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mon, that of our literature is most valu- their position in the Federation, it will able.

When far-off cousins agree to celebrate their ancestors, they may choose between the Lawgiver, the Captain, the Prophet, or the Poet. I think that our cousins will agree to put up the Poet as the representative of all the ancestors. Let, therefore, the 23rd day of April be the Day of Celebration of the AngloSaxon race, and let England's greatest poet give his name to that imperial holiday.

Why, it may be asked, cannot the United States come in? Are they not Anglo-Saxon as well? They are certainly Anglo-Saxon as much as ourselves. We have absorbed Fleming, Frenchman, Italian, German, Pole and Dutch, and we remain Anglo-Saxon. The States have received from every nationality tens of thousands; they are all absorbed, or in process of absorption; they are become or are becoming AngloSaxon. Will, then, America join in such a celebration? I am not prepared to offer an opinion. Perhaps, if it was thoroughly realized that there was no secret intention on the part of Great Britain to exalt herself above other nations of the race, the United States would also join us in rejoicing over the past and present of the race which made them what they are. They will come in; they must come in; and then the final federation will take place; then shall be witnessed the reconciliation of all who speak our common tongue; and the future of the race with such a federation may be—must be greater and more glorious than poet has sung or dreamer has dreamed, for the widening of knowledge and the advancement of humanity.

I think-or hope-that the final federation of the whole of our race is a consummation that is not only ardently to be desired, but is also certain to occur if we take steps of ordinary prudence. The Treaty of Arbitration, when we get it, will go far to soften the tone of the American papers; it will disarm hostility; it will in time perhaps change the spirit of the schoolbooks. As for their flag, it will remain their own; as for

be exactly the same as that of Great Britain, Australia or any other State in the Federation; there will be no loss of independence or national pride; the old sentiment will remain; every American, every Englishman, every Australian, every Africander will be free to consider himself, if he pleases, the finest specimen of humanity in the world. Only to the sentiment of patriotism we shall add the sentiment of race. And to the Day of Independence the American will add another Day, when he shall celebrate the glories and the achievements of the people from whom he came, whose liberties and history and literature he inherits. There will be one thing of which he will be more proud than of achieving his independence-and that will be symbolized by the Day of Celebration, the rejoicings. on the 23rd of April.

WALTER Besant.

From Temple Bar.

IN THE GATEWAY. "But what is his name?" “And that I can't tell you either, sirnot his real name, at least. There's plenty of nicknames for him, of course."

"Has he been here long?"

"Since I was changed to here, and that's quite enough for me. Lads are always plaguin' him and singin,' 'Git yer 'air cut,' so I'm obliged to go over and stop it."

I asked these questions of the bearded policeman, to whom the duty is assigned to stand still by the hour together and look eastward down wicked Piccadilly, as though momentarily expecting an important signal. He answered me in a preoccupied way, almost brusquely, without taking his eyes off the long street and its foreshortened crowd of cabs and humanity.

I turned and looked at the object of my curiosity, and pondered. Presently the policeman said,

"He's what they call not quite hard baked, or we should have moved him long ago. That's it, depend on it!"

a

Still I was dissatisfied. The man was so different from the other three hundred and fifty-seven street artists whom the Deserving Mendicants' Aid Society has catalogued. He had got all his legs and arms left, and he didn't sell matches, and he hadn't written a short history of himself and his diseases beside his pictures. There was only one picture too of an archway, with glimpse of green grass and a fountain showing through it. An hour's drizzle had not improved the clearness of the detail, and after I had made so much out I looked up at the artist himself. He wore what must once have been a suit of dress clothes; the trousers had been trimmed off short at the knee, and tattered stockings took their place below that point. His shoes had been boots once, but the uppers were shorn away. His waistcoat did not belong to the dress suit; it was two sizes larger at least, and was crossed over itself to take up the extra six inches, being thus forced to button in double-breasted fashion; visible here and there were the relics of a pattern worked into it, of a white fleur-de-lys. But his hat was more remarkable still. What its original shape had been Heaven knows; when I saw it, it had been cut and pulled and beaten into a grotesque resemblance of a lacquey's three-cornered hat. Yet there was an almost jaunty air about it. He had stuck it to the best possible advantage on his wonderful head of yellow flowing hairblackened a good deal by exposure to London soot, but still yellow. His limbs were straight and well proportioned, and his features clear and delicate, though a stubbly beard of four days' growth took off a little from their beauty no doubt. He lay gracefully on his side, not huddled up like the other street artists with his head supported on his hand, and heeded not the passing crowd. His thoughts seemed to be very far away from London and its dirt and its clamor.

by threw him a penny; without deflecting his gaze to see where it went, he raised his hand to his forehead and saluted. It was an old-fashioned military salute, such as one of the great Frederick's guards would have made, touching his forehead with the edge, not the back of his hand. I pondered all the harder over this. It was a little thing, but it impressed me deeply-so deeply that I made up my mind at all costs to know more about him. After thinking still a little longer I moved close up to the spot where he lay, and ventured the remark,

"Rather hard lying on the pavement, isn't it?"

He turned and fixed his blue eyes on me without answering.

I repeated my question.
Then he replied,-

"It is very hard; but I lie here all the same."

This was obviously true, and I felt disappointed at getting such a reception.

"It can't be very good for you," I blundered out.

"It is not very good for me," he said, in a strange refined Ollendorffian style. "but I lie here and tell the story of my picture to myself, for nobody listens."

Just then came along a middle-sized boy carrying an empty basket. Not wishing to be favored with au audience while I questioned the man, I affected interest in an opposite direction. The boy dropped his basket as he approached, and kicked it deftly over the picture, saying as he did so,

"Well, old 'Where did yer git that 'at,' I'm comin' back again to eat yer." I sprang on that boy unfairly. He regarded the poor street artist as lawful prey, and long usage combined with bad example had destroyed any original feelings of compunction—but it was too late; I had hurt him very much, and he was crying bitterly. Happily no one was at hand, and so the matter passed without collecting a crowd. The boy picked up his basket and went his way whimpering; the policeman did not While I was looking at him a passer- take his eyes off Piccadilly, and my

friend in the three-cornered hat moved not a muscle.

After a decent pause I said,

"Well, what is the picture?"

board and goes out into the gateway. There is a flat stone by the wall, and he moves it away-then he brings out ten heavy bags and puts them in a deep

"The story is of the picture," he re- hole. He drops the stone again, and plied.

This answer seemed like an attempt at repartee, flavored with French exercises, and I began to think that the policeman's remark about the poor man's mental state was true; still I persisted.

"Ah, yes," I said, "the story is of the picture. I want to hear about it-the picture the story of it, you know."

"The story that I tell to myself. It is because nobody else will listen. Today it is the beginning."

"Go on, please," said I.

"I go to and fro under that gateway many times, and the day is a hot day. The little ledge there on the wall is the height of my shoulder. I run with my hand on it, and make a humming noise to imitate the diligence. The women carry tall baskets past my place of amusement and curtsey to me. I grimace at them in reply. Then I run across to the other side where there is no ledge, and lie down on my back, and look at the roof, and kick up my heels, because I am in idleness."

"But when do you do this?" I inquired.

"Men pass me," he continued, without noticing the interruption, "and some of them scowl, which makes me cease kicking, and think what they mean. But I am not afraid. I forget their words very soon. There are people coming down to the fountain to drink the water, some on crutches. I jump up and run towards them, shouting that the gutter is good enough for them. All this is ignorance. They pretend not to hear. The water from the fountain is warm, and salt to taste. A man in a faded livery stands by and takes money from the people who drink it."

covers it with earth."

He stopped, just as he had begun, like a machine.

I waited for several minutes in s1lence, trying to fashion a meaning for this strange story.

"When did all this happen?" I asked at length.

He shook his head and smiled faintly. "You don't remember, I suppose," I said. "It's like a dream, perhaps, isn't it?"

Again he made a gesture of dissent. "It's real then-do you mean that?" He nodded.

"Have you got no more to say about it?" I asked.

"No more to-day. The picture will be changed to-morrow. I will say more then." And with this he took a rag from behind him, and swept the picture away.

I held out a shilling, but he looked up at me and said,

"Wait for the end-you will give me more then.”

The best bred of the angels could not have said it with such gentle dignity of manner. I went back to the policeman and asked him where the man lived.

"Somewhere back of the Harmy and Navy, sir-one of them little streets leading off Vincent Square." "Any relations?"

"No relations, no friends, no effects,' that would be our report of him."

This seemed to shut the door altogether, for I felt that it was hopeless to expect to learn the truth about this man from himself, even if the picture represented reality, and his record was true. I went home in great disgust and thought it over. If the man was thirty now, and ten years old when he ran about under the gateway, that "It is evening," he went on at last, would make it twenty years ago, but "and I follow my father about the somehow I treasured the conviction house on tiptoe; he does not see or hear that such a calculation was utterly me. He takes a trowel from a cup- false. I found myself saying, "Ages

There was another pause.

were

further back than that; hang it all, look at his clothes!" This was again most unreasonable, the clothes certainly not more than twenty years old, probably not as much. And the man looked less than thirty really. Thus buffeted between reason and unaccountable belief, I became restless, and the evening went badly. I alternately swore never to go near Piccadilly again, and started up with the intention of immediately drawing all the little streets at the back of the Stores. During the night I dreamed that I demonstrated with chalks on the pavement to the whole A. division, how to fix the man's age by algebra! he however wiped out my figures with his rag, before the sum was done, and all the A. division laughed at us.

and

were

The wind of March blew dry and shril as I walked down Kensington Gore next morning on my way to the yellow-haired street artist. The dust of the town, which is grittier and more penetrating than country dust, blew in great eddies everywhere. People with puckered faces, heads lowered, their hands on their hat-brims, passing, heedless of the man lying there on the pavement with his picture and his half-told story, and I felt conscious of a certain superiority of knowledge, as I threaded my way across to him, and noticed a sign of recognition on his wasted countenance. The picture was ready. It seemed very much the same as on the day previous, except that it was drawn on a slightly smaller scale, and that above the archway was a row of casement windows, as if the former led under a suite of living rooms. I noticed too that at the further end of it stood a man with rifle and bayonet, in a red cap. While I was gathering these details, he began again as follows:

"We are assembled in a bed-chamber, with a low roof and windows on both sides. There are five of us-and my father, he is dying. The priest alone speaks. He bends over him, and whispers words which 1 cannot hear. Then we kneel down. The old nurse moves

quickly to the window and throws it open. See, the window over the gateway is open. She does it that my father's spirit may have immediate passage to God. There is a sudden clamor outside of soldiers; three of them come up to the door of the chamber, and the priest opens it, holding up his hand. My father's head falls back, the nurse closes his eyes. At once comes a rumbling noise, all the house shakes; I look out and see that the fountain is running no longer."

He stopped and took a deep breath as if the telling of the tale was a terrible strain. Then he leant over the picture, so that it was hidden from me, and took his chalks from his pocket. When he raised himself, I saw that the soldier in the gateway had disappeared, while in the foreground a file of red-capped men were standing guard over several indistinct heaps. The water lately gushing from the fountain was now erased and close to it he had drawn a fire on which people were throwing things. At the base of the tower was a gaping crack in the masonry.

He continued: "The soldiers take the old swords and pictures and the armor, and throw them upon a my picture to myself, for nobidy lister are taken away in a coach. I am guarded by a soldier. I ask him why all this is being done, and he looks at me and laughs. The night falls soon afterwards, and the soldiers bring out wine. My guard drinks and falls asleep. I crawl away to the gateway and sit by the wide crack in the tower. I can hear the stones grinding together. Presently the light from the fire the soldiers have made falls on me. I am afraid of being seen, and crawl into the crack. It leads downwards; as I go I feel that it is slowly closing up. I press on into a dark place, dry and warm. There is a stream of warm air coming upwards which makes me sleepy. Soon it overcomes me altogether, and I sink down. After that, there is a great space of silent years."

He was speaking in a kind of reverie now, forgetful of the presence of a listener.

"A very very long time," I said, with a tremble in my voice.

He repeated his words, "a great space of silent years."

I felt awe-struck. This seemed to be a corroboration of my unaccountable impression gained the day before. Yet the interpretation of it was as far off as ever.

"Can't you remember one word, one name to help me?" I cried.

The artist looked up, with the vista of a hundred years gleaming in his

eyes.

"You say help," he said slowly-"help from a name. I can remember one."

He leant once more over his picture, and wrote something below it. When he moved I read in straggling characters the word "Fleuraye." I stooped down and reverently laid all the money I had got on that word "Fleuraye." Something told me that it was the key of the whole riddle, if I could use it aright. He smiled his old-world smile again, and said,

"That is all the story."

I left him, and walked slowly home.

"The château itself is a fine specimen of old Gascon domestic architecture. Alas, alas, that it should be uninherited and falling to ruin!"

The grizzled curé spoke these words, while I riveted my eyes on that venerable pile, the Château Thericourt. I had come upon it almost unexpectedly, and at the same moment had happily lighted upon the only inhabitant who was likely to be able to tell me its history, namely, the parish priest.

"It has a history, no doubt," I said, striving to conceal my excitement.

“Ah, monsieur, the poor old place has doubtless a thrilling tale to tell, if its stones could speak. The story is little better than tradition, so far as it goes." "There is often something in tradition,' I murmured.

"Perhaps-perhaps! Have you a particular interest in it, though?" The old man looked at me with an inquiring smile.

"I feel a great interest in this place. certainly."

66

""Tis a pity, then, you were not here thirty years ago, when first I knew it. There was living then an old woman who declared herself an eye-witness of the deeds of the revolutionaries here." "It was ransacked then, eh?"

"Something worse than that, monsieur. She used to tell how the baron lay sick to death when the troops were sent to take their prisoner. He died, in fact, just as they entered his house, and finding no money, as they had expected, they burned in anger all they could lay hands on. His lady suffered death at Paris like the rest."

"The property was confiscated, I suppose?"

"Yes, yes; and like others, it was held at the Restoration to have reverted to the State, because no heir could be discovered."

"It must be a mortification to you that so beautiful a spot should be wasted-ownerless. I mean that it could not but benefit the neighborhood if it found a purchaser."

The curé shrugged his shoulders, and sighed.

"The glory has departed," he said, "from here and all around. The district has never recovered its ancient prosperity."

"How so?"

"Ah, my friend, Serenne was once renowned for its water-cure. There is a legend, by the way, attaching to this place regarding that water-cure.” "Please let me hear it."

"It is merely this. The springs were the exclusive property of the Fleurayes, and from some cause they dried up. The legend, of course, runs that they ceased when they were wrested from their rightful owner. We live here, however, in a region mildly volcanic, which would account for their failure. Our wells show this by their strange behavior not unfrequently."

"Was there no heir, at the time of the confiscation?"

"A child, I believe, who was made

I collected myself with a great effort, away with. Ah, no," the curé sighed and said steadily,

deeply, "there is no one left! I often

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