able contrast to the tenor of his life: "Know this, all men, that I am one of the Saint Earl Rognvald's body-guard, and I now mean to put my trust in being where he is, with God." May he rest in peace, wherever his bones lie, even though his reformation came something late, the turbulent, terrible old viking, whom the saga-writers called the last of that profession.

The generation who built it had passed away, when on a summer's day, after it had weathered nearly a century of storm and shine, the cathedral saw the greatest sight it had yet beheld. Haco of Norway had come with his fleet to reconquer the western isles of Scotland, the Norse kings' old inheritance. The pointed windows watched ship after ship sail by with colored sails and shining shields, bearing the Norsemen to their last battle in southern lands; and then the islands waited for the news that in those days was brought by the men who had made the story.

Month upon month went by; men wondered and rumors flew; the days grew shorter and the gales came out of all the seas. At last, when winter was well upon the islands, what were left of the battered ships began to straggle home. They brought back stories that the cathedral remembers, though six centuries have rolled them out of the memories of the people; tales of lee-shores and westerly gales, of anchors dragging under the Cumbraes, and Scottish knights charging down upon the beach where the Norwegian spears were ranked on the edge of the tide. Then of more gales and whirlpools in the Pentland, until at length they carried their old sick king ashore to die in the bishop's palace at Kirkwall.

He lay for two months in that ancient building, now a roofless shell, standing just beyond the churchyard wall, his most faithful friends beside VOL. XVII. 931

LIVING AGE.

him, the restless Orkney wind without, and the voice of the saga-reader by the bed. First they read to him in Latin till he grew too sick to follow the foreign words, and then in Norse, through the sagas of the saints, and after of the kings. They had come down to his own father Sverrir, and then in the words of the old historian: "Near midnight Sverrir's saga was read through, and just as midnight was past, Almighty God called King Hacon from this world's life." They buried him in the great red church that had stood sentinel over the sick chamber, and as the race of vikings died with Swein, so the roving, conquering kings of Norway passed away with Haco, and never again came south to trouble the seaboards.

The Orkneys, however, were not yet out of the current of affairs. They cut, indeed, but a small figure compared with the Orkney of the great Earl Thorfinn in the century before Rognvald founded his cathedral, he who owned nine earldoms in Scotland and all the southern isles, besides a great realm in Ireland. But there was still a bishop in the palace, and an earl with powers of life and death in his dominion, and an armed following that counted for something in war; and the cathedral was still the church of a small country rather than of a little county. The sun cast the shadows of dignitaries in the winding street, and the bones they were framed of were laid in time beneath the flags of St. Magnus's Church. When one comes to think of it, the old cathedral must hold a varied collection of these, for here lie the high and low of two races and no man knows how many chance sojourners and travellers.

At last upon a dark day for the islands, their era of semi-independence and vikingism and Norse romance came to a most undignified end. needy king of the North pledged them

A

to Scotland for his daughter's dowry, as a common man might pledge his watch. East to Norway was no longer the way to the motherland, and the open horizon meeting the clouds, the old high road, led now to a foreign shore. Henceforth they belonged to the long coast, with its pale mountainpeaks far away over the cliffs, which had once, so far as the eye could see, belonged to them. It was a transaction intended for a season, but the season has never run to its limit yet. Now, it is to be hoped it never will; .but for centuries it would have been better for the Orkneys if they had gone the way of some volcanic islet and sunk quietly below the grey North Sea.

One might think that, when they had ceased to be a half-way house between their sovereign and his neighbors of Europe, and were become instead a geographical term applied to the least accessible portion of their new lord's dominions, that their history and their troubles would soon have ceased, and the islanders been left to fish, and reap late crops and try to keep the winter weather out. But there was no such good luck for many a day to come. Alas for themselves! they were too valuable an asset in the Scotch king's treasury. Orkney too valuable! That collection of windy, treeless islands, where great ponds of rain-water stand through the fields for months together, and a strawberry that ripens is shown to one's friends. The plain truth is that, measured by a Scotch standard of value in those days, it would have been hard to find a pocket not worth the picking. The rental of Orkney was more than twice that of the kingdom of Fife, and Fife, I suppose, was an El Dorado compared with most provinces of its impecunious country. So north they came, Scotch earls and bishops and younger sons, to make what they could before the pledge was re

deemed. And to the old cathedral was flung the shame of standing as the symbol of oppression. It was not its fault, and every stone must have silently cried to Heaven for forgiveness. But a cathedral meant a bishop, and an Orkney bishop meant the refinement of roguery and exaction. When these prelates in their turns came to permanently inhabit their minster, and they could at last hear the voice of its spirit that loves the land it watches, demanding an account of their stewardship, what should they say? The old excuse, "We must live"? I can hardly think the church perceived the necessity.

That monument which the old sailors and fighters of the North had built that they might link a better world with the rough and warring earth, had to stand immovable for century upon century, watching the trouble of their sons. It saw them make their stand at Summerdale in the old fashion, with sword and halbert, and a battle-cry on their lips, and march back again to the town in a glimpse of triumph. But that quickly faded, and the weight of new laws and evil rulers gradually broke the high spirit entirely. It saw the proud Odallers reduced to long-suffering "peerie lairds," and all their power and romance and circumstance of state pass over to the foreigner; until after a time it was hard to believe that some pages further back there was a closed chapter of history which read quite differently from this.

Down below the parapet of the tower the narrow streets were full of the most splendid-looking people, all in steel and the Stuart arms,-well barsinistered if their heraldry was accurate. Earls Robert and Patrick of that royal name, each, through his scandalous life, made the island the home of a prince's court; and out among the moors and the islands the old race wondered whose turn it should be for

persecution next, and how long Heaven would let these things be.

The downfall of the Stuarts' rule came at last, violently as was fit, but to the end they used the old church on behalf of the wrong. The tower was wrapped in the smoke of the rebels' musketry when old Earl Patrick lay by the heels in Edinburgh awaiting his doom as a traitor, and his son held Kirkwall against what might, by comparison, be termed the Law, and it was only at the point of the pike that they turned the last Stuart out of the sepulchre of St. Magnus.

Then the long windows watched the shadows of all manner of persons, who are well forgotten now, darken the prospect for a while, and pass away to let other clouds gather; and in all that time there cannot have been many whom a critical edifice can recall with pride.

The bishops were sent about their business and the solemn League and Covenant as solemnly sworn. The troopers of Cromwell stalked through the old pillars with their wide hats the firmer set on. The Covenant was unsworn, and the bishops came back and acquired emoluments for a little while longer, till at last they went altogether, and in good, sober Presbyterian fashion the awakened people set about purifying their temple. Poor old church! they did it thoroughly. Away went carving and stained glass, and ancient tombs and bones, and everything that the austere taste of Heaven is supposed by man to dislike. They made it clean with a kind of yellowish whitewash, and divided it by a sanitary deal screen impervious to draught. In this shameful guise, more like a human sinner penitent during his Majesty's pleasure than the symbol of God Macmillan's Magazine.

on earth, the cathedral has watched the advent of quiet days and the slow healing of time. To-day the greatest clamor it hears is made by the rooks. No earl's men or bishop's men quarrel in the street; no one either fears or harries the islanders; the history of Orkney is written and closed and laid upon the shelf. The hands of the clock move evenly round, and the seasons change by the almanack.

But there stands the old red church, silently remembering and arranging in their due perspective all these things, remarkable and true. The worst of it is that it makes no comment that a mortal can understand, so that no one can say what a seasoned, well-mortared observer of seven centuries of affairs thinks of changing dynasties and creeds, and whether it is disposed to take them more seriously than so many moultings of feathers, and if one can retain any optimism through a course of whitewash and draughtproof screens.

It is pleasant to think, for the old minster's sake, that it heeds the rubs of fortune very little, and regards material changes just as so many shifts of plumage. Its people are still flesh and blood and its islands rock and turf and heather, and it will take more than pails and paint-brushes, and pledges and Covenants, to make them otherwise. The winter days are as bleak as ever, and the summer evenings as long and light, and the sun rises out of the North Sea among the flat green islands, and sinks in the Atlantic behind the western heather hills; and it is likely enough that from the height of the cathedral tower many other most serious events look surprisingly unimportant.

J. Storer Clouston.

"If there is any mercy in the heart of the English lord, let him come quickly to succor his oppressed servants; he shall become the instrument of Heaven to rid the earth of an incumbrance, and his servants at Ryábova of a deadly peril."

Thus ran a portion of a certain notable letter received at St. Petersburg by Johnnie Baxter, English merchant of that city and lessee of the shooting district upon which the writer lived as head keeper. Johnnie was not a lord, but Ivan, the keeper, chose to call him So whensoever he considered that there was reasonable prospect of a tip, of that any other advantage was to be gained by the employment of flattering language or (as Johnnie expressed it) "butter."

"What do you suppose is the matter?" asked Johnnie, taking counsel of his fellow-sportsman at the club during the luncheon hour; "poachers?"

"That, or a bear among the ryefields," said Griffiths; "you'll have to go, Baxter; you can send for me if there's a good thing on."

Baxter lost no time in journeying down to his "shoot"; he was somewhat curious to learn what this terror might be from which he was expected to deliver "his servants." It was early spring and the roads were in a shock. ing state. Has the reader ever abandoned his body to the mercilessness of a Russian road in spring? If not, stay at home, and keep your bones in the positions selected for them by a wise and beneficent nature. That Russian road in spring would shake them all into your boots, and you would require to have them resorted and fastened together if you ever arrived at your destination, which would be doubtful.

Baxter, however, being a sturdy Brit

on and strongly put together, arrived safely at the shooting-lodge, where he found Ivan, the keeper, and Spiridon, his assistant, awaiting him with solemn faces. Johnnie

Baxter required a little cheering after his terrible journey, and his conversation with Ivan did him infinite good.

Ivan was, as I have said, solemn; his demeanor was one of studied mystery; he spoke as one who has the most weighty communication to make, yet fears to utter it lest its importance should instantly crush the recipient.

"Well, Ivan, what's up?" Baxter asked, cheerily.

"A terrible calamity has befallen the district," said the keeper; then he waited a moment to note the effect of this remark upon Baxter, who merely smiled blandly. Ivan continued: "You may have seen Timothy Harkof, my lord, the cowherd?"

"I know the tipsy old idiot," replied Baxter, with levity. "What of him?" "He's dead," said Ivan, solemnly.

"Good gracious, man, you didn't send for me to tell me the cowherd was dead?" exclaimed Baxter, somewhat hotly.

"That is not all," said Ivan, undisturbed. "He defied the wood spirits; he declared in his cups that he believed in no Liéshui or any other wood spirits, and that he would go and dance at midnight in the open space in mid-forest which is held sacred to them. Well, he went, and-" Ivan paused. "Go on," said Johnnie, rather interested.

"I hardly dare speak of it," continued Ivan, glancing at the dark night brooding without the uncurtained windows. The assistant, Spiridon, glanced out also, and shuddered. Johnnie Bax

ter silently poured out a glass of sherry for each man; both keepers drank with satisfaction, sighed, and set down their glasses empty.

"He never reappeared," continued Ivan, after a slight pause "not in human form, that is. Without doubt the Liéshui killed him. His soul-"

"Never mind hs soul," said Baxter, testily, "that is not your affair, fortunately. What has this poor fellow's disappearance or death to do with the disaster you declare to have happened in the village?"

"His soul is the whole point," said Ivan, looking a little offended; "do you not know, my lord, that when a man has insulted the Liéshui he is condemned by them to inhabit the body of a wolf, which thenceforward becomes a were-wolf-a terror and a pest to all who dwell within the area of its pernicious hunting-field? We are accursed, my lord, for this man Timothy's sins. Save us, my lord, if you have any pity for your servants!"

Ivan dropped upon his knees and seized Johnnie's hand as though to kiss it. Spiridon dropped also, evidently intending to claim his turn in the kissing; both men showed signs of weeping, and knelt a moment or two, crossing themselves piously and sniffing, after Baxter had testily drawn away his hand.

"You fools," said Johnnie; "do you seriously tell me that you believe this nonsense? If there is a wolf about, I will shoot him with pleasure, if I can find him, but let's have an end of this superstitious foolery. Has this wolf been seen?"

"Many times," said Ivan, somewhat abashed, but distinctly unshaken. "Moreover, I have here a list of the damage the accursed beast has already done in the district."

Ivan handed in a dirty slip of paper covered with totally illegible hieroglyphics.

"Read it out," said Johnnie, after a strenuous but ineffectual attempt to decipher the document.

Ivan did so, when it appeared that beyond frightening several peasant women and a man or two and killing an unfortunate child of five, the principal offences of the were-wolf had been of a burglarious nature.

"Three lambs from Gregory Panof," Ivan read out, "on the 19th of March; Anthony Kritof's white dog on the 20th and two of his sheep on the 21st."

"Any wolf might have done that much," scoffed Johnnie.

"Let my lord wait a moment," replied Ivan, continuing. "See here: on the 23rd March there disappeared from the barn of Peter Abramof, where he had hidden it, a packet of rouble-notes; his savings for "

"Oh, come, come, Ivan," said Baxter, laughing aloud; "the were-wolf could have no possible use for money; Petka will find his packet. The sheep and lambs and so forth are a different matter--"

"Your mercifulness has not yet heard all," said Ivan, still quite undisturbed. "The widow Katerina, who is the wise woman of the village, has lately lost her book of herbs and of charms; Gregory Panof, a light cart which he used for-"

"Why, man alive!" exclaimed Baxter, "are you absolutely mad, or have you drunk youself into this condition of idiocy? Do you know what you are saying? Think, now. Why, in the name of wonder, should a were-wolf carry away carts, and money, and books-"

"Nevertheless, it is true, even though my lord disbelieves it," said Ivan; "my lord shall inquire of these persons for himself."

"Did they see the wolf steal the things?" asked Johnnie; "or is every rascality in the village set down to the