"Denys l'Auxerrois," child of the vine and the woodland, the echo personified of Nature's ivy-crowned god. In both stories a waif of the old Nature-world has wandered, a lost child, into the new world grown sombre with the sense of sin. Both Denys and Donatello have gentle kinship with the wild things of earth, over both a spiritual darkness grows; over Denys the madness and malady of strange riots, over the Faun the shadow of a crime. Denys dies, torn to pieces, hunted to his death by his sometime companions. For Donatello joy has departed for ever; the huntsman who rends his heart is remorse. Denys lives and dies in a mediæval fantasy, Donatello, suffering the doom of a soul, is a fragment of Pagan childhood which has drifted out of its home into the core of a Puritan romance. But in that conscience-burdened atmosphere, with all the dimness Hawthorne has added to it of brooding sadness, melancholy speculation and dusky fatality, in all the pictures he has drawn of love and hate and sin, the author still comes before us, not as one of those philosphers who see that all is vanity under the sun, but that all is pardon and pity. He called "Transformation" his "moonshiny romance." Possibly the absence of the solar glare lent itself to the moral attitude of the human apologist, and Hawthorne, who had smiled at so many illusions, still-in moonlight-retained his own.

effort, full of fragmentary beauty, contains only a promise of what might have been. For when decline came it came rapidly, and the three sketches, "Septimius," "The Dolliver Romance," and "Dr. Grimshawe's Secret," based on the same theme-the pursuit of the elixir-remain skeletons of shifting conceptions.

In Sleepy Hollow-surely no place of the dead ever bore so appropriate a name Thoreau already lay buried on the slope of the hill. In the May of 1864, Hawthorne was carried to his grave near by, under the pines he loved. Poor Margaret Fuller, many years earlier, had found her last abiding place-again the appropriateness strikes one-under the sea waves where she and her child had .sunk unsuccored. But many of the old group remained to mourn at Hawthorne's burial-Emerson, who survived him eighteen years, with Hillard, Channing, Alcott, are all named in the closing scene Longfellow commemorated in a poem too familiar to quote, too beautiful to leave unnoted:

Now I look back, and meadow, manse and stream,

Dimly my thought defines;

I only see a dream within a dream-
The hill-top hearsed with pines.

There in seclusion and remote from

men

The wizard hand lies cold, Which at its utmost speed let fall the pen,

And left the tale untold.

Mr. Woodberry tells us at the conclusion of his biography that "many whose names have been frequent in this record now lie with him in that secluded spot, which is a place of long memory for our literature." May we not amend the sentence and say in grateful homage, "for all literature?"

CHAPTER XIV.

THE GALLANTRY OF M. DE BEAUJEU.

Mistress Charlbury was complimented on her art by M. de Beaujeu. "Ah, mademoiselle, but not even on the stage of Paris have I seen so poignant a figure as your 'Almahide,'" said Beaujeu. And that was merely true, for he had never been in Paris.

"You are pleased to be kind, monsieur," said Rose.

Beaujeu put up a deprecating hand: "But no, mademoiselle. I am only honest-and that is quite different." "Why, monsieur, for myself I would hope to be both."

"Mademoiselle, without doubt you are capable of everything. But we others, we cannot be honest and kind at once. So to you, since kindness would be impertinence, I am honest."

"Indeed, you explain yourself with great care," said Rose. M. de Beaujeu looked at her sideways, saw nothing but gaiety in the bright golden eyes, and lay back in his chair.

"Pardon, mademoiselle. I talk of myself because I dare not talk of you."

"I would that all the town were polite as you," said Rose, and her eyes grew darker.

M. de Beaujeu stiffened himself with a martial air. "Do me the honor to remember, mademoiselle," says he, "if any rogue take your name in vain the sword of Beaujeu” (he slapped the hilt) "is sharp to maintain that you are Queen of Honor, of Loyalty, of Art!"

Rose laughed: "Why, monsieur, you have discovered all my virtues vastly quickly."

"Mademoiselle," said Beaujeu, watch ing the dimple tremble in her fair cheek, "they leap to the eye. I have never beheld their match."

Some tone of his voice, a gleam (mayhap) of the eyes, made her start and frown and look at him strangely. He recalled mysteriously the past, this M. de Beaujeu. But now he was bowing and smiling with a somewhat Gallic air, and

"Ah, mademoiselle, but I envy you!" he cried.

"If I were a man I would never envy a woman," said Rose sharply. "And why me of all women?"

M. de Beaujeu was leaning forward in the shadow, for her gaze was steady upon him. M. de Beaujeu made a gesture with delicate white hand: "To be mistress of all the town!" he cried. The girl's cheek darkened at the dubious phrase. "Eh, one must envy," says monsieur easily.

"Can you understand, monsieur, that I hate the town?" said Rose coldly. Beaujeu laughed: "I was sure of it, mademoiselle! These people of fashion, all busy with their intrigues and deceits, I knew they could not please you. One sighs for the air of the heath."

"The heath?" Rose cried, and leant forward, gazing.

"My moors of Auvergne," said Beaujeu. "They breathe to me yet. But alas! I am exile."

"I am sorry," said Rose, simply. Beaujeu bowed. "I come from a heath country, too, monsieur." She smiled at him. "Do you know the wind that blows over the moors after rain?"

Beaujeu's face hardened. "I remember," he said harshly.

Rose watched him, and her eyes grew dark and tender. "We shall breathe it again perhaps-at last-you and I."

Beaujeu flung back his head, the black curls of his wig fell away, his

face showed grim against the light, and the cold eyes glittered. "I shall never," said he. "Nor do I wish it now." Rose had started. Rose gave a little gasp and caught at her heart. Her cheeks were white. Beaujeu's curls fell swiftly back to their place. "But what have you, then, mademoiselle?" says he, with an air of concern. "Alas, some pain? I will call your maid, then!" He rose.

"No-no-it is past," said Rose unsteadily. "Monsieur-you-you come from France?" Her eyes were dark and intent.

M. de Beaujeu in the shadow appeared amazed. "But yes, mademoiselle, from France. I am exile for my foolish faith," says he with a shrug. "A good cause!"

"I am proud to win your praise." M. de Beaujeu stood with his back to the light that fell on her eager eyes. He was smiling. "One must always keep the faith, is it not so, mademoiselle?"

"Monsieur, you have the right to say

it."

"That is my enduring consolation.

...

But, alas, mademoiselle, I have wearied you too long. I must pray your pardon and go. Forgive that I have troubled you with my life-mine, a friend of two months. And, alsobut pardon the impertinence-your pain just past, consider it, for the sake of your health, invaluable to your friends."

Rose smiled, and gave him her hand. Beaujeu bowed over it as if he were to kiss it. His lips did not touch. Beaujeu departed, and Rose sat in her low chair with her hands clasped tight on her knee gazing wide-eyed at nothing, and her low white brow was furrowed.

Indeed he was wondrous like, this Frenchman. That grim face, those glittering eyes-it was Mr. Dane's self in his heroical moments . . . . Tom's

very self. . . . Ah, but it could not be he come back to her. He had gone to the French wars, hating her, scorning her, would come back to her never. Dead he was now, perhaps, dead unforgiving; or happy with another woman held in that strong arm. . . . So the incomparable Charlbury, torturing herself for the hundredth time.

Nay, if even he had come back, he'd not have met her so. Though he thought her traitress and scorned her, he would never come in disguise to cheat her to make her his mock. Mr. Dane would never be so cruel: nay, he was too great of heart, too noble.

And in Charing Cross a noble gentleman, M. de Beaujeu, remarked to himself: "She was always a lady of an admirable fragrance," and walked to the Countess of Laleham's rout.

The case of the Earl and Countess of Laleham affords the only instance of Mr. Wharton's approval of matrimony. The gentleman was a Whig by three descents, the lady a Tory of pure blood; but neither he nor she was a fanatic in politics. Hence, as Mr. Wharton has written, theirs was the one house in town "where a good Whig might meet a pretty Tory without scandal to his reputation."

So, beneath my Lady Laleham's rosepink tapestry, you may behold the robust beauty of my Lord Sherbourne, Mr. Russell's saturnine face, Mr. Wharton's ugly mouth whispering close to the spun gold of my Lady Churchhill's curls, the Epicurean sneer of my Lord Halifax, the famed shell-pink cheeks, the serpentine grace of my Lady Sunderland. From the background, tall and stately in his old gold velvet, M. de Beaujeu studies human nature.

Towards him Mr. Wharton cocked a humorous eye, and on a chance coming whispered a word in the Earl of Laleham's ear. M. de Beaujeu was presented by the Earl of Laleham to

Beaujeu's rapier play. "In a word, Tom, like your own-infernal!" cried the Marquess of Twyford. Wharton grinned at Beaujeu through the crowd. Among them was my Lord Sherborne. Beaujeu tapped him on the arm, and judged from the face that turned to him that my Lord Sherborne had been much wrought by the eloquence of Mr. Wharton.

"I was to give you my thanks, my lord," said Beaujeu sweetly, motioning towards the door. They went out together. "Eh, it is better. Let us take a walk, my lord," and my lord saying never a word cast his cloak about him, and the two passed out to the park and the cool night air. "Your acuteness, my lord, will see that I wish to complain

"I hear no complaints from any man."

M. de Beaujeu went blandly on. "I was disturbed in my country walk by the necessity to drive off your bullies. They spoiled the landscape, you see." "My bullies, sir?"

"Since you know what I mean, to explain that would weary. I am charitable, I. Also your bullies were about to spoil my dear friend, M. Jack Dane. You see? I wish not that he should be spoilt. You see clearly?"

"And I'll take your tone from no man alive. Do you see do you see clearly?"

"Enfin a so little affair we can settle quickly, you and I. I am ready always. But, my lord, but I am just, I. I confess that you have to complain yourself of my dear friend, M. Jack Dane. He is do you say it?-in your way with your Mademoiselle Charlbury. Bien-punish him. I do say nothing to that. But kill him-no. Do you see, for that I will kill you. M. Wharton, he also will kill you. I think my friend Healy, he will kill you besides. But do you see, that you should drive him from Mademoiselle

we like that. Do that and we will rejoice with you. A hip-hip-hurrah for you, do you say so? Bien. And now I have told you-now, my lord, if you will, I will meet you at the end of a sword-hein?"

My lord Sherborne stopped in his walk and stared at Beaujeu, who smiled at him politely through the gloom. "Wait," says my lord. "Do you tell me that you'll not back the boy against me with the Charlbury?"

"M. Jack Dane," said Beaujeu, "is my dear friend. And so I desire that the incomparable Charlbury should belong to some one else some one for whom I do not care so much as this," he snapped his fingers: "by exampleyourself, my lord."

"I'd have you know, monsieur," Sherborne cried, "Mistress Charlbury is a lady of honor."

"My lord, you will without doubt achieve her conversion. In that I covet for you success. Also, I do not wish that M. Dane should preserve her from you or by marriage (oh yes, he is capable, that foolish boy), or by anything less mad." Sherborne stood before him peering at his face through the darkness. "Why?" said Beaujeu, with a laugh, since Sherborne appeared to ask. "Corbleu, I have told you. Because I have some affection for M. Jack-but for you and your incomparable Mademoiselle, my lord, none in the world. Ah, bah, but how you have been foolish. To attack him with swords in the open fields! A bêtise. He is killed? Bien, she weeps for her martyr-she hates his murderer. He triumphs? Then she beholds a hero who has conquered by his sole arm many. They like that, women. Also, he has fought for her. We love the lady we have fought for à merveille we men. In all cases, my lord, you ruin yourself. Now see what you should do. You discover a day, an hour, when the Incomparable has granted M. Jack