Chapter XIV: A Beggar A-Horseback (1)

I knew, however, that I was in Gloucestershire; and from a sign-post, pointing the way I came the night gone, I learned that I had passed the towns of Thornbery and Slimbridge. I was cogitating over how to get a bit to eat when something happened that put even hunger out of my head--I heard the tooting of a horn! Turning about, I saw the coach coming up a little hill, swinging along at a good pace, with the leaders in a gallop.

The boldest course was the best, so I leaned against a stone post that had cut in it "Eight miles to Hardwick," and waited for the mail to come up. The driver, a ruddy-faced individual in a multitude of cloaks and a wide beaver, caught my intention.

"Are ye off to Gloucester, lad?" he cried, drawing up.

"Ay," I answered. "Hold up there, and I'll take a passage."

There were but three beside the guard on top, and I clambered over the wheel up to the front seat before the coach had lost its headway. I feared most dreadfully that the driver would begin to question me at once, but, thank the powers, he did not. Keeping up a continuous clicking sound against his teeth, and gracefully flourishing the long-lashed whip, and catching the leaders now and again with the end of it most cleverly, he drove ahead without speaking.

Now all the time I was wondering how I was going to pay the fare, when the red-faced man made this matter smooth sailing.

"'E better get off before we get into the town, laad," he said, "then we won't ask noo fare o' ye."

"Thanks, very much," I said.

"Not a bit, not a bit," he returned. "A soldier on a spree wants all 'e can spend, eh?"

I nodded, and for an hour we drove on in silence. For a long time there had been visible a great square tower rising above the stretches of vineyards, corn-lands, and gardens. The country was interspersed with rich pastures in which fat, broad-backed sheep were grazing. How I drank in all the sights and sounds, craning my neck and straining my eyes and ears! Beautiful residences of the aristocracy, with wide-spreading parks, were frequent on each side of the highway, and soon scattered houses overgrowing with vines proclaimed that we were on the outskirts of the town. That the tower that was in sight belonged to some great church was very plain, but I feared to ask about it. The driver pulled up his horses, and understanding him to mean that my ride was over, I descended, after an expression of my gratitude.

The coach was barely out of sight when I saw ahead of me the swinging sign-board of an inn. My desire to feed was so strong that I fished out the gold piece from my catch-all, and determined to purchase a breakfast if it took the last penny.

Walking up to the entrance to the "Moon and Starfish," I went inside the tap-room, and found that the people of the inn were up and stirring. Calling for the landlord, I seated myself at a table by the window, and a flood of self-conceit came over me so that I almost gibbered with delight.

In a few minutes a bowl of coffee was at my elbow, a thick fat chop decked in greens was putting strength into my blood and spirits as it disappeared, my jaws worked to a little tune of my own composing, and I cared little for the future--the present was good and given to enjoy! But soon I was to be on a very different tack, for with a clatter and clanking I recognized the approach of the people I most dreaded to meet--the men who fight his Majesty's wars and eat his victuals. Five soldiers entered from outside. They were petty officers, with stripes on their arms, bright red coats with puffs at their shoulders, strings of bright buttons, pipe-clayed cross-belts, and black gaiters.

They may have been handsome to look at, but to me they were five living horrors. With a chill feeling coming over my chest and shoulders, I pretended closer attention to my meal. I knew they were looking at me, but they entered the next compartment and called for ale and spirits. When the landlord came I overheard the conversation.

"I don't know who the young man is," said the host of the inn, as if in reply to a question. "He came off the coach, I take it."

"He's an officer," observed another.

"You're wrong," said a third. "Where are his shoulder-knots?"

"I observed him close," put in the second speaker, "and, ecod! it strikes me he is part officer and part private. It's the uniform of the Somersetshire Foot-guard. I know it."

I was almost choking in my efforts to bolt a great bit of mutton, but from the tail of my eye I saw that two heads were thrust about the corner, and they were piping me off. So I turned my back and looked out of the window. There came a laugh in a minute, and some whispering in which I caught the words "curling-tongs and the barber," probably in allusion to my great need of both.

* * * * *

Now I am honestly very sorry that I never paid the landlord for that good meal of his, but I acted on an impulse that more than like saved me from total discomforture. I was taken aback fore and aft, completely staggered with the idea that their curiosity would pass bounds, and they would begin to sift me. The window was wide open, and the sward on the outside came to within two feet of the sill. Making no noise, I crawled out of it headforemost, and walking quickly across the court-yard, I dodged behind a row of stables, and crept along beneath a line of hedge; and this time I did not take the big hat with me, but left it mounting guard over the remains of my meal.

Now I really should like to have heard what the redcoats said, and I fear that the landlord could not have been complimentary.

The hedge that I was following ran up to a high wall, on the other side of which was evidently one of the parks of a nobleman or an aristocrat. By dint of scratching and hauling and sheer strength, I struggled over the top and came down on a level stretch of lawn, dotted about with handsome beech-trees, and farther on edged by a noble line of oaks. No one was in sight, and driven by a nameless dread, I started running. A great pheasant scurried across my path and tore up into the air with a whir, making me shy to one side, like a runaway horse. I kept up my speed but a few hundred yards, however, when the idea came to me that this would never do at all. So I threw myself down at the foot of a tree and tried to compose my ideas.

Off to the right, beyond a low hedge covered with wall-flowers, was a field of springing corn (wheat we call it in our country), and lording it over this green domain, with its arms outstretched, was a ragged scarecrow. I think my next move was something that proves me far from imbecile. Leaping the hedge, I tore off my bright red coat and white breeches (the cloak, I had forgotten to say, I had left at the hedge early in the morning), and then, with mighty little on, I crawled, Indian fashion, towards the silent guardian of the fields.

Oh, they were very ragged indeed were his majesty's habiliments, but there were enough of them to cover me, even if I did show bare at the knees and elbows, and hurriedly I hung them on, and taking the flapping hat from off the straw-stuffed head, I was the scarecrow come to life! I had hidden the uniform under some handfuls of leaves and grass; and now to get out of the park and reach the road, where, by my appearance, I rightfully belonged.

The wall on the inside was so high and so well built that I could not reach the top, but as I went along I came to a little gate that unlocked by thrusting back a bolt. I opened it, and found myself in the kitchen-garden of a neat white cottage. Disdaining to make reply to the hail of a buxom young woman who thrust her head out of the window, and who inquired my business in a peremptory tone, I hobbled out into the road.

I did not stop at the inn this time, but slid past it on the opposite side, and five minutes' walk brought me nearer to the heart of the town. Passing a number of people, who gave me a wide berth, and keeping straight ahead, I came to a square, or better, the meeting-place of four thoroughfares crossing at right angles.

Not far away rose the great square tower that I had noticed early in the morning. It was so high and so massive that I walked toward it to obtain a better view, and stopped in astonishment before one of the greatest cathedrals in England.

There was a service of some kind going on, and the sound of a great organ wafted out on the air. I stood there listening for some moments, leaning against the iron railing. As the door was open, I was tempted to go in and pass the gates, but here I halted in fear. A slight tall man, with his white hair trimmed in a bygone fashion, and a black coat buttoned up to his white stock, was walking up a side path; he raised his eyes from the ground, and bending forward, stood there in an expectant attitude looking at me. Whatever he took me for I do not know.

"Repent, son, and return," he said, in a soothing tone. I had feared that he was going to upbraid me for my presence, but his next movement deprived me of that idea entirely. "Here, take this," he said; "and God bless you and direct you."

As he spoke he extended his hand, with a piece of silver in it, toward me. A sense of pride in that, so far in my life, I had asked alms of no one almost tempted me to refuse it, but fearing that he might put me to questions, I took it, mumbled some thanks, and hurried out into the sunshine.

I am sure that if he had been an American I should never have escaped without telling a story of some sort, but the English are of a less curious temper than we are, and if they interfere in other people's business on the outside world, they have a talent for minding their own at home, and to this I testify readily.

My clothes were so disreputable that I determined to spend part of the shilling in procuring the means of mending them. So I entered a little shop down the street, and purchased thread and needles. With these in my pocket, I set out immediately looking for a place to hide whilst at work.

Taking the wide road that led to the north, I followed it, and passing by a common on which some lads were playing cricket, I came to an inn, much larger than the one I had stopped at in the morning, surrounded by a court-yard with sheds and stables. A number of large carts and vans were resting here, and crawling over the tail-board of one that had a great canvas top, I took off my clothes and began my tailoring.

When it was finished I was in less danger of coming to pieces, and despite what I had eaten, my stomach told me it was past the midday-meal hour.

Now where I was to go I did not have the least idea, and my heart went down like a lead.

But, _en avant!_ There was no sense in tarrying. As I went to go out of the court-yard to take up my aimless walking, a tall chaise in which were two finely dressed gentlemen drove in at the entrance. I had to jump from under the horse's feet. Some of the inn servants, who had paid no attention to me, ran out from the stables at the sound of the wheels, and in the doorway of the house appeared a slender man, with powdered hair, who greeted the other two with a graceful salutation. There was a trace of courtliness in it that was handsome, but my heart gave a bound as I turned to watch them curiously. They were speaking French. Not the French that I had heard lately in the prison, but the French that my mother had taught me and that my uncle spoke.

"Welcome, Monsieur de Brissac!" exclaimed the tall man in the doorway, "and welcome, Monsieur le Marquis."

"De Brissac!--Monsieur le Marquis!" How natural this name and the title seemed to me; and then it all came back--"Gabriel Montclair de Brissac, Marquis de Neuville, friend of my grandfather, le Marquis de Brienne." I remembered that my uncle had made me learn this in the long list of stupid names. There were two sons, Georges Lucien and Guy Léon de Brissac. The latter and his father had both lost their heads on the guillotine on the same day that my grandfather had lost his. Somehow the idea that there might be some help come to me from a man who bore the name of de Brissac crossed my brain, and I turned back into the court-yard.

The servants had led away the horse, and seated at a window were the three fine-looking gentlemen. I watched them for a few minutes, not knowing what to do. I could not hear the sound of their voices, although the window was open, so I came nearer. The shortest of the three, who had been addressed as "Monsieur le Marquis," was talking, and gesticulating with his jewelled hand.

"Yes, yes. We will see the lilies again, my friends," he said in French. "Give this usurper time enough and the rope, and he will hang himself--a trite but true saying, my friends."

All at once one of them looked out of the window and saw me standing close to. I felt as if I had to do something to account for my presence, and an idea suggested to me by my meeting a singing beggar-woman on the streets in the morning was put into immediate practice; why, except for the connection of thought, I should have chosen the song I did I know not, but it was a fortunate circumstance. I struck out into a little chansonnette, something in the nature of a serenade, that I had heard my uncle trill in his high-pitched voice--a song that may have been a favorite with the gallants of King Louis's court.

I did not look in at the window as I sang, but cast my eyes upward in apparent oblivion to my surroundings. As I began the third stanza (something about roses and hearts, I remember) I was interrupted by approaching foot-steps.

My singing had attracted the attention of several people in the court-yard, and a hostler was hurrying up with the evident intention of sending me to the rightabout. But if that was what he meant to do, he had to give it over, for a commanding voice in English, without the trace of an accent, exclaimed from the window,

"Bring that lad in here, some one."

Before I knew it, I was following one of the servants through a passageway, and was ushered into the presence of the three men seated at the table.

"Where could he have learned that song?" one of them was saying. The short man was humming the air.

"Who are you and what is your name?" questioned the large gentleman with the powdered hair, who evidently was in authority, speaking in French.

"Jean Amédée de Brienne," I said, taking the name by which I had been known for the past few months, only giving it, of course, a pronunciation somewhat different.

"De Brienne!" exclaimed the youngest gentleman, starting. "Where do you come from?"

"From America, monsieur; but just now from the prison at Stapleton, whence I have escaped by a good chance."

I noticed that they were looking at one another in incredulity, so I spoke on, led by I know not what:

"Have I not the honor of addressing Monsieur George Lucien de Brissac, son of the Marquis de Neuville?"

"I am the Marquis de Neuville," exclaimed the youngest, starting to his feet. "My father is dead."

"And my grandfather perished on the scaffold with him and with your brother Guy," I said, calmly.

The effect of this speech was wonderful. The other two men sprang up, and the taller shut the window suddenly and drew the curtain.

Monsieur de Brissac was for hurrying toward me with both hands outstretched, when he was restrained.

"Hold! Hold!" said the eldest. "Let us ask more questions. What was your grandfather's name, my young friend?"

I gave it, and the whole of my family tree, so far as I could remember it, on my mother's side. Then in a few words I told of my sailing on a privateer, my capture and imprisonment. Before I had finished Monsieur de Brissac had come close to me.

"Embrassez-moi!" he said, and despite my rags he threw his arms around my neck.

In turn the other two did likewise, and the elder man kissed me on the forehead, after the manner of my uncle. Tears were in his eyes, and relieved from the great strain under which I had been laboring, I broke down altogether, and sinking into a chair, I wept, rocking myself to and fro. "Oh, God be thanked!" I cried over and over.

As soon as I recovered myself I saw that they had placed before me wine and meat, and were refraining from asking further questions until I should have refreshed myself. But the words which were whispered in my ear seemed to shut all fear behind me. "Courage; you are with friends. We will not desert you," told me to trust.

I looked up from my plate (truly I had been well fed for a vagabond this day), and found my new friends in consultation. I caught the word "clothes," and looking down at myself, I reddened. I was mad to tear the horrid rags from me. Monsieur de Brissac, as I shall call him, as it was he that afterwards became my patron, saw that I had finished the meal, and giving me a smile and a bow, came nearer. He was a very handsome man, of about seven-and-thirty, with a fine figure, and a well-turned leg that showed to the best advantage in his black small-clothes, for he also followed a fashion a little different from the English of that time. But of this I shall speak at greater length farther on.

"Monsieur de Brienne," he said, "I would like to ask you something of your father."

"He is dead," I answered.

And at this, God forgive me, I saw that I had deceived them all into thinking that I was my uncle's son, instead of his nephew. Now I reasoned if I should tell them my remarkable story, and proclaim that I did not know my father's name, and was all in a fog in regard to that of my mother, even although I knew so much about the past family history, I would put a sorry climax to a very good beginning. I regretted deeply that I should have to let them keep on in the error; but I spoke the truth, and I did not know it at the time.

"Monsieur de Brienne is dead?" repeated Monsieur de Brissac.

I sighed. "Alas!"

"He was a strange man, and they say the best swordsman at court--_un vrai galant_."

"There could be no better," I answered. "He taught me all I know."

The gentlemen smiled at this, but the next question that was asked me by the Marquis de Senez caused me to start.

"Your mother was--"

"Named Hurdiss," I put in. "She was very beautiful, but died in America, in the city of Baltimore, when I was but a child."

"Did your uncle leave no property? They say he took with him to America a large amount."

"I have this," I replied, producing the last of the buttons that had adorned the homespun coat that I wore at Marshwood. "All of my property was consumed at a fire--everything," I concluded. "I am left without a son, a relative, or a friend."

The gentlemen handed the button around.

"It is true. I remember that crest well," said the tall man. "And I remember well, also, your grandfather's beautiful daughters--twins, they were, and great favorites, as children, with the King."

"Yes," put in M. de Brissac; "and they married, after taking refuge here in England, one the Duke de B---- and the other the Comte de B----."[1]

[1] I have purposely left out mentioning these names in this story for reasons.--J. H.

The short nobleman here spoke, musingly:

"After their husbands' deaths they went to America, to seek their brother, probably, but they met with sad misfortune. Now I remember hearing something--"

My heart gave a great bound! Was I on the point of finding out my real name, and who I was by right and law?

"Yes," I said, quickly; "tell me."

"One of them was drowned in a shipwreck," Monsieur le Marquis continued. "Sad, sad, alas! and the other married some nobody, and went to reside in the wilderness."

I rather resented this, for I yet cherished the memory of him who had carried me on his shoulder, but I said nothing.

"Hortense and Hélène, those were the names," said the tall man.

"It was la belle Hélène who lost her life by drowning," said Monsieur le Marquis.

"Pardon me," put in Monsieur de Brissac; "it was Hortense, I am quite certain."

Here again arose the uncertainty.

"Who was it, monsieur, that married the English sea-captain?" I asked.

"Ah, was that it?" returned the tall man. "I did not know, nor have I any recollection of having heard which one of the ladies made this mésalliance."

The other gentlemen had come to no conclusion, and thus I found out nothing, after all. This was about the sum total of the talking we did at our first meeting, although it gives no idea of the time we were at it, and I was soon led away by the tall man, whose name, like the others, had the "de" of nobility, and was called de la Remy. I had caught the idea already that he was the landlord of the inn, and such was the fact. Indeed, a great many of the _émigrés_ in England at this time were engaged in far less remunerative employments, and some had all they could do to put food into their mouths. Well, when I had taken a bath I was much refreshed; indeed, I could scarcely imagine that I was the same youth who had been halting along the road-side, ignorant of his whereabouts and careless as to his destination a few hours before.

As may be perceived (at least I should think the fact was evident enough), I had ceased to think of myself as a boy. It was only at times that my age would assert itself in a manner that led me to indulge in prankishness and skylarking. Thus when the hair-dresser came to my room, shown up by one of the inn servants, I pretended not to understand English, and, in consequence, they spoke openly before me. So I found out not a little. In the first place, I learned that Monsieur de Brissac and the Marquis de Senez (a Spanish title, I judge), were supposed to be very wealthy, and that I had been taken by the inn people for the private servant of the former, who had lost his way when ill some time previously, and had but now found his master. But of the more important thing, that I learned more by guesswork than from what was told me, I shall devote some space, but not now.

That night as I lay in a comfortable bed, after bidding my friends a good-night, I reasoned over the situation. I had been engaged as private secretary to the Marquis de Neuville (M. de Brissac), and would start for London with him on the morrow. There was but one regret, and that was the deception in regard to my name.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

THE FIGHTING SAVAGE.

BY CYRUS C. ADAMS.

Within two years we have seen great nations waging four wars with peoples who are above the savage state, though not fully civilized according to our ideas. Two of these wars are now ended, and the results in both have been surprising.

It was thought that the Hova people of Madagascar would at least make an effort, when a French army invaded their great island in 1895, to repel the foreigners. They made a great show of resistance when the French landed their troops. They had cannon, powder, and thousands of rifles, collected an army of 30,000 men at their inland capital, and the Queen said she would lead them to battle if they needed her in the field. A nation of orators, they indulged in much brave and eloquent talk; but when it came to the pinch, they did not fight. The French marched into Antananarivo without any opposition worth mentioning, and are now the masters of Madagascar.

The brave mountaineers of Abyssinia have a different story to tell. For the first time a native African state has beaten a European power in a hard-fought war, driven the enemy out of her territory, and imposed her own terms of peace, including reimbursement for the board of about 2500 prisoners, at so much per week, during last summer. King Menelek has not lost a foot of territory; and Italy, which sent her army among those highlands to prove that the King was her vassal and his country her protectorate, has acknowledged the complete independence of Abyssinia. How did Menelek and his army win so signal a triumph?

In the first place, no other half-civilized nation to-day is so well armed as the Abyssinians. They fought the British once, and later, the Mahdists, with spears and a few muzzle-loading rifles. None of the soldiers now carries a spear or a muzzle-loading gun. All the small arms are breech-loaders. King Menelek came to the throne nearly eight years ago, and being an enterprising and an intelligent ruler, he has made great changes. He imported, through French territory, large quantities of excellent rifles. He induced French and Russian experts to come to his court, and they taught him many things, such as how to make gunpowder, and to build small bridges and frame houses. In fact, for years he had been preparing for the possibility of a big war. His army outnumbered the Italians four to one. He had 60,000 fairly well drilled soldiers--all brave and hardy men, and he could depend upon their fealty, and knew they would fight as unflinchingly as any men.

When the Italians moved into Abyssinia, Menelek and two-thirds of his army were in the southern province. The result was that the Italians pushed south to the very heart of the country before Menelek was able to confront them. After that, the Italians did not win a fight. In every battle, except the last one, the natives were the aggressors. Menelek's aim, with his larger force, was always to surround the enemy. He completely succeeded only once, and then the Italian detachment, 1000 strong, was killed almost to a man. Usually the Italians and their native allies broke and fled before Menelek had them penned inside his lines. The Abyssinians always tried to fight at close range, and were perfectly reckless in their daring. Their officers invariably led the charges and fought in the front rank, with the result that more of them were killed in proportion than of the common soldiers. The King had several thousand cavalry, but he made little use of them. Most of them were kept in the rear with instructions, if the infantry were compelled to retire, to impede the enemy's pursuit and guard the retreat. Under the circumstances the cavalry had little to do, except in the last great battle at Adua, where they pursued the routed Italians, and captured many of the 2500 prisoners.

While Menelek was forcing his enemies back north, the Italians paused from time to time in places they had previously fortified. Menelek had thirty cannon, but in no instance succeeded in destroying the walls. The courage with which the Abyssinians charged up to the fortifications won the admiration of their enemies, under whose galling fire many hundreds of natives were killed. Menelek could not capture the strongholds, and the Italians could not shake him off. In every case, till Adigrat was reached, hostilities were suspended by mutual consent; the Italians withdrew nearer to the northern boundary-line, and Menelek would then advance and attack them again.

Finally the Italians made a last desperate sally to retrieve their fortunes; and their fate was sealed in the all-day battle of Adua, where about 5000 of them were killed, wounded, or captured, and the rest fled pell-mell out of Abyssinia. At all times the Italian troops and most of their native allies fought well, but their leadership was shamefully incompetent. Even with good generals, they could not have whipped the Abyssinians without doubling or trebling their armed force.

Spain's present trouble in the Philippines extends to several islands, and includes the savages of Mindanao as well as the half-castes and creoles who live in Luzon. The latter island is the scene of the hostilities which are reported nearly every day. In a word, the trouble is that there are in the colony, according to Spanish statistics, 3000 Spanish priests and 5000 civil servants, and the people assert that they have been bled for the church, for the state, and for private peculators, until they can stand it no longer. In Luzon the inception and the progress of the rebellion have been marked by wonderful skill. Plans for the uprising, including the collection of arms and ammunition, were so quietly carried out that Marshal Blanco did not know what was going on until the very eve of the outbreak. In less than a week he was confronted by thousands of well-armed men, who dared to attack even the outskirts of Manila. At first they met the Spanish regulars in the open, but the insurgents had few if any cannon, and were at a disadvantage. A fortnight later they changed their tactics.

It is now their general policy to fortify strong positions and await the attacks of the enemy. When, however, they can bring against a Spanish force a much superior number of fighters, they attack with the greatest vigor. This plan of action seems wise, for the insurgents must bear in mind that they have only a fixed number of fighters, while the Spanish may fill up the gaps in their ranks with recruits from home. The insurgents have occupied many towns in several provinces, and while they show no mercy to Spanish priests and officials, they respect the lives and property of other foreigners. Spain has sent about 15,000 soldiers to the island, and the end is not yet in sight.

A leading event this year is expected to be the reconquest of the Egyptian Sudan by the British and Egyptian forces, which was really begun in 1896. The step has been decided upon, and it is believed the undertaking will not be extremely difficult; and yet if there is any fighting the British will meet the very men who in 1885 showed that half-civilized peoples can do all that any men can do on a battle-field. Fiercer fighting was never seen than that the Mahdi's Arabs gave General Wolseley's forces on those desert battle-fields; and no men could fight as those Arabs did, with nothing but spears in their hands against trained soldiers with the best of modern fire-arms, if they had not been consumed with fanatical zeal.

Their leaders had no guns to give them, and so the orders were; "You are not to fight the enemies of God with ammunition, but with spears and swords." The Mahdi sent them word that Mohammed had proclaimed to him that on the day of battle thousands of angels would be with them to help them vanquish the unbelievers. Wild with religious zeal these hordes would rush across the sands, poising their spears, and fall upon the square in which the British army was formed. They were not checked for an instant by the withering fire or the wall of bayonets, and the very force and fury of their onslaught at Abu-Klea, the greatest of these battles, carried them through the line; and soldiers on the opposite side, firing at the Arabs in the square, killed their own comrades on the broken line. There are few things finer in the history of warfare than the story of the old sheikh on horseback at Abu-Klea, his banner aloft in one hand, his book of prayers in the other, advancing with his men and chanting his prayers till he had planted his banner in the centre of the British square, where he fell pierced with bullets.

The Mahdi is gone. The Sudan has been half depopulated and ruined by his successor. The people hate the Khalifa Abdullah, who has ground them to earth. Fanaticism is dead. But if the flame the Mahdi kindled, which consumed Hicks's large army, killed Gordon, and turned Wolseley's forces back down the Nile, were burning yet, the British would think long and seriously before undertaking the reconquest of the Sudan.

BRONISLAU HUBERMANN AND LEONORA JACKSON.

BY W. J. HENDERSON.

Bronislau Hubermann is a boy who plays the violin very much like a grown man. Now that means something more than merely sounding the tones correctly and smoothly. It means to show an understanding of the music and an artistic taste in its performance--two things which many adult players fail to do. Young Hubermann is therefore a remarkable boy, and it is not surprising that thousands of persons go to his concerts and sit as if spellbound while the youngster plays, for amazement joins with admiration to deepen the emotions caused by his fine performances. Just how old Hubermann is it is difficult to tell. He looks like a lad of sixteen; but his parents say that he was born in 1883 in Warsaw. They ought to know; but sometimes people like to make a gifted child appear younger than he really is, so as to increase the public wonder at his achievements. It really is not necessary in the case of Hubermann, because his playing would be sufficiently astonishing in a boy of sixteen.

He showed his musical ear when a mere child by singing the melodies which he heard. When he was six years of age he began the serious study of the violin, and in three months he had made such marvellous progress that he was able to play Rode's Seventh Concerto, a very difficult composition. This story sounds incredible, but we must remember that Mozart actually played the second violin part in a quartet when he had never had any instruction at all. He told his father it was not necessary to study in order to play the violin. After his childish appearances in public little Hubermann devoted a few years to further study, and then left his native land to seek glory in the most musical of all countries--Germany. He was enthusiastically praised there by the critics, while the public applauded him wildly. He made his first appearance in America at a concert in Carnegie Hall, New York, early in November, and achieved an immediate success.

He is a tall and rather awkward boy, but all his awkwardness disappears as soon as he begins to play. He produces from his instrument a very beautiful tone, and he always plays in tune, which shows that his ear is correct, and that his left hand has been trained carefully. But what is of more importance is that he plays with a great deal of feeling, and with an insight into the emotional meaning of the music which is altogether uncommon in so young a person. It is an interesting fact that Hubermann comes from Poland, which has produced so many admirable musicians. Among those who are familiar to living music-lovers are Paderewski, the great pianist, Jean and Edouard de Reszké, the famous singers, and young Josef Hofmann, who created so great a sensation when he gave his piano concerts at the age of ten.

Perhaps, however, we would do well to remember that all the musical genius of the world does not belong to those who are born on the other side of the Atlantic. To be sure, we are likely to incline to the opinion that it does, when we read about Mozart and Hofmann and other "wonderful children," as the Germans call them. But American boys and girls are just as full of artistic possibilities as those born abroad. And sometimes intelligence and hard work accomplish wonders even in music. Pasta, the famous soprano, had a very poor voice to begin with, and in our own time Lillian Norton, a Maine farmer's daughter, has made herself one of the foremost singers of the world just by study, and she is now famous everywhere as Madame Nordica. Now comes the story of Leonora Jackson, a California girl, who has carried off one of the great musical prizes of Germany.

She is the daughter of a merchant and banker, Charles P. Jackson, who lives in a very modest town with the unpoetic name of Mud Springs. When the Californians dislike that name they call it El Dorado; but Mud Springs is its real name. Miss Jackson's parents settled in this town in 1852, and she was born there in 1878, so that she is now eighteen years old. Mrs. Jackson was an amateur musician of real ability, and early in life Leonora showed that she had inherited her mother's inclinations. After her birth her parents moved to Chicago, where Mrs. Jackson became a successful music-teacher. The little girl began to study violin-playing, and she soon showed such gifts that her parents decided to place her under the most famous of teachers. At the age of fourteen she was sent to Berlin, where she became a pupil in the great Conservatorium.

The world-renowned violinist Dr. Joseph Joachim, who is regarded as the finest living player in the classic style, became her teacher, and took the deepest interest in her progress. She was afforded opportunities to appear in public, in order that she might acquire confidence in herself, and everything was done to enable her to make progress in her art. About two months ago she entered the competition for the Mendelssohn prize medal, for which she had as rivals players from various parts of Europe. It was a tremendous undertaking for a girl of eighteen, but Leonora won. Dr. Joachim embraced her with tears in his eyes, and the Berlin newspapers described her as a "girl wonder." It will be gratifying to all patriotic boys and girls to know that this girl's greatest pride in her triumph was that America had conquered. "I have held up the stars and stripes," she wrote home, "and I am satisfied."

After a time Leonora will undoubtedly set out as a concert performer, and of course that means that she will come to America to play. Then her countrymen will have an opportunity to enjoy the exhibition of her gifts and accomplishments, and to applaud her not only for her violin-playing, but for her courage, her perseverance, and her patriotism. She will hardly be a great violinist at eighteen, but she is young and talented, and the future is full of promise for her, while her example ought to be an inspiration to all her young compatriots.

THE "WARSPITE'S" CAPTAIN.

In the old days captains of the English ships of the line were not over-kind to their crews, but it is a well-established fact that shortly before a battle their geniality uncovered, and poor Jack was in the seventh heaven of delight. But, alas! if defeated, or through some order the ship would not be in the engagement, poor Jack felt the woes of his position more severely than ever. An example of this can be found in the following historical story:

The British seventy-four _Warspite_, in 1827, was sent from England to re-enforce the fleet under Sir Edward Codrington, then acting in concert with Russia and France to restrain the Turks in their brutalities against the Greeks, who were fighting for independence. The _Warspite_ was in command of a Captain who had seen service under Nelson. The discipline under her previous Captain had been almost savage. The new Captain, by his mildness, soon won the hearts of his men; they almost worshipped him. One night in November, while carrying a press of sail, she crossed the stern of the American clipper-bark _Rosiland_, bound from Smyrna for Boston. "I suppose," hailed the Captain of the American, "you have not heard the glorious news. Codrington has blown the Turks and Egyptians sky-high!" The _Warspite_'s studding-sails vanished like a dream, and she was rounded to, while her Captain hailed the _Rosiland_ that he wished to board her. She at once hauled her mainsail up and backed her main-topsail. The Captain of the _Warspite_ came on board from his barge, and remained nearly an hour. The details of the great battle of Navarino had reached Smyrna, and Captain Alden Gifford, who commanded the _Rosiland_, showed that it had been fought October 20, 1827, and that the entire Turkish and Egyptian fleets had been destroyed in a four hours' fight by the allied fleets, and that the independence of Greece was sure to follow. The Captain of the _Warspite_ was satisfied with the truth of the report, and thanked Captain Gifford for heaving to and giving him the news. At parting he gave a deep sigh, and said, gravely, "Captain, I have but one eye, and I would rather have lost that than been out of it!" The next day, on board of the _Warspite_, a lot of offenders were brought before her Captain, who roared out in wrath, "Rig the gratings, call the boatswain and his mates, and all hands witness punishment!" Some eight men received two dozen lashes each, and from that day until the ship was paid off no guilty man escaped the cat. The tyrant knew the power of kindness to make men do their duty in battle, but when there was no prospect of fighting, his savage nature asserted itself. There was a report current in Portsmouth that when he commanded a frigate, his barge's crew dragged him out of a carriage, from alongside of his wife and daughter, and flogged him until he fainted from loss of blood.

STREET SOUNDS.

What curious sounds come from the street,
How many kinds of noise!
There's the tramp, tramp, tramp of busy feet,
And the shouts of girls and boys;

The rambling of the wagon wheels,
The strolling peddler's cries,
And very often music steals
From the pavement toward the skies.

ALBERT LEE.

THE REMARKABLE ADVENTURES OF SANDBOYS.

BY JOHN KENDRICK BANGS.

THE LOST RING.

The boys had been discussing with Sandboys on the subject of fish and their habits, and, as usual, the bell-boy was full of information in that connection which he was willing to impart to his happy listeners. They found it hard to believe that sometimes, at the breaking up of winter, Sandboys had with his own eyes seen trout flop out of the lake and climb the bank after a worm that had come out of winter-quarters to rest for a little in the sun, but they did believe it, because he said it was so.

"I don't say that it's a reg'lar fixed habit of theirs, mind you," he added, as if he had no wish to deceive the boys into thinking that trout always behaved this way. "It's only occasionally you'll find a trout that'll do it, and then it's because he's so fearful hungry that he takes a risk. If it was a reg'lar fixed habit, catchin' trout'd be easy work. With a few decoy worms set around the banks o' the lake you could just sit down and wait till they came floppin' out after 'em, and then club 'em over the head with a tennis-racket or a cane. But it ain't, and you might wait a thousand years and never have the luck to see it."

"I'm rather surprised to hear that even one of them has ever done it," said Jack. "I always had an idea trout were shy, timid creatures."

"That's all Tommy-moonshine," said Sandboys, scornfully. That's the sort of stuff poets tell you about trout. Poetry trout are always shy and timid. They are allers lurkin' in the cool blue depths of purkling nooks. They spring past ye like a flash o' sunlight, an' are gone--the poetry trout do; but real trout's different. The trouble ain't the shyness of the trout, but the fact that the general run o' poets don't know how to fish for 'em. Why, there was a poet up here last summer--a feller with three names to his autygraph--and he got me to take him out fishin' one mornin', and I said all right, bait or fly? 'I'll fish with a fly, of course,' says he. 'I hate impalin' worms on hooks. Besides,' says he, 'fly-fishin's more sportsmanlike.' So I got him a dandy pole, lines, and some of the finest yeller sallies ye ever see. Down we went to the lake, and the first thing he did was to ask for an anchor. 'Thought you was goin' to fish with flies?' says I. 'I be,' says he. 'Hurry up and get the anchor aboard and we'll start in.' I thought he was crazy, but it ain't my place to tell guests they're crazy, so I got him the anchor, and out we went. 'Where's a good place?' says he. I showed him, and plump he let the anchor flop into the water with noise enough to scare a whale, not to mention a trout. Well, thinks I, this is goin' to be the fliest fly-fishin' I ever see. I never let on, though. It was his picnic, not mine. I just watched to see what he was agoin' to do next. He picked up the pole, an' let out about fifteen feet o' line, an' then he looked at the fly. 'Where's the sinkers?' says he, lookin' up, after a minute. 'The what?' says I. 'The sinkers,' says he, impatient like. 'Seems to me you're a very careless boy to forget the sinkers.' 'What do you want sinkers for?' says I. He looked at me for a second, an' then he asked: 'What kind of a boy are you, anyhow? What do I want with sinkers? Why, to sink the fly down to where the fish be, of course.'

"That," sniffed Sandboys, contemptuously, "is the kind of feller that says trout is shy. I guess they be shy when a feller tries fly-fishin' with sinkers."

"Then," said Bob, "trout aren't shy?"

"Not so shy as they try to make 'em out," said Sandboys. "Of course they don't come walkin' up around the corridors of the hotel; an' you don't often find 'em makin' themselves conspicuous in the ballroom; nor they ain't bold like college boys, runnin' all around chuckin' their college yells at the echo--in comparison with some folks we know they be shy; but, judgin' 'em from the stand-point of plain fish, they're as ordacious as any. They'd swim up to a shark if they met one, and sass him right to his face if they wanted to, without any fear of consequences or any idee of bashfulness. _Shy!_ Poh! It's all nonsense. Why, the only bit of highway robbery that's ever been known outside of the reg'lar business channels here was done by a trout--right down on Mirror Lake, too. Takes nerve to steal a ring right off a young lady's finger, I guess."

"Stole a ring off a young lady's finger!" cried Bob. "A trout?"

"Hyops!" assented Sandboys. "A trout, and right down there in the shadow of the Old Man too. It came near breakin' the young lady's heart. The ring didn't amount to much as a ring, but it had a lot o' sentimentals connected with it because it had been given to her by the young man she was engaged to, and she'd swore she'd never take it off. It was a little gold band with blue 'namel letters in it. The letters spelt MIZPAH. I don't know what Mizpah means, but I think it's Greek for George, because that was the young man's name.

"She'd only been here a week, and he was comin' up to spend Sunday. It was a Saturday afternoon it happened, and he was expected to arrive on the train that evening, and she was happy as could be over it. That afternoon she went out rowin' on the lake with another young man she'd met up here, and while they was out George arrived. He'd come up on an earlier train, just to surprise her, and I tell you what he didn't like it much when her ma said: 'Why, how do you do, George? This is delightful. Emily will be so pleased. We didn't expect you until to-night.' 'Well, I'm here,' said George. 'I thought I'd come some o' the way by boat, and get here three or four hours earlier. Started last night. Where is Emily?' 'She's down on the lake with Mr. Begum,' said the young lady's ma. 'Oh, is she?' said George. 'I'm glad she's havin' such a good time.' But he wasn't. You'd ought to seen his face fall when he heard she was out rowin', and not pinin' away because he wasn't there.

"Meanwhile the young lady and Mr. Begum was rowin' quietly over the lake, talkin' about literatoor and art and things like that. He was doin' the rowin' and she was trailin' her hand in the water--the hand with the Mizpah ring on it--when all of a sudden a trout gave a dart out o' the shadder of the rocks, opened his mouth, caught holt of the ring, pulled it right off, an' retired; an', worst of all, two minutes later George appeared on the bank o' the lake and called out to her that he was there. She was awfully cut up. The surprise at seein' him, an' the grief at losin' his ring she'd said would never be took off her finger, was a fearful combination, 'specially as George noticed, the minute she came ashore, that the ring was gone.

"'Where's the ring?' said he. An' she told him how the trout had behaved, and it seemed to make him awful gloomy. Ye see, he didn't believe it. He thought it was a fish story, and he said so. He had an' idee she'd given the ring to Mr. Begum, and he was pretty mad about it."

"It did sound like a fish story," put in Jack. "Seems to me I'd find it hard to believe myself, if you hadn't told it to me."

Sandboys smiled his appreciation of this compliment to his veracity, and continued:

"They didn't, either of 'em, say much after that, and all day Sunday George sat around and read novels in the office, and the young lady staid with her mother. They'd quarrelled, that was evident, and on Monday George went back home again, and the young lady said they'd never been engaged. The fact was they'd broke it off!