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"And yet," said Marsham, "there are savages, and there are men and women of the world also. And now, my friend, let me ask you one thing. When you tell me that man's life is solemn and is precious, what meaning do you attach to the words? Is there any more meaning in them than in saying, as a general statement, that men are worth a million of money? Some men are millionaires, it is true; but most men are not. In the same way some men may find in life the solemn value you speak of, but many men do not, as you yourself declare to me. What, then, of those who do not? I am speaking to you, remember, not as a Catholic, but as a woman with no religious faith at all. How will you make me believe in the spiritual riches of life in any more comforting and universal way than you can make me believe in its material riches? Lord Surbiton and Mrs. Crane are both of them human lives. If human lives can be so valueless, how can you say as a fact that human life is of value?"

"It might be," she began.

"Yes," he answered; "every French private might be a field-marshal. Take any soldier as he marches into battle, and you can truly say that each one may be saved. But what, for a creedless woman, does may be or might be mean? A man can not live his own life in two ways. He is what he is; and he is nothing but what he is. And if life is only holy and solemn because a man, as a fact, attains the fruition in it of perfect happiness, and happiness of a certain sort, what worthless dogs must the vast majority of our kind be! Lady Di, consider this too. Suppose that every human being had it in him or her to love as you say they should love, what will you say of the cases where the love is not returned ?"

"I say," she replied, "that despite the intense, the life-long anguish that rejection brings, it is better to have longed for that highest happiness, even though it may for ever be denied one."

"If the value of life," said Marsham, "is gained by a fruitless longing for what makes it valuable, is not a beggar rich only because he longs for riches? Is not a starving street-boy filled only because he stares into a cook-shop window?"

"Stop," she cried. "Mr. Marsham, I beseech you stop! The world is full of mysteries. Why turn the probe round in the painful wound? Do not think of what others can not do, but of what you can do. You are not excused from choosing the right, because it is not open to all, as it is to you, to choose it. You are not your own," she went on. "Should another ask your heart of you, you owe it to yourself and her to give

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it, not to keep the treasure of it laid up in a napkin. You know not the crime that you might commit by doing so. I have a friend who has loved a man long, but she has met with no return from him. My poor friend-I know her and her sorrows well; and I know that love unrequited, or withdrawn if half given, makes a woman spiteful and embittered. All the milk and honey of her nature turn to gall; and, besides hating the man she ought to love, she ends by despising herself, whom she ought to reverence. But you," she said, something of the old bitterness for a moment coming back to her, "you will make no sacrifice for another. Your love is given utterly to this idle, aimless life-this life, not of love, but of love-making, not even of pleasure, but of pleasure-seeking. See-there is the boat coming for you. You must go now. Go-go. The night is getting chilly. You can not stay longer, and I am too tired to again face the party. Alas, my friend! I can wish you nothing worse than that you may continue a life like this. But go. I shall see you soon again—shall I not? And think over meanwhile what I have said to you." "I fear you will not see me again for some time," he said. You say I give up nothing I delight in. I do delight, I confess it, in this idle life here; and yet to-morrow I am going to give this life up. My place is already taken by the mid-day train to-morrow, and the morning after I shall be in the fogs and frosts of England. Business, and business not of my own, but of others of others whom I still try to help, but for whom I feel no affection-calls me away; and I choose to obey the call. Do not fear for my sake. I am not unhappy, though I am not happy, and I try to do my duties, though I make no solemn face while I am doing them. In England, in June, perhaps we may meet again; and if meanwhile happiness should come to me in the form of love, it will be so much the better for me, for we all welcome happiness; and I will ask you to congratulate me on the unhoped-for treasure. But, if it does not, I shall remember with gratitude your interest in me all the same; and will only ask you not to waste your compassion on one who knows how to give a frolic welcome both to thunder and to sunshine, and whose worst crime it is, that he cools, with light amusements, brows that might otherwise be often aching."

He said good-by to her, but she hardly answered him. In another instant he was gone, and the voices of his friends soon mounted up to her as he was entering the boat. Lady Di remained motionless as a statue, leaning on the balustrade. "Going!" she moaned to herself. "Far off-gone-to-morrow!"

She was remaining lost in thought, when she

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was startled by a few chords struck suddenly on a guitar, the sound of which floated up to her, clear from the surface of the water. 'There was some woman," she exclaimed-"I remember they said so now-that was going to sing one of his songs as they rowed home! and has he the heart to ask it of her? Can he see nothing? Can he understand nothing?"

She did not move. She stood there as if petrified, with her lips half parted.

"Saxea ut effigies bacchantis constitit Evoe."

She was fearful and yet expectant of the woman's voice-the voice of the Countess Marie-of which she had often heard, but with which she had never dreamed of having such associations. Soon it came; and there came mixed with it a splash of oars, and a tinkling of the faint guitar-strings. The voice seemed to rise from the bosom of the moonlight, and so light and liquid, so aërial and so plaintive, were the sound and melody, that they might have come from some soulless mermaid or siren; and seemed expressive half of exultant buoyancy, half of extreme sadness:

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Never row us again to shore!"

Lady Diotima could not distinguish the words; but she stood listening for the last faint sounds till long after they had become inaudible. Then she turned and walked slowly back toward the villa. Tears fell slowly from her eyes. She started to find herself shaken with a convulsive sob. "Life indeed,” she cried bitterly, “has a perfect happiness for all of us, if we only long for it, no matter whether or no we win it!" Then once more she turned toward the sea, and to the silver track on which she knew the boat was floating, and exclaimed, half aloud, in the still, flower-scented night air, as she looked:

"And so, without more circumstance at all, I hold it fit that we shake hands and part: You, as your business and desire shall prompt

you

For every man hath business and desire, Such as it is-and, for my own poor part, Look you, I will go pray.'"

W. H. MALLOCK, in the Nineteenth Century.

THE CITY OF ROCKS.

MANY remote sections of the far West teem cific snow-bird, and some sage-hares. The latter

with natural curiosities that are unknown to any persons save a few hardy tourists, Indian hunters, or those daring pioneers that leave no field untried that promises them either the glittering gold or pastures for their cattle. Idaho is specially prolific in these landscape wonders, owing to its geological formation and physical outlines, it being either a level, monotonous plain, or a series of rugged hills and snow-clad mountains heaped together in apparent confusion, with here and there a small basin-like valley nestling far down at their base.

Having been subject to an overflow of the fiery sea that swept over an area of three hundred thousand square miles of the Pacific region in the misty past, and again to the compression and denudation of the glacial period, it unites in many places huge bowlders, the very opposite of each other in character and origin. It is no unusual occurrence to meet immense crags of granite covering a mountain-side, and, at their base, trap rocks that look as fresh as if they were emitted only yesterday, ranged in irregular lines, like the moraines of the Alps. The result of this amalgamation is to produce, in several instances, petral formations, as fantastic as they are unusual. Of these the most remarkable is the so-called City of Rocks, situated in eastern Idaho, some thirty-five miles from the western frontier of Utah.

During my ramblings through that region, I heard much of its unique character, and the close resemblance it bears to a city both in outline and construction, so I resolved to visit it to see how near the work of erratic Nature could approach the work of man, and to learn if it was in reality the celebrated wonder it was deemed to be. Taking the stage at Boisé City, the small though energetic capital of the Territory, a ride of three weary days brought me to the City of Rocks Station, where I rested for the night. The country traversed during this tedious journey was the most barren I ever saw, for nothing met the eye in any direction except vast plains that extended in wearily unbroken lines to the snowy peaks that glittered amid the deep blue of the distant horizon. Not a shrub was seen, except the omnipresent deserts of purshia, linosyris, artemisia, and kindred plants, and their monotonous hue, united with the droning silence of the scene, rendered the landscape oppressive in its dullness. Animal life was even absent, with few exceptions, the only vestiges of animated nature visible being a few chipping sparrows, the Pa

were numerous enough in some sections, and furnished a means of breaking the tedium of the trip by presenting themselves as targets for a revolver that would never hit the spot aimed at. They, of course, escaped unscathed, but they were evidently a little scared by the noise, judging from the way in which they flew over the ground at the apparent rate of ten or twelve miles a minute. The only trees visible en route were the Western juniper, which grew in sparse hillocks in sections far apart, and an occasional cottonwood, or a vagrant pine that had strayed from its Alpine retreat to the banks of a rivulet.

The only houses met were a very few primitive log cabins which some seedy bachelor or border family had erected until the virgin soil could furnish them the means of building something better. Certain parts of the country, especially those near streams, are said to produce good wheat and barley, but the difficulty of procuring water, and the expense of irrigation, must keep the region closed until increasing population in the East sends its crowding multitudes farther West in search of bread and elbow-room. The country is, therefore, as new as it possibly can be; and, to those who would know what nature is without the presence of man, it affords an ample field for study and speculation. The little hamlet at which I took up my quarters is the only one for a distance of many miles where the traveler can procure food and shelter, for not even all the stage-stations can supply persons with a bed. Though as uninviting a halting-place as one would care to know under ordinary circumstances, yet, placed as I was, it was exceedingly welcome. Being situated in a narrow opening in the mountains, and surrounded principally by the ubiquitous sage-brush and artemisia, it had an air of solitude and isolation that was felt immediately. It had accessories of civilization, however, that proved its proximity to somewhere, for a couple of cows grazed close by, and the cheerful voice of a woman singing resounded within. The cabin itself was like those peculiar to the West, being formed of logs notched into one another, and having the interstices plastered with alkali-mud. The interior was as simple as the exterior; but the presence of a small bit of carpet near the bedroom-door proved that its occupants had not lost all their ideas of neatness and comfort. One could not expect any luxuries in such a place, so I was not a little surprised to find on the dinner-table an

excellent repast of ham, fresh eggs, preserved fruits, the inevitable hot biscuit, and some rich milk, which would have been delightful were it not for its sage-brush flavor. Being the only visitor, except the taciturn stage-driver, I received a monopoly of the kindness and conversation of the host and hostess, and was rewarded for my descriptions of city life by sketches of pioneer life, so thrilling and apparently truthful that if some of the "penny dreadful" writers knew them they would have material enough for at least ten years upon which to found the most startling and sensational stories. The host, who had lived in the far West from early boyhood, and had undergone all the mutations of a pioneer's life, was thoroughly well up in Indian craft and character, and many a tale did he relate of the diabolical cruelty and the untiring vengeance of the red-man.

It was rather late at night when we retired; and I had scarcely sunk in slumber before visions of raiding, yelling Indians awoke me with a start. That it could not be a mere dream or a nightmare that aroused me so suddenly, I felt certain; so I listened attentively for a few seconds, but I could hear no sounds save the beating of my own heart. I was beginning to chide myself for a display of nervousness to which I was a stranger,

when a most unearthly series of howls made me bound to my feet in sudden alarm, for the violent noise seemed to come from beneath the window of my bedroom. It was not apparently of human origin; but what it was, or whence it sprang, I could not determine. The driver, who slept in the same room, did not move, though he must have heard it; and his quietude restored me to a tranquillity formed of apprehension and a feeling of shame that I had shown any alarm. The howls became at length so unbearable that I shook the sleeper rather lively, and asked him if he were dead not to hear such a demoniacal yelling.

"Oh, yes," was the quiet response; "them are coyotes a-howling for fun because the moon is bright; but, if you don't like their singing, just give them two or three shots from your revolver, and you bet they'll scatter. I don't mind them myself I'm used to them; but, as you don't, let them have a dose or two of lead."

I was about to comply with his instructions, when he jumped up suddenly, and, holding his hand in a manner to indicate silence, listened intently for a few moments.

"Something is up," said he, vehemently; "them coyotes have shut up all at once. I guess there are some thieving or prowling Injuns around, or they wouldn't dry up so soon."

At his suggestion, I dressed rapidly, and, taking a revolver in my hand, we both went out

the back door, and met the host as he emerged from his room, rifle in hand.

"Injuns?" said the driver. "Yes, on a steal," said the other. Moving along the shadow of the wall, we gained a position whence we could see up and down the road for quite a distance. After listening intently, and straining our eyes for a few minutes, we saw a cloud of dust rising along the path to the north, and heard the heavy clattering of many unshod horses as they trotted over the ground. Before they came as far as our cabin, they turned suddenly to the right; and, in ten minutes after the head of the column changed its course, we saw a body of mounted Indians, of the Snake tribe, aligned in the form of a crescent, bringing up the rear. When they passed out of sight, we felt much relieved, for we feared they were going to make a raid on the stock belonging to the ranch, and force us to a fight in its defense. This interesting incident took away all notions of sleep; so it was late in the night before we fell into a restless slumber, for we did not know but that some prowlers from the main body had remained behind to do a little stealing on their own account, and these we expected to pay us a visit. The result of this uneasiness was that we were awake by daylight, and breakfasted by the dim light of a tallow-candle. The meal was scarcely finished before a brawny, roughlooking horseman came thundering at the door to learn if we had seen the red thieves passing that way. To an affirmative response, and a query of who they were, he replied that they must be renegades from the Snakes and Bannocks who were on a horse-raid, and that they had probably driven their captures toward Montana. Without waiting for further inquiries he dashed away over the plain to rouse the widely scattered farmers who had lost their stock, and to organize them for a pursuit of the robbers.

When the sun was well up in the sky I slung a rifle on my shoulder, to meet any possible contingencies, and started out to visit the rock-built city some three miles distant. The road that led to it was well defined, it having been used for many years by the overland emigrants to Oregon and California long ere the iron steed dashed westward to the Pacific. A walk of one mile over the plain brought me to a range of granitoid hills, which were densely clad with shrubby juniper and a few coppices of the mountain mahogany. These hills guard the vale in which the city reposes, and the only opening through them is a narrow path which separates two huge bowlders of granite, called most appropriately Sentinel Rocks, for they tower far above all their congeners and overlook a large area of country. From their summit the daring emigrants who sought the new El Dorado caught a glimpse of a

strange land in the distant west, which was to form a final resting-place for many of them. These huge crags, which have an altitude of perhaps three hundred feet, according to local speculation, are covered from base to pinnacle with the names and places of residence of pioneers, and in many instances the date of their arrival at that locality. These brief autobiographies are printed with black axle-grease, and, the compositors being amateurs at the printing art, their work resembles hieroglyphics at a distance. What it lacks in elegance, however, it compensates for in durability, for nothing but the disintegration of the rocky parchment by the action of weather and time can erase it. From these towers high walls of broken granite extend westward for several miles in a semicircular outline, but to the east dome-shaped hills supplant them. The division between the many-peaked range of bowlders and the juniper-clad hills is arbitrarily defined near the Sentinels, the result apparently of opposing currents of water in the post-glacial period. Passing through the gateway made by the crags, a walk of three minutes brought me to the brink of the valley containing the city.

This valley, which seemed to have an area of about eight square miles, was evidently formed by erosion, judging from the huge, ragged masses of feldspathic granite that loom up in nearly every direction, and the planed outline of the surrounding hills. Many of the crags were occupied by large numbers of sparrow-hawks, and their incessant screaming and flitting was the only sign of life present to disturb the droning silence that reigned all around. The landscape visible was quite uninteresting, the only objects in view that could please the eye being confined to a dingle of the mountain mahogany that skirted the base of the rocks. This tree is a pleasant addition to such a scene, as it presents an arboreal appearance, having a port not unlike that of an apple-tree at a distance. It grows in clumps, and averages about thirty feet in height and six inches in diameter. Owing to its great density and hardness, it is known as iron-wood to the mountaineers, who manufacture it extensively into canes, it being unavailable for any other purpose. Its habitat seems to be confined to these arid mountain plains, where no shrub can thrive unless it is very hardy and able to draw subsistence from the most meager soil. Below these groves the artemisia again appeared and covered the ground as far as the eye could see. The scene viewed from my elevated position was wild in the extreme, and produced a feeling of loneliness that was excessively oppressive.

After carefully reconnoitering the ground with a field-glass to see that no savages were idling their time there, I moved across the valley, and

VOL. VII.-24

in half an hour reached the suburbs of the famed city I so earnestly sought. These were composed of several isolated granitoid bowlders, but the only one possessing any importance was Register Rock, a massive crag that rises to an altitude of perhaps one hundred and fifty feet, and has a circumference of about three hundred yards. This is one mass of names, initials, dates of arrival, places of abode, and the physical condition of the pioneers who visited it, up as late as 1870. Every person passing it was evidently determined to make the fact known to the travelers that followed; for even the crevices, which seem impossible for man to penetrate without the aid of a ladder and much labor, are densely covered with cognomens. Many nations and nationalities are represented on this lithological tome, as if the writers wished it to be the perpetuator of their names. Yet New York and Missouri have precedence of all States and countries in numerical representation. The dates commence with the discovery of gold in California in 1849, and extend down to 1870, but none appear later than this year, owing to the completion of the Pacific Railway. Some of the Argonauts specified that they were going for gold to the enchanted land in the distant west, but that they would return when they had collected the glittering store they sought. As the tourist gazes on this silent record, how vividly it portrays to him the character of those who made it! What courage, endurance, and daring it represents, and even what sorrow, for many of those who blithely inscribed their names and hopes on this weather-beaten scroll had left all they held dear in life behind, and many, alas! never returned, as the numerous, lowly roadside graves too readily attest. An effort to recall the shadowy forms of those who passed that way to the foreground of memory developed clouds of faces as dissimilar in character as they possibly could be, yet they were homogeneous in thought, for gold! gold! was the aspiration of all. For that they forsook friends, kindred, family, and risked hope, happiness, and even life. And the result—had they found it? Who knows? One inclined to reverie could muse for many days on the lessons of this silent yet expressive monument; but, amid the oppressive solitude that surrounded him, his general deduction would be that the mania it depicted amounted to little in life after all, and that gold should not be the highest aspiration of man. I have often noticed that when excitement surrounds a person his first thought is action, no matter what the consequences may be; but amid the droning silence of some lonely glen or the awe-inspiring sublimity of a cloud-piercing mountain-peak, the thoughts assume a pessimist character, and the greatest effort of man resolves

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