bring them what they wanted; therefore they longed to buy-to buy. Soon there would be none who had any food to sell. "But if I can survive, what matter about the others?" This was what each was silently saying to himself.

They sent an embassy to the old man, demanding another sort of knowledge, and also a store of wealth to meet the nation's needs. But he answered them: "What I have ye will not; and, that which ye will is not mine to give to you."

Then they said: "Either he lies, or he has not the power he would have us believe. We will compel another answer." So they began to go out in a great crowd to seek him, and the crowd grew ever larger, until the desert was full of it. As they talked together, blindly and foolishly, desiring blindness and fearing wisdom, their folly and their anger increased even with their numbers, until I saw that the madness which dogs the steps of every angry multitude had come upon them. They must satisfy their wrath with blood and who could stay them? Yet it seemed to me, I knew not why, that the lonely old man was safe from any hurt at their hands.

At the sound of their raging he came out to meet them, and stood before his cavern bareheaded and alone. A compassionate wonder lighted his wan features, and the majesty of his bearing was such that the front ranks of the crowd stood still and waited.

But when he spoke to them, and asked them what they sought of him, the smothered fury broke forth, and they burst out into wild and incoherent threats and demands, mingled with strange accusations. For a moment he was surprised and bewildered; he had been secretly despised before, but never openly rebuked or insulted. Then he gathered his voice into a great volume of sound, and spoke so that they all could hear him.

"What I can give ye desire not. Your salvation can come only through your own hearts; and these ye have shut against me. Because ye will not listen, sorrow, and separation, and struggle, and famine, pain and want in your lifetime, and in your dying the slow weariness of solitude and neglect, all these evils shall come upon you. Ye have opened your gates wide and called to them to enter in. Ye have turned wisdom out into the streets and bid her perish there alone; and it was she who held the key of the city in her hand, and would have kept the people safe.

But now the wife must hate her husband, the mother shall starve her child, and the brother and sister slay one another. For ye are broken into pieces, and are not a nation any more, but must live each for himself, and by the death of one who was his friend."

Then they made answer:

"If this is your wisdom, we will have none of it. Bring out instead your treasures, that we may share them among us."

"If I had the treasure which ye seek," so he replied to them boldly, "I would not give it into your hands. It would be as poison now to the life of the people, sick already with languor and long ease. Rouse yourselves, brace yourselves, and labour shall give you what gold cannot. Effort shall bind you together, but barren spoil must breed warfare and dissension. I would not, if I could, give you what ye ask for. I would not cast tumult among you, and hasten the trouble that is waiting at your heels for its opportunity."

It was

He was not afraid of them, as he stood there alone; he had no desire to conciliate them. He continued to hurl at them the truths that they hated, and they were wrought up now to a pitch of wild fury. Would they rush upon him and slay him? Could they do so if they desired it? This I knew not; I waited only to see. not for me to step between them and their victim; my strength would have counted as nothing if I had. And he did not desire any help from me; he watched them without fear or anger. I, too, watched, and wondered why they waited, and what force, or what fear, held them back.

As I so watched I saw a change come over the old man's face-a light of surprise, of appeal, of hope-and I became aware that a third person had come upon the scene, and held the balance between accusers and accused.

The crowd was ignorant of the presence that restrained it. With sullen and lowering countenances, the people stood and gazed on the man who had loved them, and whom they hated. But I, through my sympathy with him, as it seemed, could see the things that he saw, and which were hidden from their eyes. Between him and the angry multitude stood the Angel of Death, shaped like a man, with black wings like a raven's dropping from his shoulders. His shining eyes were keen, but not unkindly, and, as he leant upon his sword, he kept the murmuring people at bay with the force of his unseen countenance. Once he drew his

sword from its sheath, felt the edge of it, and smiled as he replaced it; for he loved and pitied the man who had defied him for so many years, and he would gladly have brought to him the only gift in his power, which includes all others; but the word of consent was not spoken yet, and he waited for it.

Then the old man himself threw out his hands protestingly to him and cried:

"Why should I live any longer, since this people for whom alone I lived desire me to die? May I not take death at their hands as the one gift I ask for, in return for all that I have tried to give them?"

But there was no answer. The crowd stood still, and the face of the Angel of Death grew sad.

With a gesture of more passionate appeal, the old man spoke again.

"It is for myself that I desire it. My strength is at an end; I can think of others no more. They have cast me out, and I also in my turn forsake them. I am no greater nor better than 'they, and I demand the common fate of a feeble and broken man." Then the Angel of Death, fingering his sword a little, turned and spoke to him with a voice full of piercing sweetness:

"The fate of a common man is forbidden to you. You gave up, of your free will, all right to desire or to ask anything for yourself alone. And the price of that renunciation was paid to you."

"There is hope yet," the old man answered, smiling strangely, "for I ask it for their sakes also. Because I can no longer help or serve them, except by my death, therefore I desire and entreat to die."

"Do they desire it also?" the Angel asked him. "Is there not any one of them who wishes you to live? If there is but one of them who would beg your life as a boon, I have no right to take it." The old man looked past the Angel then to the people. They had listened in perplexity and wonder to his voice, hearing no replies.

"You hate me," he cried to them; "you desire my death. Is there one of youonly one-who would keep me alive if he had it in his power?"

There was a murmur among the people, as of much anger, but some protestations, and the multitude moved threateningly forward. But the Angel of Death kept his place, for one of the crowd, a girl, who looked almost a child in her freshness and youth, separated herself from the rest, ran

forward and flung herself at the feet of the old man, clasping his hand and kissing it.

"You fed me when I was hungry; you comforted me when I was wretched; you were a father to me when I was forsaken. They cannot dare to slay you."

A strange light of tenderness struck across the despair of the old man's face and struggled there for a moment. He touched the girl's head caressingly.

"My poor child," he said, "you love me a little? You are grateful?"

"You are kinder than any of them," she answered vehemently; "that is why they want to kill you."

"And you-you desire me to live?"

He asked it in a voice of terrible calm. Her gratitude was precious to him at the moment; but what a price he must pay for it! I looked at the Angel of Death, and wondered to see that he had drawn his sword from its sheath and waited for her answer with a smile upon his face.

A young man had also detached himself from the crowd and followed the girl; he was handsome and strong, but his countenance was angry and impatient.

"You fool!" he said, touching the girl's shoulder to attract her attention before she had time to reply to the old man's question. "You don't know what you are doing. He is no longer of any use to you or to anybody else. He makes mischief and brings trouble. Besides, don't you know that he has gold-quantities of gold-hidden in his place, which he refuses to give up, and which will be divided among the people when he is dead? Our share will enable us to buy a house and to marry."

The girl lifted her head and looked first at her lover, and then at the man whom she had just called her father. A new expression came over her face. The power of her past was forsaking her, and the present was asserting its claim.

"Is it true," she asked slowly, "that you have much gold hidden away?"

"What would it matter if I had?" he answered, speaking in a voice that trembled with consciousness of the strange struggle going on before him. Which did he desire most-a gratitude which kept his life, or a cruel desertion which promised death? There was no time to think of it; he went on blindly groping to the end." "What would it matter if I had ?" he repeated. "These people have gold enough. What they want is energy, and self-denial; the power and

will to work. People do not eat gold, nor build their houses nor make their clothes of gold. If I gave them my treasures, they would be richer for a day, and poorer for a year to come."

"But it would have made my fortune," she answered simply. "I was not thinking of the others, you must have known this; yet," she went on very slowly, as if turning the matter over in her mind, "you did not offer me any gold."

"I gave you what you needed: food when you were hungry, fire when you were frozen, sympathy when you were in trouble," he answered, pleading still against his deeper wisdom-for the kindness which would undo him.

But the girl was truer to her lower nature than he to his.

"With the gold I could have bought food, and clothing, and shelter; and I should not have needed your comfort, for he would have married me at once."

She rose to her feet and looked at him again with something like anger and aversion.

"You pretended to be kind," she said, "and you kept back what would have made me happy. It is nothing to me if they choose to kill you."

Then I looked away from him and saw that the Angel of Death was no longer in the place where he had stood, not to claim, but to protect for this also is his officeand the crowd with an angry murmur was moving nearer.

They had no weapons with which to slay their victim. In yielding to the longsuppressed instincts of savage fury and revenge they had returned also to ancient forms of cruelty and attack: they were prepared to stone the old man or to tear him in pieces, and they hurried furiously onward without waiting to arm themselves. The girl turned her head from the sight, and spoke to her lover.

"Take me away somewhere. If they are going to kill him I would rather not see it."

And I, too, turned and went, that I might not look upon the end. But the last sight I saw was the face of the old man lifted to the sky, with the light of a great hope shining in his eyes.

When I visited that place again it was very desolate. Nothing of all that had been foretold had failed to come upon

it!

THE CASTLE OF MIRAMAR.

A RANGE of dreary limestone hills forms the northern boundary of the Adriatic, beyond the busy port of Trieste-the starting-point of the boat which conveys visitors to Miramar. The Castle rises in solitary grandeur, between sea and sky, on the outlying rocks of a desolate creek in the iron-bound coast; and the mournful character of the surrounding scenery deepens the impression of intense loneliness conveyed by the solemn pile. Crenellated battlements above long rows of arched and mullioned windows surmount a broad stone rampart which fortifies the grey crags laved by the blue waters of the Adriatic. A soft breeze rustles the thick mantle of ivy and Virginia creeper on the bastions, and a shower of scarlet leaves flutters down to the sea. The Austrian flag droops at half-mast from a massive tower, for Miramar was once the home of the ill-fated Maximilian, Emperor of Mexico, and the deserted Castle is left unchanged, as a perpetual memorial of the murdered sovereign. The silence and solitude are unbroken, and the associations of a more distant past sink into comparative insignificance, blotted out by the dark shadow of that terrible tragedy which touches us with the sense of recent loss.

From the stone quay which forms the water-gate of the Castle, marble steps lead to the great terrace above the ramparts. The sculptured balustrades are wreathed with purple clematis, and a flame of geraniums fills the marble vases with vivid colour.

Although Miramar rises on its rocky parapet sheer and straight from the water's edge, the gardens stretch backward in endless variety of leafy avenue and shady bower, green pleasaunce and terraced hill, until they merge into black pine-woods beneath the barren mountains which close the prospect and add to the seclusion of the lonely scene. Aisles of white and crimson roses in full autumnal bloom form vistas of fragrant shade, and the trellised arches reveal a silvery glimpse of falling fountains. The aromatic scent of fir-trees mingles with the breath of a thousand flowers, while the lapsing water and the cooing of doves blend those associations of woodland and sea which add their poetical charms to the haunted spot.

The carved stone porch of the grand entrance to this regal dwelling is veiled

by a luxuriant growth of bronze and crimson creepers, flinging wreaths and tendrils over turret and pinnacle, and brightening the gloom of the dark ivy which frames oriel window and sculptured balcony. Oaken doors with emblazoned shields open into a noble hall panelled with blackest oak, and lighted by lancets painted with heraldic bearings of the Austrian Archdukes. Armour, weapons, antlers, and tattered banners line the walls and decorate the grand staircase which leads to a corridor filled with splendid family portraits of the Royal House of Habsburg. The haughty face of Maria Theresa and the mournful beauty of Marie Antoinette, her ill-fated daughter, are conspicuous amidst the long line of Austrian Princesses; and the joyous face of Carl von Löthringen, flushed with victory as he waves the banner of conquering Lorraine, occupies the foremost place in the rank of Royal Archdukes renowned for military prowess and knightly deeds.

Although no reigning family in Europe numbers more tragedies in its annals than this famous House of Habsburg, the interest of the pictures culminates in the portraits of Maximilian and his stricken Consort; and the tragic memories of Austrian sovereignty reach their climax in the mournful records of these two Royal lives, the violent death of the one overthrowing the tottering reason of the other, so long undermined by agonies of suspense and dread. The soldierly figure and dig nified bearing of the Emperor are displayed to advantage in his crimson robes of state. The broad forehead denotes intellectual power, and the firm mouth, shaded, but not concealed, by the long fair moustache, expresses the unflinching courage of a gallant race. In the melancholy blue eyes imaginative minds have often recognised the haunted expression sometimes observed in the faces of those doomed to an untimely end, as though the shadow of coming death fell across life even in its prime and flower. Whether this be fact or fancy, no doubt can be entertained as to the cloud of care and sadness which rests on Maximilian's face.

The fair features of Charlotte of Mexico reflect something of this wistful anxiety, and the earnest gaze of the brilliant dark eyes almost contradicts the smile which plays round the sensitive mouth. A more pitiable spectacle than that of the poor distraught Empress was never witnessed

by the European Courts from which she implored help, when her mind at length gave way beneath the terrible strain of anguish and despair.

An oppressive weight of mournful memories broods over desolate Miramar, replete with all that contributes to mental culture and physical enjoyment; but only reminding us the more vividly of that illstarred life which no human means could solace or save. In the oak-panelled library, the favourite books of the unfortunate Emperor remain just as he left them; his music-score stands on the organ, and traces of daily occupations are seen in an unfinished sketch, a half-written letter on an open desk, and a collection of works on navigation-his favourite study-with notes pencilled on the margins in his own handwriting. The book-shelves, with their copies of English poems, plays, and novels, interspersed with classical authors, and modern works in French and Italian, testify to the wide and liberal culture attained by Maximilian in days of leisure and liberty. These mementoes of his sacrificed life invest the story of the hapless monarch with a tangible reality. In the oriel window of a book-lined recess his favourite arm-chair stands by the open casement, where he loved to sit within sight and sound of the waves which still dash on the rocks a hundred feet below this ideal "Castle by the sea."

We are almost constrained to believe that the little German poem of that name, familiarised to us by Longfellow's translation, was suggested by a visit to Miramar, so exactly does it correspond with the poet's description of the castle which mirrors itself in the waves and soars upward into the crimson light of sunset.

We pass through banqueting-hall and throne-room, gorgeous with emblazoned banners and fading tapestry, the Austrian Eagle surmounting the throne and carved in high relief upon the oaken ceiling. Every saloon is enriched with treasures of art in marble, mosaic, and porcelain. Hirschvögel stoves, adorned with Scriptural scenes in blue and white faïence, stand in arched alcoves; and cabinets of exquisite Kronenthal china fill gilded recesses between the long windows which overlook the wide blue sea,

The private apartments of the Empress Charlotte are also left untouched since her last sojourn at Miramar. A group of miniatures, framed in pearls, rests on an ebony work-table; a guitar, tied with a

faded blue ribbon, lies in an open velvet case; and a well-worn book of devotions remains on the back of a prie-dieu chair, beneath an ivory crucifix in a little oratory. The white-and-gold walls, painted with wreaths of flowers, are draped with paleblue satin; and the delicate colouring of these beautiful chambers contrasts sharply with the sombre grandeur which characterises the greater part of the feudal Castle. An arcaded cloister leads to the private chapel of the Royal household. Shafts of ruby light from lancet windows pierce the dusky shadows of the dim interior, and emphasize, rather than illuminate, the solemn gloom. The tarnished silver of tabernacle and candlesticks gleams through the mysterious twilight, and a crimson stain falls across the marble altar, before which Maximilian so often knelt in prayer. How great was the change from the peaceful life of Miramar to the stormy reign in turbulent Mexico, whence the hearts of the Imperial exiles must have turned with hopeless yearning towards their distant home, longing amid the cares of State for the happiness lost for ever amid the strife and bloodshed of the new Western empire!

From the days of the Spanish conquest of Mexico under Cortez, the history of the country has been a ceaseless record of anarchy and revolution. The union of Spaniard, Indian, and Negro from whence the modern Mexican traces his descent contains opposing elements which have ever retarded the advance of anything beyond a a nominal civilisation. Indian tribes and Creole settlers increased the difficulties of government. Successive revolts reduced Mexico to a condition of social ruin; and the affairs of the country became hopelessly involved.

The President Juarez succeeded in divorcing Church and State, and the Government annexed all ecclesiastical property. Foreign Powers took advantage of the situation to aid the Church party, and sent forces to Mexico in order to secure reparation for losses sustained by their own subjects who had settled in the Republic. English and Spanish claims were adjusted by negotiation, and their forces withdrawn. The French troops alone remained, and, after several defeats, occupied the city of Mexico in 1863. A Regency was formed, and it was decided to establish hereditary government under a Roman Catholic Emperor. The Archduke Maximilian of Austria accepted the

proffered crown, but the peace which followed his arrival in Mexico was of short duration. The troops under Juarez, the deposed President, broke out into open revolt, and their victories were followed by the withdrawal of the French army. Maximilian was thus thrown entirely on his own resources, and contending factions rendered his position absolutely untenable. The clouds which had so long been gathering broke at length in darkest storm, and in May, 1867, the climax came, when the brave descendant of a hundred Kings was captured and shot by his merciless subjects.

As our little boat bears us away from the grand old Castle, lancet and oriel gleam like jewels in the golden light of a radiant afterglow, the solemn towers throw dark shadows over the lustrous blue of the sleeping sea, and the plash of oars alone breaks the silence which lingers perpetually round lonely Miramar. No memorial chapel or stately tomb could so adequately enshrine the unfading memory of the murdered Emperor as this home which he loved so well, wherein every room seems haunted by his presence or pervaded by his taste and culture.

The stern page of contemporary history, which hitherto appeared confused and dim, is henceforth translated into a vivid reality, so deeply is every detail engraved on the mind by a visit to Miramar. Historical characters, when of Royal lineage, often appear to us as a mere gallery of portraits, fenced off by a hedge of State ceremonial from that close intercourse which alone can reveal the common humanity which they share. As we wander through the halls of Maximilian's noble Castle, with its wealth of pathetic memories, and trace the details of his daily life, the personality of the luckless monarch impresses itself upon the mind in clear and decided outlines. We learn to appreciate the dauntless courage which obeyed the call to a life and duty which must have been especially distasteful to one of his gentle, scholarly temperament. Consequences could neither be foreseen nor considered. It is an inspiriting thought, that even in the nineteenth century the days of chivalry have not quite passed away, and we can point with pride to the example of Maximilian of Mexico, who so nobly fulfilled the motto of ancient days: "Fais ce que dois, advienne que pourra.'

Our little boat drifts through the rocky channel of the lonely creek, where Miramar stands on its solitary outpost at the water's