lost my reckonin' in my bunk nor I went off dreamin' I was carpenter an' cooper aboard a whalin' vessel. Hows'ever that's nither here nor thar, only I be to dream the stuff every watch below.

"As I was a sayin', so soon as ever we gits the new spars on end and the yards crossed and the canvas bent, we turns to and begins to paint her. Spencer he explains that this 'ere breeze from eastard and sothard was a liftin' of her across the doldrums, and we be to make port in three or four weeks. So we gits up the paint pots, and the second mate he serves out white lead and ile—say, ye never see the likes of it; none of yer yellerish fevercolored common stuff, mind, but a gennuin' white like the smother under the bows of her, see, and we begins at the truck and we paints down, includin' doublin's of the masts and the yards and the lower masts fit fer a gentleman's yatchet. Then, in course, we takes the hull in hand and done that likewise, and what with a runnin' a belt o' carmine around 'er in the wake o' the plankshear, and a touchin' up the gold scrolls under her bowsprit, and a polishin' of the bright work, she were gallus.

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Hows'ever, that wasn't all we done. When Captain McDonald he comes for'd fer to have a severe look around and says as how we'd done him proud, we gives him a surprise party as was a stunner to him, and now I comes to think on it, it were quare. It was as I be to tell, but how it were and the whys and the wherefors, as The. may be puttin' in his oar for to ask, I can't say.'

He stopped talking for a moment, at this, as if considering "the whys and the whyfors" but continued shortly.

"We be for to notice afore we'd been puttin' her to rights many days that when we done anything it were done to stay. There didn't no bright work turn yeller and green, nor no iron work as was rubbed up ter sparkle get no rust on to it no more; and no scrubbin' of the decks arter we done it once, nor no chafin' gear wearin' out. So in our trick below we turns to unbeknownst to the captain and polishes up the anchors till you'd a tuk yer dyin' oath they was silver plate from shackle pin to crown, and didn't the old man's eyes bung out some'at, when he see us snatch the tar

paulins off as we'd covered 'em up with?

"With that we says, 'Captain, is it the standin' riggin' next?' and he says, ‘It be and I'm with ye,' and what does we do but turn to and polish them 'ere shrouds and stays, every wire and every inch on 'em, and the chain-plates, until I reckon ef any one 'ud been a steerin' our way, so as he be to get the glint o' the sun on to us, he'd a made sure our top-hamper was a blazin' burnin' offen Last of all, one at a time we takes the sails down on deck and scrubs 'em like snow, and when we gits 'em done there we was, sailin' like-sailin'

us.

The sailor stopped talking again and lay perfectly still, staring at the blank wall, trying, perhaps, to think of words to fitly describe the ship as she then appeared to him, but after a moment he shook his head and continued:

"How long was we doin' of it? Give it up. All I knows is I didn't care. It were proper work for a sailorman and couldn't last too long. That 'ere evening arter we got it done, and all hands be to eat supper in the cabin in honor on it, we dresses up in our shore togs, and at four bells the starboard watch be to eat first. We was all on the quarter deck and bein' carpenter I was a leadin' the way down into the cuddy and the captain standin' at the foot of the ladder ready to give us a hearty welcome when the look-out as was a straddle the fer-r'yal yard sings out:

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Sa-a-i-1 ho-o-o! One pint for'ard the stab-bord be-e-am!'

"With that we all rushes down to the stabbord rail. Sure enough, there be the r'yals and the to'gallants'ls of a full rig ship jest a pokin' across the sun as was a droppin' rapid out o' sight, and there we stands leanin' out over that rail and strainin' our eyes till she crosses the sun and gets fogged in by them colored hazes and mistses beyand.

"So we be to have somethin' new ter talk about at supper, and we gits that 'ere strung up over it, not a one of us be to sleep a wink that blessed night, only tramp the deck and work our jaw tackles. In course we'd kept a way a bit, if so be we might head her off.

"With the fust streak in the east away we all goes to the r'yal yards and

hangs there, a peerin' into the dark and waitin'. Our trick on lookout weren't fer long, hows'ever, for we soon sees a shadder of her as the gray of the mornin' was a spreadin', and then, suddin like, up comes the sun. Whew! I e'na'most fell offen the yard. She were scrubbed and painted and polished alow and aloft like the Nucleus.

"While we were a starin' there and a never sayin' nothin', only breathin' hard, we sees a line a hardenin' above the horizon beyand her, which all on us recognized to oncet, and we hails the deck together.

"Meantime the breeze had been freshenin' with the risin' sun, and it drives us swishing and splashing along and the coast rises rapid. While we was waitin' for to git a some'at better squint at it we notices the shore fishes to be oncommon plenty more nor any of us ever see, and such flocks of birds as I never hearn on afore. In course we don't be to pay much attention to them 'ere, only the captain, as noticed 'em likewise, says he see plenty of birds among 'em as he supposed had been done for long ago, and in consequence we be to come to a island or coast o' some sort what nobody didn't know much about.

"So the captain and Mr. Spencer be to keep screwin' the binoculars into their eyes and goin' down and lookin' at charts by turns, and the more they looked the puzzleder they gets, especial when they sees a bay or harbor openin' out afore them with two headlands of cur'us form a guardin' of it. The both on 'em had sailed the length of the whole coast of Amerca many's the time, and the Nucleus were oncommon well found in charts, but neither on 'em ever see or hearn of a coast and harbor like this, and so the captain he says we're comin' to a port as ain't down in no chart, and if so be it are a undiscovered country, all we can do is to keep a sharp lookout.

"It were soon settled about it bein' a country as hadn't been discovered, for wery soon arter the captain were sayin' of it we begins to sight sails atween them headlands, and by and by, as that 'ere bay opens out afore us, we sees that a mighty fleet had gathered there. How can I tell it to you what I see and make

you believe it, about the great open hulks as had only one mast and was rowed with oars and yet could carry the Nucleus's cargo; the ships with jib-booms and no jibs but squares'ls instid; ships with lateen fores'ls and others with lateen mizzens, and no end of other rigs such as no man ever see nor no sailorman 'ud have nothin' to do with, not to mention the craft rigged as we've seen ships rigged aforetime, and them as was shipshape, and some as I remember of seein' afore. Wherever did they all come from? whatever were they there for? How did we happen to be sailin' into that ere harbor? Why did hundreds-aye, hundreds on them cur'us hulks, with cur'user flags and streamers, and with their sails embroidered all over with pictur's, and the crews playing on no end o' musical instruments, come out alongside the ship as was ahead of us and give her a welcome heartylike, as we could hear a mile away, and then bear up to meet us?"

"We tumbled down from aloft, and standin' on the rail about the quarterdeck, right glad as we'd got the ship to rights in time, stood by to greet 'em as was becomin' in a Yankee ship. I see them as they comes veerin' around, I sees the smiles on their faces, hears ther shouts and their music, notices in partic'lar that 'ere big side wheeler the Atlantic, as was headin' for our lee quarter like she would give us a line or suthin'; and then Captain McDonald, as was a lookin' aft, happens to see a ropeyarn a danglin' from the end o' the spanker boom as untidy as a cobweb in a lady's parlor. Pintin' at it quick he whispers to me: "Mister Servenmalet, kindly remove

it.'

"I jumped fer to do it, feelin' wery much ashamed on account of its bein' there, and just as I gets my fingers on to it that 'ere Atlantic with her big paddlewheels reversed sweeps up alongside and the swell bumps her agin our stabbord counter, and off I tumbles, with the shock. I flounders about for a time and then some one grabs me by the hair and pulls me out. I opens my eyes-alas! I finds myself-here."

The Sifter of Rumors had a copy of the Commercial Bulletin in his pocket.

He drew it out and began to glance down the column headed "Marine News." An item caught his eye, and he read it aloud. Here it is:

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"NEW LONDON, October 11. Whaling schooner Henrietta Hazeltine, Norton, from South Atlantic, arrived with full cargo. June 22, 1886, latitude 21° 17' north, longitude 32° 3' west, during prolonged squall, in which had main trysail carried away, saw ship sink about half mile to leeward, being swamped by a tidal wave, which the Hazeltine rode in safety. On drifting down to where ship disappeared, found one man clinging to a spare spar, and having bad cut in head. He afterward signed articles as Jack Servenmalet, cooper and carpenter. Never fully recovered mentally from effect of wound, but did duty in a satisfactory manner. He could not remember name of ship, but talked in his sleep a good deal

about the New Class or some such name of a ship."

The sailor listened attentively to the reading of the item, and when it was done said:

"The Henrietta Hazeltine, whaler, me cooper and carpenter. Sure, that do be the name. Cur'us things be to happen at sea, eh?"

'Matey, did ye say the Nucleus had been missing nigh hand to a year 'n more, and that that 'ere Atlantic were a missing steamship too. I don't know; I don't think so. I think I be to go

back to the Nucleus, matey. My head but I reckon I'll soon

feels a bit

quare,

make that 'ere harbor and that 'ere fleet agin."

And he did. He turned to the wall, at this, smiling at the thought of once more joining his shipmates in the beautiful harbor, and closed his eyes as if to sleep. A clock in the barren sittingroom below began to strike, and the sailorman counted the strokes of the bell in a whisper.

"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. Aye, aye, sir; eight bells. All the starboard watch, sir.'

He sprang up from his pillow as if to leave the bed, and then dropped back again and lay perfectly still. The surgeon looked alarmed now and hastily felt of his pulse. There was none in wrist nor temple, nor could any beating of the heart be felt. Jack Servenmalet had gone to join the crew of the missing Nucleus. He was dead.

F

RENCH manners are artistic; they are systematized and uniform; they are not excessive as we erroneously imagine; they are frank; they are gay and gentle, but they are above all else impersonal. In this sense the French are not merely the most polite nation in the world. They are the only people who of the communication of man with man distinctly and formally make a recognized medium, an objective "third somewhat," in metaphysical phrase, in which the speech and action of each communicant encounter those of the other without in any degree involving either individuality behind them-which is, on the contrary, left pointedly alone in its separate and independent sphere. With regard to this last indeed there is never, except in violation of the social code, any curiosity manifested, unless the degree of intimacy is such that manners themselves are of no importance, or the individuality is of so accentuated a type as to escape divination—both of which contingencies are rare. And it is perhaps this indifference that is mainly accountable for the general AngloSaxon position concerning French politeness, for our esteeming it incurably artificial. We no more like to submit to the perfect unconcern as to the subtiler points of our individuality which we cannot fail to remark in the way in which the politest Frenchman treats us, than we like the persistence with which he appears to esteem his own personality a matter of no moment to anyone but himself. We are as solicitous to impress him with our qualities as he seems to be to impress us with his accomplishments; and we resent what we insist on considering his carefulness to conceal his real opinions, disposition, character in the same measure with which we are piqued by his concentration upon our own superficial graces-or

our lack of any. Ingrained frivolity, absolute superficiality, is invariably our verdict-secret or outspoken according to the degree of our weakness for seeing the charm of purely objective and impersonal intercourse illustrated by others in a perfection only consistent, as we profoundly, though perfunctorily, believe, with a lack of deep and large sincerity of character. It is so difficult for us to realize that in manners as the French understand them there is no more question of character than there is in any other fine-art. They illustrate the individual's ideal, not himself; his aspirations, not his qualities; and his ideal and aspirations in an absolutely impersonal sphere where what serves as stimulus and all that is at stake are the sense of external propriety and the artistic fitness of things.

How exquisitely adapted the French are to excel in precisely this sphere is indicated, I think, by the most summary view of their most salient characteristics. The social instinct which subordinates the individual and suppresses eccentricity, the social and tolerant nature of a morality which recognizes its lack of jurisdiction in questions of manners, a highly developed intelligence and the absence of that sentimentality in conjunction with which it is impossible to find the refinement of manners which is based on reason, however it may inspire that politesse de cœur in which Prince Bismarck finds the French lacking, afford precisely the conditions for producing in perfection an impersonal, artificial, graceful, and efficient medium of social intercourse. And, in fact, of manners as the French understand and illustrate them it may be said that we lack even the conception. Of other manifestations of the artistic spirit we at least permit ourselves the luxury of an ideal. It does not "cost much anyhow" we say; and indeed it does not, much of it; our painting and sculpture and poetry and music have cost as little probably as the fine-art of any nation of the world

that has devoted any attention whatever to fine-art. Our amateurs and artists are nevertheless active and numerous, and it can no longer be said of us that fine-art does not occupy a considerable share of our attention. In what is sometimes esoterically called "household art" we are even already distinguished. A few New York palaces vie with those of Genoa-whose "household art" had a similar origin; on the other hand the chromo and the Christmas-card have penetrated social strata which in France enjoy only white and blue wash. But as for the manifestation of this same artistic expansiveness in social life and manners, the idea simply never occurs to us. It would be a pardonably fanciful exaggeration to say that by manners we are very generally apt to understand "table manners;" it is at least true that we use the terms manners and etiquette interconvertibly and in a narrowly specific sense. In "table manners" as a rule we excel. We are not perhaps so distinguished as the English from whom we inherit the conception, but it is generally conceded in France I suppose that the English and Americans "eat better" than the rest of the world. "Table manners," howevor, as Anglo-Saxons illustrate them, are rather a department of science than of fine-art. A solecism in them has a fatal importance, and a mistake is mathematically an error; they offer no field for that human quality which is necessary to constitute art. The French certainly do not "eat well;" that is to say, as a rule. French people would at table permit themselves, and overlook in others, phenomena which Anglo-Saxons of the same social grade would not permit themselves and still less overlook in others. But in other ways they certainly carry manners to an extent we but vaguely appreciate and perhaps a little disapprove. It is indeed noteworthy that all other manifestations of the artistic spirit they are apt to make subsidiary and subservient to manners; whereas we consider these ends in themselves very often, as the Talmud does study, and the English neopagans consider dress. In France they are popularly regarded as humanizing agents, a higher class of social influences perfecting the mind and temper and

preparing them for success in the one great art of life from the French standpoint-social intercourse. The opera, the Salons, the expositions rétrospectives, the concours hippiques and agronomiques, classical concerts, the theatre itself afford to countless people-secondarily, to be sure, a great deal of indirect enjoyment, more intelligent enjoyment, very certainly, than is anywhere else to be witnessed, as the occasion of it is almost invariably superior to such things elsewhere-but primarily and directly social rendezvous on a large scale and of a gay character. Artists complain loudly of this. The Théâtre Français is, two days in the week, transformed into a social court, as it were, before which the actors play as, mutatis mutandis, their predecessors used to before Louis XIV. ; the play is distinctly not "the thing;" the thing is the rendezvous. The two arts in which the French excel all peoples ancient or modern, with possibly the exception of the Athenians for a brief period, comedy and conversation, namely, are particularly adapted to French excellence because of their intimate and inextricable connection with manners. Painting and music and poetry are all very well, but they necessarily take the second rank after manners in French esteem, and French proficiency as well, because as professions they are limited, whereas in manners all Frenchmen are artists.

What degree of perfection comedy has reached in France it would be a wholly superfluous undertaking to point out. It is conceived in a larger, more universal way than elsewhere. The muse of comedy presides over every Thespian temple. Tragedy still has her stilts on, not because the French have never heard of Euripides and Shakespeare, but because everything not distinctly grandiose falls naturally into the domain of comedy. The mere titles la Comédie Française, la Comédie Humaine, l'Opéra Comique, where Auber and Hérold dominate Offenbach and Lecocq, indicate the extension given to the term which thus includes every mimic representation of reality from Le Misanthrope to the veriest vaudeville. And the stream of French comedy inundates and fertilizes all Europe.

From Stockholm to Seville and