Chapter XII: (viewed by Henry W. Lucy.) (2)

He went out slowly, and back to his hut. He could not understand how he had offended the girl--what made her treat him so. It never crossed his mind that it might simply be wilfulness. Once or twice he sang his little love song over to himself; then he closed his eyes, folded his arms as they had been folded when he held the girl he loved in them, and tried to think she was there still.

About midnight Steve came in. Bob opened his eyes and looked at him. Something about his footstep had struck him as unusual; generally it was light, now it dragged; his face, too, was colourless, and in his boyish eyes there were tears.

Bob rose slowly and went to him.

"Anything wrong, Steve?" he asked, laying his great hand upon his partner's shoulder with a touch gentle as a woman's.

Steve dropped his face upon his hands.

"She won't have me," he said. "I asked her to-night; she had been so kind, singing with me, walking a little way with me; I thought it meant that I might speak. She must have known that I loved her."

"And she refused you?"

"Yes."

"Try again; perhaps she wants you to try again."

"No, she says her heart is not her's to give."

"Does she?"

Bob went cold, and pale too. He wondered who it could be that she loved; there was none worthier than Steve.

"If it had been you," Steve went on, "I could have borne it; but see how she treated you to-night. I shall go away from here, Bob."

"And I, Steve."

It was little they slept that night, and before the next evening everyone knew that Singing Bob and Lily Steve were going away from the camp. Perhaps, too, they half guessed the cause.

They had done very well, and their claim sold for a fair price. They would take quite enough away to start in some new way.

It was the night before they had settled to leave: Steve had gone up to the Paradise to say good-bye to Mariposas. Bob said he couldn't and wouldn't, but sent a message by his friend. He was sitting alone, half wishing that he had gone just to see her face and hear her voice once more, when someone lifted the latch of his door, and the subject of his thoughts entered the hut.

He rose quickly, then stood still, not knowing what to do; she broke the silence.

"So you were going without bidding me good-bye?" she said.

"Yes," he answered, huskily, for now that she was there, so near to him, it seemed harder than ever to go. "Yes, I thought it best."

"Why?"

"Because I loved you, because I love you."

"You never told me so."

"No, Steve loved you. Steve is a better fellow than I, and--and you said that no decent woman would take me. Steve told me the other night that he had asked you to be his wife, and that you had said no, that your heart was already given, and so we are both going. I could not stop and see you belonging to another."

There was a silence. It had begun to rain; the heavy drops pattered against the window, and a rising wind rattled the door.

"It is better that I go," he said. "I shall start now in some other way of life."

"You and Steve?"

"No, Steve will go back to his people; he has relations."

"And you?"

"I have no people. I have no one belonging to me, not a single soul--I never shall have."

"You are quite alone in the world?"

"Quite."

"And that sweetheart you spoke of?"

He did not answer, he only looked at her: she coloured and faltered.

"It is not well for a man to live alone," she said, unconsciously quoting. "Bob," coming a little nearer to him, "do you remember that day that you carried me?"

"Is it likely I could forget?"

"And you thought I was hurt, but I wasn't. Bob"--softly--"I _wanted_ to be taken in your arms."

He did not speak, he did not understand--why had she wanted him to take her in his arms?

"And they are so strong," she went on, "they held me so comfortably. Bob--since you are going away, since after to-night I shall never see you again--take me into them once more."

He took a step backwards.

"But the man you love!" he said.

"Bob! Must I ask you twice?"

He paused no longer, he threw his strong arms around her, lifting her in them.

"Now," she said, a shy smile creeping over her lips, "kiss me once--we are friends, parting for ever."

He bent his head; he kissed her, not once, but fifty times.

"Great God!" he said, hoarsely, "how can I go? How can I part with her now?"

"Is it hard?" she said. "Poor Bob," touching his face gently with her slender fingers, "have I made it harder? I must go now and you must go to-morrow; put me down."

He did not obey, he held her close.

"Who is it that you love?" he asked.

She looked straight into his eyes.

"Is it fair to ask?" she answered. "And does it matter--you go to-morrow?"

"Yes, I go to-morrow."

She reached her arms upward as she had once before; she lifted herself a little in his embrace, and laid her cheek against his.

"Take me with you, Bob," she whispered. "It is you I love!"

"Mariposas!"

"Are you glad?--then kiss me again!"

_How Composers Work._

BY FRANCIS ARTHUR JONES.

One of my correspondents, writing to me on the subject of this article, says that he thinks I have undertaken a "tough job," and I fancy he is partly right. I trust, however, that my efforts have not been altogether futile, and that I have, in a measure, overcome most of the "toughness."

It has always appeared to me a curious fact that whereas one so often sees facsimile reproductions of the MSS. of famous authors and others, it is a comparatively rare occurrence to come across the compositions of musical composers treated in the same way, and I therefore determined to undertake the work of placing before the readers of this magazine portions of the MSS. of some of the foremost composers of the day, together with their opinions relative to that art of which they are the masters.

It may interest my readers still further to learn that the MSS. were, in most instances, re-written for me by the composers, with the object of their being produced in THE STRAND MAGAZINE. They are given here as specimens of their compositions _when ready for publication_, for the first jottings of a composer are, as a rule, intelligible only to himself.

JOSEPH BARNBY.

Sir J. Barnby, the late Precentor of Eton College, and newly elected Principal of the Guildhall School of Music, writes:--

"As a rule I do not work at the piano except to test what has already been written down. I have found ideas come most readily in the railway carriage or during a drive, and the time I prefer for composition is the morning."

Part-song

Lord Tennyson Barnby]

As to writing on commission he says:--

"I see no objection to a composer writing 'to order,' as long as he sends out nothing of which he does not approve. Handel's 'Dettingen Te Deum,' Mozart's 'Requiem,' Mendelssohn's 'Elijah,' and a hundred other works furnish us with successful examples of this class of composition.

"I do not," he continues, "consider the _art_ of composing one which can be acquired (the science may), but such an art is all but useless without serious cultivation."

In his modesty, Sir Joseph will give no opinion as to which he considers his best work, but sends, for publication here, a few bars of one of his part-songs which has had the widest acceptance--"Sweet and Low."

JOHN FRANCIS BARNETT.

Mr. Barnett's method of composing I give in his own words:--

"Sometimes," he says, "an idea will come to me spontaneously, but when this is not the case I try for something, generally at the piano. If I succeed, I dot it down on music paper, but do not feel satisfied that it will be of any worth until I try it again the following day, because I have not infrequently found that an idea, which I considered good at the time, after the lapse of a day or more will appear to me insipid and not worth working out. I prefer the evening for composition, but not too late. For working out my ideas, putting them on paper, and for orchestration, I like the morning. Of my own compositions I consider 'The Building of the Ship,' written for the Leeds Festival, the best work I have yet done."

As many of Mr. Barnett's compositions have been written "to order," he not unnaturally believes in this method of composition. In fact, he feels all the better for having some strong reason for commencing a composition, but can easily understand that it would act detrimentally, especially if it involved the hurrying of the work.

"To a great extent," he continues, "I believe that composition can be acquired and cultivated providing there is some groundwork of talent to go upon. Without cultivation it would be impossible to work out ideas satisfactorily; at the same time, I do not believe that any amount of cultivation will give original ideas unless they belong to the composer by nature."

I here give my readers a few remarks of Mr. Barnett's, on whether or no we are a musical nation. At the close of this article I hope to give his opinion on this somewhat oft-repeated question at greater length. For the present, then, he says: "I think that the English are generally fond of music, but the quality of music they are fond of is, in many cases, bordering on the commonplace. That there are a multitude of admirers of the classical in music amongst the English is, fortunately, quite true, but I am inclined to believe that there are too many who are quite content with perhaps dance music, and who would rather not hear such a thing as a Beethoven Sonata. The reason for the want of good taste amongst a certain portion of our people may be traced to the class of music given by some teachers to their young pupils." The portion of music is taken from Mr. Barnett's last cantata, "The Wishing Bell," produced at the Gloucester Festival.

JACQUES BLUMENTHAL.

"Sometimes," says Jacques Blumenthal, "I compose at the piano, at other times away from it. I am in the habit of reading a good deal of poetry, and when any poem strikes my fancy and seems adapted to musical treatment, I copy it into one of my MS. books, of which I always keep several, in English, French, German, and Italian. These verses all lie patiently there till their time comes to be set to music. Some have to wait for years, some are composed almost at once; it all depends on the mood in which I happen to be, for according to my mood I look out for some verses corresponding to it, and then the song comes forth with ease; in fact, it takes much less time to compose the music than to write it down, but I invariably try to improve upon it, and file down or add almost up to the time of going into print. Sometimes I feel more attracted towards one language than towards another, and then I am apt to compose for some time nothing but songs in that language. This is the origin of my French and German albums, and as you ask me which I consider my best work, I must say in my estimation it is the album of twenty German songs with English version by Gwendoline Gore."

As to whether the art of composition can be acquired or learned and cultivated, Mr. Blumenthal says:--

"There is no doubt that the rules, or what we may call the grammar of composition, can be acquired by clear heads just as the rules of any other grammar can be. But just as little as knowing the rules of language can make you write _one_ phrase worth remembering, so will the life work of a mere musical scholar be cast into the shade by a few bars from the pen of a man of genius."

The two or three bars of music in the composer's autograph are taken from his well-known song "The Message."

F. H. COWEN.

Mr. Cowen says, with reference to his mode of composing: "I usually work by fits and starts, or rather, I should say, that I work sometimes for months continuously, almost all day and evening with little rest, especially when I am engaged upon a large work, for then I can think of nothing else: it weighs upon my mind until completed. At other times, perhaps, I do little or nothing (except a few songs, etc.) for a month or two, lying quite fallow. This may be a greater strain than working systematically all the year round, but I cannot bear when engaged on anything important to lose the thread of it for a single moment."

As to composing to a piano, Mr. Cowen believes in it when writing for _voices_ and singing every note and word oneself, but otherwise his opinion is that the music is very apt to be unvocal. In the case of _choral works_, he often makes the vocal score first, having made up his mind thoroughly beforehand what the orchestration is to be.

"I never work now very late into the night," continues the composer, "though I used to; usually beginning about 10 or 10.30 a.m., and leaving off about 11 or 12 p.m., with intervals for meals and a constitutional (this is, of course, when working hard). Every composer should have a notebook of some sort to jot down ideas in when necessary. I may say, however, that I have carried about with me (mentally only) whole songs or movements perfected, sometimes for three or four years without writing down a note, and have afterwards used them in almost the exact state in which they were photographed in my brain! I do not think it possible for composition to be taught or acquired, that is, _real_ composition. I daresay that anyone with a certain musical taste can be taught to string a melody and accompaniment together; but the _genuine_ thing must be born in one, though, of course, the gift is useless, or at least crude, without serious cultivation."

Mr. Cowen considers his best work up to the present the "Symphony in F, No. 8," and his new opera "Sigrid" (not yet performed).

In conclusion he says: "I do not believe in composers writing 'to order,' as a general rule, but I think they may often do their best work under pressure, and when they know it must be completed by a certain time. Of course, this means that the time allowed them is sufficiently long to prevent their unduly hurrying or 'scamping' their work."

The few bars of music are the beginning of a song published in an album of twelve by various composers, the words of which are by H. Boulton.

ALFRED R. GAUL.

Alfred Gaul when composing always thinks of the necessary construction for best bringing out the meaning of the words.

"This I do in the first place," he says, "without associating a musical idea with the words. Having, as far as possible, arrived at a conclusion on this point, I next think of the music, both as to melody and harmony. All these points being settled to my satisfaction, the work then proceeds with ease."

Mr. Gaul sets no particular part of the day aside for composing, working sometimes early and sometimes late.

Of all his cantatas and other compositions his favourite is "The Ten Virgins," Op. 42, a sacred cantata for four solo voices and chorus, and this he considers his best work.

As to the English being a musical nation, Mr. Gaul gives it as his opinion that the greatly improved esteem entertained by foreigners for English compositions and English performers may be taken as evidence of our country being a decidedly musical one.

With regard to writing on commission, he adds: "I do not think one is so likely to be as successful as under other conditions, although many of the best works of recent years have been written to order, _i.e._, in consequence of commissions given by festival committees." The music is taken from Mr. Gaul's last work, "Israel in the Wilderness," performed at the Crystal Palace, July 9, 1892.

CHARLES GOUNOD.

The famous French composer, Charles François Gounod, briefly gives as his opinion: "Composer c'est exprimer ce que l'on _sent_ dans une langue que l'on _sait_."

He adds that though the art of composition cannot be acquired, it may undoubtedly be cultivated; in fact, must be trained, like any other talent.

Mons. Gounod lays down no strict rules for composition, as he follows none himself, only composing when inclined to do so. As to his best work, he says: "I consider it is that which is still to be done"; and again: "Every nation is a musical nation."

Finally, the few bars of music given here are surrounded by more than the usual amount of interest, for Mons. Gounod, in presenting them, wrote: "The portion of music I send you is from no _work_ of mine, but 'instantaneous' for you, of an autograph."

EDVARD GRIEG.

The Norwegian composer, Edvard Grieg, sends his opinion over the sea, from his home at Bergen, where, by the way, he has just celebrated his silver wedding.

He says: "I have no particular rule when composing. In my opinion the art of composition is not at all to be learned, and yet _must_ be learned; for it is impossible for a composer to write melodies correctly without a complete mastery of his art. Just as hopeless as for an illiterate person lacking the necessary knowledge of language to sit down to write a standard work."

He adds that as he has no favourite composer, all _good_ composers are his favourites.

Of his many compositions, Grieg gives his preference to his famous sonata for the violin, "Op. 13," a few bars of which are here given.

CH. H. LLOYD.

Professor Ch. H. Lloyd, when composing, generally proceeds on the following lines:--

"If I am setting words to music," he writes, "I generally read them over several times till they suggest appropriate music, and then jot down my ideas on paper. If it is an abstract composition, it is difficult to say what starts the machine. Ideas often come to me when I am in the train, or at less convenient times. Whenever possible, I write down a few bars before I forget them; but the main work is done sitting at a table with some music paper before me. I seldom go to the piano till I am well on with a composition, and I never seek for ideas at it. I have no regular or fixed time for composing--more often in the morning than at any other time; but sometimes I have not time to put a note on paper for months together."

Unlike some other composers, Professor Lloyd believes most decidedly in composers writing under compulsion "to a certain extent."

"For," he says, "if a composer knows that he _has_ to finish a particular work by a certain time and for a certain purpose, why, I am of opinion that he will accomplish it far better under pressure than if he was working with no fixed object; at the same time, of course, such pressure in excess is not a good thing, and if carried to a great extent, actually detrimental to the production of good work."

Of his own works, Mr. Lloyd prefers his "Song of Balder," and this composition in his opinion is the best written.

In conclusion the Professor says: "If there is no aptitude for composition it can never be acquired; if, on the other hand, the aptitude exists, but the energy to cultivate it with hard and serious study be absent, it can never be brought to a successful issue."

The portion of particularly neat MS. is taken from his "Sonata for Violin and Pianoforte."

(_To be Continued._)

THE LAND OF YOUTH

A SCANDINAVIAN POPULAR TALE

A STORY FOR CHILDREN.]

There was once in a great kingdom a good King, brave in battle, wise in council, happy in all his undertakings. But a day came when, seeing his locks turn white and feeling himself weakened by age, he thought he had not much longer to live on earth; he held to life, however, and demanded of the savants of his kingdom whether there was not any way of escaping death. These men deliberated over this great question, and were unable to solve it.

One day there came to the palace an old sorceress who had travelled far over land and sea, and who was renowned for her knowledge. The King asked her what news she brought.

"I have heard," she said, "that you are greatly in fear of death, since you have become old, and I have come to show you a way to recover both strength and health."

"Speak, speak!" cried the King, delightedly.

"A long way--a very long way--from here, there is a country called Ungdomland, where there are magnificent apples and marvellous water. Whoever eats of those apples and drinks of that water immediately recovers his youthfulness. But it is not easy to get possession of the two: they are so far away, and the road leading to them is so perilous."

So said the sorceress. The King rewarded her magnificently, and resolved to send one of his sons in search of the apples and water of youthfulness.

He prepared for him a brilliant equipage, gave him money, and the Prince departed on his quest. But he did not go far. He stopped at a city which pleased him, and lived there gaily, without thinking of the errand on which his father had sent him, nor of his father.

The old man, after long waiting for his return, and neither seeing him come back nor hearing of him, sent towards that Land of Youth his second son, who, on arriving at the city where his brother was living, found there the same seductions, and, in his turn, gave himself up to a life of gaiety, and completely forgot his mission and his father.

The King aged and saddened more and more. His young son, named Carl, expressed a wish to go in search of the Land of Youth. The King, having only this son left to him, did not like to part with him; but Carl was so determined that he finally overcame all resistance. He departed, like his brothers, with a brilliant equipage; and the old man was left alone and deeply distressed at the desertion of his sons.

Carl passed by the city where his brothers were stopping, and they tried to detain him with them. But he wished to redeem the promise he had made to his father, and travelled through vast regions. Everywhere he inquired the way to the Land of Youth, but nobody could direct him.

One evening, in the heart of a dense forest, he saw a tiny light shining a long way off, and making towards it, in the hope of finding a resting-place, reached a cottage, the dwelling-place of an old woman, who kindly consented to give him lodgment, and asked him who he was and whither he was going.

"I am the son of a King," answered Carl, "and I am in search of the Land of Youth."

"Ah!" replied the good old woman, "I have lived three hundred winters and have never heard of that country. But I am the Queen of the Quadrupeds; to-morrow morning I will question them, and perhaps one of them may be able to give you some useful information."

The Prince cordially thanked her for her civility, and slept soundly.

At sunrise the next morning the old woman blew her horn; a great noise was instantly heard in the forest. All the four-footed animals, large and small, assembled about the cottage. Their Queen asked them whether they knew where the Land of Youth was, and all replied that they had not the least idea where it was to be found.

The polite old woman turned towards the Prince, and said:--

"You see that I cannot direct you on your way; but go, from me, to my sister, who is Queen of the Birds; perhaps she will know better than I. Mount on the back of this wolf, he will carry you to her."

The Prince again thanked her, and set off on the back of his strange steed. In the evening he found himself in the depths of a forest and saw, once more, a tiny light shining in the distance. The wolf stopped and said:--

"Yonder is the dwelling-place of the sister of my sovereign. Here we must part."

The Prince descended into an underground cabin, and found there another good old woman, who received him politely, and asked him for what purpose he was travelling. He replied that he was in search of the Land of Youth.

"Ah!" she said, "I have lived six hundred winters, and have never heard speak of that country. But to-morrow I will question the birds."

The Prince thanked her and slept soundly.

Next day the old woman blew her horn, and immediately a great noise was heard in the air. The birds flew hurriedly from all sides. Their Queen asked them whether they knew where the Land of Youth was, but they replied that they did not know.

Turning towards the Prince, the Queen said:--

"You see that I cannot direct you as I wish, but my sister, who is the Queen of the Fishes, may, perhaps, be better informed than I. Seat yourself between the two wings of this eagle, and he will carry you to her."

The Prince obeyed, and, in the evening, alighted at a small cabin. There he found an old woman, who inquired who he was and where he wished to go.

"I am the son of a King," he replied. "I am in search of the Land of Youth, and have come to you with the recommendation of your sister."

"I have lived nine hundred years," said the good old woman, "and have never heard tell of the country to which you wish to go; but to-morrow I will question the fishes."

Next day, in fulfilment of her promise, she blew her horn, and instantly a great commotion was seen in the waves, all the fishes darting through the waters and assembling about their Queen, who inquired whether they knew where the Land of Youth was, and they all answered that they did not know.

"But I don't see amongst you the old whale," cried the Queen.

In a moment, a great noise was heard in the water; it was caused by the hurried arrival of the whale.

"Why are you so late?" demanded the Queen.

"I have had a long way to come--several thousand leagues."

"Where have you been?"

"To the Land of Youth."

"Very well. You have failed in your duty by not coming sooner in answer to my summons; as a punishment, you will bear this young man to the land from which you have come and bring him back."

The Prince warmly thanked the good nine-hundred-years-old woman and got upon the back of the whale, which sped rapidly through the waters. By the arrival of evening, he had reached the shore on which he desired to land.

The whale then said to him:--

"Listen to the advice I am going to give you--do not forget it, and follow it punctually. At midnight everything sleeps in the enchanted castle before you; you may, therefore, enter it at midnight, but do not pluck more than one apple, nor take more than one phial-full of the magic water; do not linger, but return in all haste, otherwise you will expose yourself and me to a mortal danger."

"Thanks," replied Carl; "I will remember your instructions."

At midnight he entered the enchanted castle. All within it was plunged in sleep, as the whale had said would be the case. In front of the door there were a number of frightful beasts, bears, wolves, and dragons, lying beside each other, their eyes closed.

He passed through many superb rooms and saw with admiration the riches they contained. At length he came to one larger than the rest, the walls of which were covered with plates of gold and silver. In the middle of this room was the tree on which shone the magic apples, and near it, rippling over precious stones, with a marvellous sound, ran a clear and luminous stream of water--the water of which the bold traveller had come so far in search.

He filled a phial with the water of youthfulness, but, after doing that, forgot the whale's advice, and plucked as many golden apples as he could get into his wallet. Having got all he wanted, he wished to quit the enchanted castle, but he could not find the way by which he had entered. He wandered from room to room, searching in vain for the outer door.

At length he entered a room yet more splendid than any he had before seen. It contained a bed of blue silk, on which was reposing a young girl of incomparable beauty. Carl stood before her motionless and speechless in an ecstasy of delight. At the same time the young girl saw, in a dream, the image of this charming Prince so distinctly that, thenceforth, she could not forget him, and in her ear a mysterious voice murmured: "This is he whom you must marry."

Carl at length tore himself from the contemplation of the beautiful sleeper, wrote his name, and the name of his country, on the wall near her, and went out.

Hardly had he crossed the threshold of the door ere everything in the castle awoke and all there became movement. He sprang upon the back of the whale, which was impatiently awaiting him.

On reaching the middle of the sea, the gigantic animal suddenly plunged into the depths of the waters, then, remounting, said to the Prince:--

"Did that plunge frighten you?"

"Yes; I confess it greatly frightened me."

"Well, I was quite as much alarmed when you filled your wallet with apples."

When he had gone a little further, the whale again plunged, only deeper than the first time, and then said to the Prince:--

"Were you afraid?"

"More than ever I have been before."

"Well, I was quite as much frightened when you stopped to look at the Princess."

A little further on, the whale once more plunged and remained longer under the water, saying to the Prince on rising again to the surface:--

"Were you afraid?"

"Yes, terribly."

"Well, I was quite as much terrified when you wrote your name on the wall."

In the evening Carl arrived at the cottage of the Queen of the Fishes. As a return for the service she had rendered him, he gave her a golden apple and some drops from the marvellous spring.

As soon as the nine-hundred-years-old woman had drunk the water and eaten the apple, the wrinkles disappeared from her face; between her lips shone two rows of white teeth; her form became upright; and, in short, in place of a decrepit old woman, appeared a young girl with golden tresses, sparkling eyes, and rosy cheeks. She warmly thanked Carl for his generosity, and said to him, as he was departing:--

"I also have a present for you. Take this bridle and shake it--and you will see what it will give you."

The Prince obeyed, and at the same moment saw before him a superb horse, which quietly allowed itself to be mounted and, with the rapidity of the wind, bore him to the Queen of the Birds.

To her also he gave some water of youthfulness and an apple, which rejuvenated her in an instant. And as he was departing, she said, thanking him for his generosity:--

"I also have a present for you. Take this tablecloth, and, as soon as you spread it, it will furnish you a royal repast."

Carl remounted his good horse, rode to the Queen of the Quadrupeds, and renewed her youthfulness, as he had done to her two sisters. She also thanked him cordially and said, as he was departing:--

"I wish to give you a proof of my gratitude; take this sword, at sight of which no adversary can offer resistance, not even the most savage animal."

With this powerful sword, the precious tablecloth, and the enchanted bridle, the Prince continued his journey, and reached the city where his two brothers still remained, and after joyfully embracing them, related to them all his adventures.

On hearing that he had been so successful in his enterprise, the two brothers, feeling at once ashamed of their want of energy and furious at his success, resolved to strip him of what he had so bravely won. To celebrate his return, they said, they prepared a grand banquet, and, deceiving him by these pretended evidences of affection, during the night, and without his having the least suspicion of their villainy, changed the treasure he had brought from Ungdomland for other water and other apples.

Carl continued on his way homeward, eager to see his father again, and filled with happiness at the idea of being able to give him back his lost youthfulness. As soon as he had embraced him, he gave him, with joyful confidence, his phial of water and apples.

But neither the water nor the apples produced any effect, and the old man was deeply pained and irritated by what he imagined to be the deception practised by his son. Innocent Carl saw that he had been robbed.

Some time afterwards, his two wicked brothers arrived. They told to their father a prodigious story of vast regions they had passed through, and perils they had dared, to reach the enchanted land. Then they gave him the true water and the true apples which they had stolen from Carl.

Instantly the white locks of the old King regained their primitive hue, his wrinkles vanished, his limbs got back their youthful strength and elasticity.

Transported with joy, he pressed his two sons to his bosom, calling them his heroes, his benefactors. He lavished tenderness and distinction on them; and then, suddenly remembering the youngest, who had tried to deceive him, he became furious against him, and ordered him to be cast into the lions' den and left there without assistance.

Nobody dare oppose this terrible sentence, and Carl was given over to the wild beasts, that ought instantly to have devoured him. But he had preserved the presents of two of the old women. At the sight of his sword the lions drew back humbly. When he was hungry he spread his tablecloth, which was instantly laden with the choicest food.

Meanwhile the young Princess of Ungdomland thought of him constantly, and, believing he would return, waited for him, day after day. One night she saw him again in a dream, no longer with a smile on his lips and light in his eyes, as she had seen him when he was near her, but downcast, anxious, captive. At the same time a mysterious voice murmured in her ear: "This is he whom you must marry."

She listened, she looked: this dream was for her a reality, and her mind was quickly made up--he could not come to her, therefore she must go to him; he was sad, she must console him; he was captive, she must deliver him.

On the wall he had written his name and the name of his country; to that country she set off with a large number of ships, a mass of precious things, and a legion of soldiers.

At sight of this foreign fleet all the inhabitants of the rejuvenated King's capital were greatly alarmed--it had come with hostile intentions, perhaps, and it certainly appeared formidable.

But the young Princess only asked to see the young man who had been in Ungdomland. Her wish was one that could easily be satisfied. The King hastened to send his eldest son to her; but she had no sooner set eyes on him than she cried:--

"This is not he of whom I am in search!"

The King sent his second son.

She awaited him on board her magnificent ship, surrounded by her officers, and no sooner saw him than she exclaimed:--

"This is not he of whom I am in search!" adding: "It is of no use trying to deceive me. I must see the young Prince who came to Ungdomland; otherwise, I vow that of this royal capital I will not leave one stone standing upon another."

At those words the two impostors were dumfounded, and the King, pale and trembling, remembered the dreadful sentence he had pronounced.

What was to be done? Doubtless, the young Prince had long before been devoured by the wild beasts. They went, however, to the edge of the pit into which he had been cast, and found him seated calmly in the midst of the lions.

A cry of joy announced this miracle, and was repeated on all sides. The King flew to his son, threw himself on his knees before him, and begged pardon for his iniquity. Carl tenderly raised him, held him to his heart, and returned with him to the city, where he had been so much beloved and regretted. The crowd pressed upon his steps, and filled the air with enthusiastic shouts.

On reaching the palace, he arrayed himself in his festival clothes, shook the magic bridle, and, mounted on a superb horse, advanced towards the foreign flotilla.

Hardly had the Princess cast her eyes upon him ere she cried:--

"That is he! I recognise him. It is he who came to Ungdomland!"

They approached each other. She held out her hands to him; he was the spouse designed to her by the mysterious voice.

Next day the marriage of the handsome Prince and the beautiful Princess was pompously celebrated, and they departed together to the Land of Youth, where they lived long and happily.

The two traitors were cast into the den of lions into which they had caused their innocent brother to be thrown.

_The Queer Side of Things._

Reader, can you, by a violent effort of memory, recall the two spirits, William and James, who engaged in these pages in several arguments concerning the possibility of your, and my, existence? I know you have had other things to think about lately--the possibility of obtaining, either by exorbitant payment, diplomacy, or any means underhand or otherwise, a supply of coals for the winter--the fate of Lobengula--the chances of the Employers' Liability Bill--the state of our Navy. But if you will for one moment compare the weight of these trivialities with that of the question: "Is it, or is it not, possible for this Universe to have ever existed?"--you will find the former group of subjects vanish like an idle dream; while the VAST QUERY will instantly absorb your whole attention.

_Then_ you will recollect that the more thoughtful, more logical, less visionary spirit William conclusively proved the impossibility of our existence.

Yet he was wrong. Very slight inquiries into evidence have since convinced me that our Universe _does_ exist. It is difficult to credit, in the face of William's logic: but I fear we _must_ believe it.

Very well--waiving the possibility of our _all_ being hypnotized through all the ages (say by Adam, Rameses the Great, Mr. Stead, or some other power having sway over human minds) into a belief of the existence of the non-existent--we will, please, take it as carried that we _do_ exist, and that even William is forced to admit it. Very good: now let's get on.

"What do you think _now_?" asked James, a weak-minded scintillation of triumph in his eye.

William was evidently seriously offended; facts which contradict carefully-weighed logic, flawless in all other respects, are always irritating to the thoughtful. Men of science will indorse this.

"Hurrm!" he said at last; "your Universe does exist--in a way; and the globe you call 'Terra' does exist--in a way. But the highly objectionable creatures on it don't seem too comfortable; in fact, a more ridiculous, calamitous, disastrous, pitiful, gruesome, repulsive muddle than they make of it I could not possibly conceive!"

"But they have _some_ reasonable qualities?" argued James.

"A few," said William. "Those taught them by the conduct of what you call the lower animals. _I_ know what's principally wrong with them--they _think_, and _do things_, too much."

"Well, they are, perhaps, too much given to thinking and doing things. I admit that they make many mistakes, but I _do_ protest that they _mean well_--that their theories are, as a whole, in the right direction--that they have a solid, genuine admiration for good aims and great deeds, and reward such merits when conspicuously shown by any among them."

"Hum!" said William.

"Oh, come," said James; "you _must_ admit that humanity's rewards are, as a rule, conferred on those who do the greatest services to humanity."

"From _my_ point of view, yes!" said William. "Let's have a game!" he said, suddenly.

"A game?" said James, taken aback by such a proposition from the cynical and severe William.

"Yes," said the latter. "Let us put this point of yours to the test. Let you and me select, each, a specimen of humanity from among this herd, each of us choosing the specimen which he deems most likely to obtain the highest praises and rewards of humanity; let us choose our specimens as babies, and watch them through their subsequent careers--eh?"

"Very good," said James, confidently.

"Let's have a bet on it, like your humans do with insurance companies about the length of their lives," said William. "I will bet you--let's see--I'll bet you that comet against that little star over there in the constellation like a saucepan. The comet's more showy, and apparently better value; so that will please _you_ best: and you won't notice its flimsiness as compared with the greater solidity of the little star."

"But what nonsense!" said James. "What in space would be the use of a comet or a star to one of us? What could we do with it?"

"You could give yours," said William, in that nasty tone of his, "to one of your humans. He would be delighted. It's exactly the kind of thing they are always longing for."

Then they looked about among humanity.

"I've chosen my baby," said James. "Something has gone wrong with another baby's feeding-bottle, and my baby is trying to put it right."

"Very curious!" said William. "The baby I had chosen is the very baby whose feeding-bottle--(anachronism is nothing to _us_, James--we deal with _all_ dates)--your baby is attempting to put right. While your baby is so engaged, _my_ baby is damaging the tube of _your_ baby's bottle, to the end that your baby may fail to get any nourishment through it. That's the baby for _me_!"

James laughed in derision. "Well, if you think _your_ choice will merit the praise of humanity----!" he began.

"Stop!" said William. "The words in our agreement were '_obtain_ the praises of humanity.' We said nothing about _meriting_ them. I say my choice will obtain them."

"Well, well," said James, "you needn't split hairs!"

"I'm not splitting hairs," replied William; "I am pointing out the chasm between two mountains."

"But--confound it!" said James, impatient at his companion's want of reason. "You don't mean to seriously tell me that you seriously believe that humanity would seriously choose to reward those who injure rather than those who benefit----?"

"Never mind what I believe. You'll see," said William. "See, our babies are growing; they are little boys now. What's yours doing?"

"Mine," said James, triumphantly, "has found a dead bird, and is trying to bring it to life."

"That is the bird which _my_ little boy has killed," said William.

James sniggered again. "You had better make another choice," he said.

"_Will_ you kindly mind your own business," said William, "and look after your chance of that comet? You'd better be ordering a handsome casket to present it to your baby in _when_ he has obtained the praises of humanity. What's your baby up to now?"

"He has grown," replied James, gazing earthwards. "He is at school. Another boy has been knocked down in the playground by a third boy ----"

"Yes--by _my_ boy," put in William.

"And my boy is attending to his bruises and trying to ease the pain of them."

"Just so," said William. "A most mistaken young person! I knew he would--just the sort of thing he _would_ be up to!"

"At any rate, he is earning the gratitude of the victim," protested James.

"The gratitude of victims," said the objectionable William, "is not legal tender; it is not even a marketable article. Did you ever see the gratitude of victims quoted in the share-lists of the newspapers published by your precious humans? Have you ever seen it advertised for in the columns of that periodical of theirs called _Exchange and Mart_? You may have seen it advertised for sale there; but there were no answers. Now look at _my_ boy, James--look at him! That's promise, if you like! He's knocking down _all_ the other boys like ninepins."

"Your boy is a Bully," said James.

"Ah! you've discovered it, then? It has at last dawned upon you that I am bound to win. My boy is a Bully. You may as well just hand over that little star out of the saucepan at once, and save further trouble."

"What! _Do_ you mean to tell me," screamed James, rising on the tips of his toes with indignation, "to tell me that a Bully is the sort of person to obtain the highest praises and rewards of his fellow-creatures?"

"I do," said William. "The sort, and the _only_ sort. I'll grant that your beneficent person who does a lot of good to your humans may come in for a good large amount of praises, and also even get a small amount of solid rewards: but the fellow they really love is your Bully."

"How can they love him? Impossible!" said James.

"Then why do the confounded creatures act as though they did? You can only judge of their sanity by their acts--and those disprove it. Let's go on. What's my boy doing now?"

"He is playing with a lot of little toy soldiers," said James. "He is knocking them over with toy cannon. Now he is constructing little toy towns, and setting fire to them."

"And your boy?"

"Is picking up the little soldiers, and trying to bend them straight and set them on their legs again."

"Ah! Always throwing away your chances of winning that comet by wasting his time earning the gratitude of victims!" said the horrid William. "And now they have both left school, and are studying. My boy is practising sword-cuts, and reading about words of command, and linked battalions and machine-guns."

"And my boy is practising tying bandages, and reading about arteries, and nerves, and compound fractures, and epidemics. My boy is fitting himself as a Healer."

"And my boy," said William, "is fitting himself for a Slayer."

"You are either mad," said James, "or are indulging in a pastime which is not your _forte_--a jest. You cannot seriously imagine that these humans will actually prefer one who slays them!"

"I _know_ they will--it just tallies with their queer ways. They profess to hold human life at the highest value! That's not humbug on their parts, mind you--they are under the delusion that they do so hold it. Life is to them an object of joy, and the absence of it one of regret; as I told you once before, they delight in the filling up of the waste places of their ball with human life. They don't consider animal life as life.

"If an island is full of intelligent elephants, who hardly ever make mistakes, and quiet, domesticated kangaroos, and contented rabbits, these humans of yours say: 'What a pity it isn't inhabited--we ought to people that desert!' They don't recognise the fact that it _is_ inhabited and _isn't_ a desert! They are delighted at the growing crowds in their towns; and if they look down a lane and don't see anyone in it, they drop a tear and think: 'It's very sad there should be no human life in that lane.'

"And here comes in one of the queerest phases in the exceeding queerness of these people of yours--all the while they are under the impression that they consider the increase of humanity as of the highest advantage, they have an unrecognised instinct which tells them that things will be mightily uncomfortable for them when their ball gets a little overfilled: and from this unrecognised instinct springs their partiality to anyone who thins them out. The Thinner-Out is the object of their very highest rewards----

"Ha! Look--look there, on that TERRA of yours. There's a great ship about to be wrecked--yes, there it goes, crashing on the rocks. There will be a wholesale bit of thinning-out there--no; see, one of your humans, by the exercise of superhuman energy, and at infinite risk to himself, is saving the whole lot of them. Every one of them is safe on land now. They are crowding round their preserver----"

"Ha!" cried James. "Where are your precious cynical arguments _now_? Look at their gratitude--look how they grasp his hand, and kiss it, and----"

"Collect for him a sum amounting to nearly fifty pounds, and send him a medal, and mention him in the principal newspapers--nearly half a column in some!--and drop him," said William.

"Of course," he continued, "there are several kinds of Thinners-Out--there's the one who spreads epidemics by travelling in public conveyances when suffering from communicable ailments: they don't reward him, because no particular effort is required for his kind of work--a child could do it: but he is protected by the laws. Who ever heard of anyone being visited by any heavier punishment than the fine of a few coins for wilfully thinning-out humans in this way? Nobody. Then there are two kinds of the class who go in for the most lucrative method of thinning-out--War. There's the warrior who thins out his fellow-creatures to gratify his own personal inclinations and ambitions; and there's the warrior who is forced to thin them out by the duty of defending his country against the former kind of warrior."

"Ah! and the latter's the kind of warrior his fellow humans will heap the highest rewards upon," said James.

"Oh, _is_ he?" said William. "All right; for the sake of curiosity let us just follow the career of a third boy--the little one that was knocked down by _my_ boy, and tended by yours. What is _he_ at now?"

"Why, he is practising with a sword like your Bully; only he is practising parries instead of cuts; and he is also reading about words of command, and linked battalions, and machine-guns, and fortifications. And I recollect, by the way, that he was lately playing with a little toy town and trying to defend it."

"Just so," said William. "He'll do very well, mind you; but the other kind of warrior--my Bully--will distance him in rewards by leagues. Halloa!--there's a booming of cannon, and a noise of screaming. What's doing?"

"It's your Bully. He's an adult human now; and he's besieging a town; now he has taken it and set it on fire, and put the inhabitants to the sword."

"That's the way to begin, James! If you want to win the love and respect of those humans of yours, strike terror into them at the start. You see, those you spare feel so proud of their own cleverness in being spared, and so relieved about it, that they are in the best of humours; and, looking about for somebody on whom to expend their good humour, they naturally fix on the figure that catches their eye first; and that, of course, is the figure of the Thinner-Out. See?"

"Your beastly baby is taking more towns, and kindly accepting ransoms for abstaining from destroying what never was his."

"Yes; and from a corner of the earth comes out the other boy who studied war; and he stands in front of the one-half of the earth where he lives, to prevent the Bully attacking it; and now there's a great battle--another--another--and another, and my baby is beaten back from one-half of that globe of yours, and the other baby stands in the middle of that half and crows; and my baby, the Bully, has to confine his attention to the half he has overrun and conquered, while a wild, delirious, long-pent-up shout of heartfelt relief comes up from the humans on the defended half. Where's that baby of yours--the doctor?"