to art, which is the name of a went to press,' "" or to get the late lau- certain fixed relation between material reate's "place in literature fixed" in and workman, they have simply nothtime for the newspaper train. On the ing to say. With respect to Pope's contrary, these "appreciations," as it is material this change of estimate has now the fashion to call them, showed been so great that many people deny it traces in many instances of a deliberate to be the stuff of poetry at all; and it rather than an enforced abstention from is probably only those among them by prophetic and judicial pronouncements; whom the immense importance of the they suggested that, even if the critics artistic element in poetry is duly apprehad had as much as another quarter ciated who can bring themselves to of an hour at their disposal, the "ver- concede to him the title of poet. dict of," etc. would still have remained unspoken, and the "place in," etc. unfixed.

numerous

It may be that no such profound change is destined to occur in Tennyson's case; but changes little short of