endeavor to do so and make the best of it | sition-and hardly a friend. We two remerely as a charity. But I believe that present the De Stancy line; and I wish we feeling is a mistake: your discontent is were behind the iron door of our old vault constitutional, and would go on just the at Sleeping Green. It can be seen by same whether I accepted you or no. My looking at us and our circumstances that refusal of you is purely an imaginary we cry for the earth and oblivion." grievance." "Not if I think otherwise." "Oh no," she murmured, nervously, and with a sense that the place was very lonely and silent. "If you think it otherwise I suppose it is otherwise." "My darling, my Paula," he said, seizing her hand. "Do promise me something. You must indeed!" "Captain De Stancy!" she said, trembling and turning away. "Captain De Stancy!" She tried to withdraw her fingers, then faced him, exclaiming, in a firm voice, a third time, "Captain De Stancy! let go my hand; for I tell you I will not marry you!" "Good God!" he cried, dropping her hand. "What have I driven you to say in your anger! Retract it-oh, retract it!" "Captain De Stancy, it is not like that, I assure you," sympathized Paula, with damp eyelashes. "I love Charlotte too dearly for you to talk like that, indeed. I don't want to marry you exactly, and yet I can not bring myself to say I permanently reject you, because I remember you are Charlotte's brother, and do not wish to be the cause of any morbid feelings in you which would ruin your future prospects." "My dear life, what is it you doubt in me? Your earnestness not to do me harm makes it all the harder for me to think of never being more than a friend." "Well, I have not positively refused," she exclaimed, in mixed tones of pity and distress. "Let me think it over a little while. It is not generous to urge so strongly before I can collect my thoughts." "Darling, forgive it!-There, I'll say "Don't urge me further, as you value no more." my good opinion." "To lose you now is to lose you forever. Come, please answer." "I won't be compelled," she interrupted, with vehemence. "I am resolved not to be your-not to give you an answer tonight. Never, never will I be reasoned out of my intention; and I say I won't answer you to-night! I should never have let you be so much with me but for pity of you; and now it is come to this!" She had sunk into a chair, and now leaned upon her hand, and buried her face in her handkerchief. He had never caused her any such agitation as this before. "You stab me with your words," continued De Stancy. "The experience I have had with you is without parallel, Paula. It seems like a distracting dream." "I won't be hurried by anybody." "That may mean anything," he said, with a perplexed, passionate air. "Well, mine is a fallen family, and we must abide caprices. Would to Heaven it was extinguished!" He then offered to sit up in her place for the remainder of the night; but Paula declined, assuring him that she meant to stay only another half-hour, after which nobody would be necessary. He had already crossed the landing to ascend to his room, when she stepped after him and asked if he had received his telegram. "No," said De Stancy. heard of one." "Nor have I Paula explained that it was put in his room that he might see it the moment he came in. "It matters very little," he replied, "since I shall see it now. Good-night, dearest; good-night," he added, tenderly. She gravely shook her head. "It is not for you to express yourself like that," she answered. "Good-night, Captain De Stancy." He went up the stairs to the second floor, and Paula returned to the sittingroom. Having left a light burning, De Stancy proceeded to look for the telegram, and found it on a chair, where it had been "What was extinguished?" she mur-swept from the table. When he had mured. "The De Stancys. Here am I, a homeless wanderer, living on my pay; in the next room lies she, my sister, a poor little fragile feverish invalid with no social po opened the sheet, a sudden solemnity overspread his face. He sat down, rested his elbow on the table, and his forehead on his hands. Captain De Stancy did not remain thus 944 long. Rising, he went softly down stairs. | bed, heard wheels without, and looked The gray morning had by this time crept from the window. A fly had been brought into the hotel, rendering a light no long-round, and one of the hotel servants was er necessary. The old clock on the land- in the act of putting up a portmanteau ing was within a few minutes of four, with De Stancy's initials upon it. and the birds were hopping up and down ute afterward the captain came to her A mintheir cages, and whetting their bills. He door. tapped at the sitting-room, and she came instantly. "But I told you it was not necessary—” she began. "Yes, but the telegram," he said, hurriedly. "I wanted to let you know first that it is very serious. My father is dead! He died suddenly yesterday, and I must go at once. About Charlotteand how to let her know-" "I thought you had not gone to bed, after all." 66 "I was anxious to see you off,” said and you wished me not to rouse them." she, "since neither of the others is awake, Quite right; you are very good;" and lowering his voice: "Paula, it is a sad and solemn time with me. me one word-not on our last sad subject, Will you grant but on the previous one-before I part "She must not be told yet," said Paula. with you to go and bury my father?" .. Sir William dead!" 66 "You think we had better not tell her just yet?" said De Stancy, anxiously. "That's what I want to consult you about, if you don't mind my intruding." 66 Certainly I don't," she said. They continued the discussion for some time, and it was decided that Charlotte should not be informed of what had happened till the doctor had been consulted, Paula promising to account for her brother's departure. De Stancy then prepared to leave for England by the first morning train, and roused the night porter, which functionary, having packed off Abner Power, was discovered asleep on the sofa of the landlord's parlor. At half past five, Paula, who in the interim had been pensively sitting with her hand to her chin, quite forgetting that she had meant to go to I "Certainly," she said, in gentle accents. sition? Will you at last have pity upon "Your hand upon it." few moments, then raised it to his lips, She gave him her hand: he held it a and was gone. formed of Sir William's death, and of his De Stancy," she exclaimed. "Well, what are you writing there?" cepted him this morning, in spite of Un"Only entering in my diary that I accle Abner." Editor's Easy Chair. Tis to be regretted that M. De Rochambeau | the general and his brilliant suite have still and the other French gentlemen who come to take part in the centennial commemoration recollection. Our distinguished French visitan air of conscions importance and of proud of the French alliance, and of the surrender at ors, familiar as they doubtless are with the Yorktown to the allied armies, did not arrive charming memoirs of their countrymen who in time to see Newport in its summer gayety accompanied the elder Rochambeau, could see and splendor. It is with Newport and the isl-no spot in America with sincerer interest than and and waters of Rhode Island that the French visit is most closely associated. At Long Wharf General Washington landed to meet the French ally. In the beantiful harbor of Newport lay the French fleet, and the French army was cantoned upon the island. Near the old fort upon the shore of the harbor still stands the spacious house in which the French admiral died, and the head-quarters of the quaint old town along whose streets tripped the peerless Quaker Polly Lawton and the beautiful Champlin, with whom Washington himself stepped a minuet. amaze and delight the accomplished gentleThe new Newport also could not fail to men of our sister republic. Nowhere upon the pleasure-haunted French coast-nowhere in the world, indeed-could they see so magnifi cent a watering-place. Winding in from life, supplying the characteristic central point Bateman's around the harbor shore, they which the Newport of the last generation might fancy the yellow Ocean House, which | lacked. It is the pump-room of the last cendominates the town, to be a German Residenz, | tury at Bath and Tunbridge Wells. There are and infer a dowdy little community at its feet. But ascending the hill to the superb Bellevue Avenue and its tributaries, wide reaches of sea pastures enchanted into exquisite gardens, and clustering with costly and elaborate villas, the roads swarming with fine equipages of every kind, filled with a brilliant company, and over all the soft, gleaming atmosphere of the neighboring Gulf Stream, the French gentlemen could not but admit that there was a world beyond Paris, and gardens more beauti-the street it is a long, rather quaint building, ful than Versailles. Nor can it be denied that to those luxurious villas, to the well-clad groups chatting and laughing upon airy seaward-sloping lawns and deep embowered piazzas, to the motley poloriders and tennis-players and gay hunters of the fox across country, to the delicate dinners and musical breakfasts and dancing teas, the coming of the courtly gentlemen would have been most welcome. Perhaps, indeed, they will yet arrive, not in time for the midsummer festivity, but not too late for the softly brilliant autumnal days when the climate of the island is perfect, and the lustrous sea an opal. They would bring with them, perhaps, traditions and reminiscences of a royal court; there may be among them gentlemen still loyal to the Bourbon lily and the King kept from his crown. They will then have the opportunity of studying republican simplicity. They can note the sobriety and moderation to which the republic of their own country may yet attain. Or they may reflect upon the proverb of their own land, Les extrêmes se touchent, as they sit at tables almost upon the rocks, almost sprinkled with the ocean spray, at dinners which Le Petit Trianon could not surpass nor rival. no springs, indeed, at Newport, and the baths are on the sea-shore. But the Casino is all that the pump-room and the assembly-room and the promenade and other places of meeting are in other countries and times and at other great pleasure resorts. It is, in fact, a thoroughly appointed and well-considered club, managed by a board of governors, and designed with a taste and skill which the Freuch gentlemen can not but admire. Upon in. perfect keeping with the general character of the neighborhood, and of a rich dark hue, as if it had been built in the elder Rochambeau's day. The lower story upon the street is a range of pretty shops, and the upper story is a club proper, with smoking and cardplaying and writing and reading and bathing and billiard and lounging rooms, which are "low studded," furnished substantially and | tastefully, and have the true club air of comfort. The Casino is entered by a broad passageway from the street leading to a first large open court almost surrounded by a gallery, upon which open eating-rooms and reading-rooms, and which is overlooked by the windows of the club above. At the side of the entrance in the court is a low quaint clock tower which might have strayed from a French château. All the building upon this court is of neat elegance and simplicity, and the colors are subdued and pleasing. Opposite the entrance the gallery is open toward the second court, and it has the effect of a pretty pavilion. Here between the courts gay groups sit listening to the music of one of the fine New York bands, talking and watching the games of lawn tennis in the secIn the pretty white and gold theatre of the ond court. In the morning the groups are oftCasino, filled with a murmuring and debonairen from the cottages, and on some days the company, those gentlemen may perhaps recall the theatre at Versailles where the Guard sat at supper when the Queen appeared, and they rose with passionate loyalty and sang, “O Richard, O mon roi!" Outside, if the night be warm, there will be groups in the moon-lit gallery, through whose hushed talk pulse the throb and yearning strain of the waltz, hushed groups to whose young hearts the whole world in that one moment is but witchery and romance. Ah! well, messieurs, so thought De Lauzun and Viosmenil as they whispered to Polly Lawton under that same moon, in this very air, with that same muffled beat of the ocean yonder, a hundred years ago. Where be their whispers now, their sighs, their tions! And Polly Lawton?— "Moon of the summer night, Far down yon western steeps, Sink, sink, in silver light: She sleeps, my lady sleeps." scene is that of an assembly. In the evening appear the strangers who have newly come to Newport, and who hasten hither to see the world. The pavilion separates the first from the second court, which is much larger and more open, and is devoted to lawn tennis. At the farther end, opposite the pavilion, is the theatre, and the proper old English tennis court. This court is entirely secluded, and is overlooked only from the pavilion and from the outer gallery of the theatre. At Baden-Baden in the old day, and at the German spas, the French gentlemen have seen the fine gambling halls, and have watched the silent, intense game. The Casino offers no protesta-gambling resources. It is wholly a social ex change, pretty, tasteful, agreeable, and, to a resort like gay Newport, indispensable. At Saratoga, life is concentrated at the great hotels, each of which is its own Casino. But Newport life is diffused. It is a villa life. Its ob The Casino is the crown of the gay Newport|ject, nevertheless, like that of all such resorts, VOL. LXIII.-No. 378.-60 is a select publicity. People who wish to be hermits do not go to Newport. M. De Rochambeau and his company will be doubtless astonished, for somehow Newport, which is an entirely unique aspect of American life, eludes the books of travel. Either the tourists are here out of season, or those who see Newport do not write books. It is not to be expected, but it would be very interesting if the French memoirs of life in Newport a hundred years ago should be followed by French memoirs of the life of to-day. Its present life is of a kind | for which the French are thought to have a peculiar genius-the villa life, we mean, for there is still the quiet life of the old New England town upon the harbor, to which the hum of the saturnalia upon the hill is like the sound of the invisible battle of the Huns in the air. THERE is one lesson in good manners or good morals which it seems to a correspondent is yet to be learned by many who would doubtless be surprised to know that they need to learn anything. Our correspondent says that it is a point of etiquette; but it is more than that; it is a question of morals. Since Noah's family came from the ark, insists Fatima, it has been understood that young women should accept no gifts save from their kinsfolk or their betrothed lovers. This is a little rigid, but it is a sound severity. She then proceeds to her indictment, which is that Americans-meaning, of course, some Americans-appear to think that an exception is to be made in the case of "female journalists." It is perhaps not generally known how large and important a part of the work of newspapers is done, and well done, by women. But it is so, and there is no more honorable class among the makers of newspapers. Yet Fatima asserts that the recognized rules of the craft are outraged in their case. She says truly that all honorable newspaper workers of the other sex agree that "not a penny, nor the value of a penny, nor the means of saving a penny, as a reward for anything published or to be published, is receivable from anybody but the chief of the paper," and theatre managers, corporations, and shopkeepers, she is sure, begin to understand it. But whether it be supposed that women, as women, are peculiarly susceptible to the pleasure of gifts, or whatever the reason may be, Fatima declares that men, in the case of newspaper women, often disregard this feeling, while women out of the craft are positively blind to it, and assume that the women who are engaged upon newspapers live in luxury from what are really illicit gifts, however innocent they may be supposed to be. Curtains in her modest rooms, pretty bonnets, theatre tickets, fares upon railroads, and accommodations at summer hotels are all held to be gifts showered upon the newspaper woman. If that lady resents the imputation, she is heard with incredulity, or adjudged to be foolishly scornful of her opportunities. This assumption that bribery is a newspaper usage, so far as women are concerned, Fatima illustrates by an incident. A lady long connected with a prominent journal received a courteous note from another lady, inclosing a free steamboat pass for a year, which the newspaper lady returned with a civil note, choosing to suppose that her correspondent might be taking this way of returning what she held to be a favor in some favorable allusion of the paper. To this reply the correspondent rejoined, in the hand of a man, that she was greatly disturbed to learn that the position held by the lady upon the journal was such as to force her to decline a common civility, but she hoped that the lady would soon be in the position to which her education and talents entitled her, aud in which she would be able to accept an ordinary courtesy. This amusing impertinence was justly chastised in a reply by the lady of the newspaper, and the little attempt at bribery was foiled. Fatima, however, is mistaken in supposing that the attempted bribery is confined to women. Editors and newspaper writers are always exposed to the most insidious bribery. If there be a somewhat different feeling in regard to offering a bribe to a newspaper woman, it is because of the traditional opinion of women which is held by men, especially in the case of a woman who is engaged in work which has been thought to be beyond her sphere. The most striking illustration of this is the distaste, so general as to be often called instinctive, and actually believed by many to be so, which men feel for a "female doctor." It is a mixture of indignation, incredulity, and contempt, and Mr. Howells in selecting it for the motif of his present story appeals to something which everybody understands. Yet nothing is more unreasonable than this feeling. Not only are women natural nurses and physicians, fitted by observation and experience, practicing in the minor maladies of their own families and in those of their friends, but there are most intelligent women who would always prefer, if it were possible, at the most critical exigencies to confide themselves wholly to the scientific knowledge and care of their own sex. Now, although so much of the important and valuable service upon newspapers is performed by women, there is still a feeling which regards a woman reporter very much as it looks upon a "woman doctor," and it is this feeling which assumes a practical insolence of tone and treatment, as in the letter which Fatima mentions. The bribe itself would have been as freely offered to a man as to a woman, but the impudent response to its return would not have been written, because the writer would have known that reporters can use horsewhips. It was a cowardly insult, because it counted upon the weakness of the person insulted. The editor acknowledges that the great masters whose genius and works he has expounded for thirty years-Bach, Handel, Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, and the rest-still seem to him greater than any of their successors. He is like a Shakespearean and Miltonian and Wordsworthian who turns an incredulous ear to Victor Hugo and Swinburne and Oscar Wilde. He declares that he has no inward call to preach the new gospel. If there were no greater gods upon the musical Olympus than those of the last thirty years, and no oth The truth is, as Fatima doubtless sees, that the position of women in all self-supporting labor is more difficult than that of men, because of the old tradition, which civilization has not outgrown, that woman is subordinate to man. He is to shoot and hunt and dig to feed her, and she is to serve him. When she takes to feeding herself, she is, in his judgment, abandoning her sphere, and forfeiting his respect. Even now, when the area of women's activity is enlarged, men reserve to themselves the right of deciding what it is becoming for women to do. This opinion is oft-er and in his judgment higher contributions en strongly reflected by other women, and the taunt of such women is peculiarly bitter, as in Fatima's illustration. The remedy lies in persistence, time, and patience. The woman "on a newspaper" who asserts herself like Fatima's friend makes the similar position of all other women easier. The briber will hesitate next time. He has learned that the contempt which he or she-affects to feel for another is sincerely felt for himself. | to music than those of the generation now ending, he would never have established the journal, for such music could never have allured him from other paths of activity. Mr. Dwight does not say, what the history of music in this country will show, that to no one more than to him are we indebted for the intelligent taste which enjoys the best music. His lectures upon the works of the great Germans at the time of their performance by the Boston Academy of Music in the old Odeon IN the midst of the great musical progress forty years ago were a kind of manual for the of the country it is a curious fact that the old- intelligent audience. They showed that an est, ablest, and most independent of musical elaborate orchestral musical composition might journals in the United States has just sus-be as serious a work of art, as full of thought pended publication, on the eve of the comple- and passion and, in a word, of genius, as a great tion of its thirtieth year, for want of adequate poem, and that no form of art was more spirsupport. We mean, of course, Dwight's Journal itually elevating. They lifted the performof Music, which ended with an admirably man- ance of such music from the category of mere ly, candid, and sagacious, but inevitably pa- amusement, and asserted for the authors a digthetic, valedictory from its editor-veteran nity like that of the master poets. If to some editor, we should say, if the atmosphere of hearers the exposition seemed sometimes fangood music in which he has lived had not been ciful and remote, it was only as all criticism of an enchanted air in which youth is perpetually works of the imagination often seems so. If renewed. the spectator sometimes sees in a picture more than the painter consciously intended, it is because the higher power may work with unconscious hands, and because beauty can not be hidden from the eye made to see it. Beethoven, for instance, had never a truer lover or a subtler interpreter than Dwight, and Dwight taught the teachers, and largely shaped the intelligent appreciation of the unapproached master. | Mr. Dwight frankly agrees that there has perhaps never been an adequate demand for a musical journal of the highest character, and that even if such a journal showed signs of life and prosperity, a rival would be sure to appear to contest and divide the support which is hardly large enough for one. He confesses with the same candor that his journal was not adapted for the sharp competition of the modern newspaper. It would not hurry. It would Those were memorable evenings at the old not scramble. What is true to-day does not Odeon. Francis Beaumont did not more pleabecome untrue to-morrow. It would not "write santly recall the things that he and Ben Jondown" to the people, but would assume that son had seen done at the Mermaid than an old they were "up" to every high idea and noble Brook-Farmer remembers the long walks, eight taste. Above all, it detested the scrappiness, good miles in and eight miles out, to see the shallowness, and sloppiness which are called tall willowy Schmidt swaying with his violin "newsy." Its motto has been to teach the at the head of the orchestra, to hear the airy teachers, confident that then the people would ripple of Auber's Zanetta, the swift passionate be taught. The editor, with charming vera- storm of Beethoven's Egmont, the symphonic city, concedes that he has preferred the ideal murmur of woods and waters and summer rather than the practicable, and that this men- fields in the limpid Pastorale, or the solemn tal tendency, combined with a certain indo- grandeur of sustained pathetic human feeling lence of temperament, has produced omissions in the Fifth Symphony. The musical revival and procrastinations which he does not wish was all part of the new birth of the Transcendto extenuate, but simply to own as explana-ental epoch, although none would have more tory of the result. A more delightful valedic- | promptly disclaimed any taint of Transcendtory it would not be easy to find in the swan entalism than the excellent officers of the Bossong of any journal. ton Academy of Music. The building itself, |