In this sense Meredith is not only vivid but almost outrageous; and many Meredithian ladies have simpered somewhat sadly over the amount of space devoted to the taste, fulness, flavor and bouquet of Dr. Middleton's wine.

This is where Meredith differs most markedly from the ablest man whom he has left in his own line. Mr. Henry James has all Meredith's power of taking one's breath away with a sort of light, flashing and flying psychology, as of a sage suddenly dowered with wings. He also can stun the reader with one small but unexpected truth. Mr. Henry James has all Meredith's intellectualism and nearly all his intellect. Exactly what he lacks is his materialism. Therefore it comes that he lacks his mysticism also; SO that one could not say of Mr. Henry James that he was a pious Pagan, worthy at any moment to worship Apollo. Meredith is best at gods; Mr. Henry James is best at ghosts. It is no unfairness to him to say that his figures seem to have no faces. Certainly no face that he has ever indicated in English diplomatists or American millionaires will ever be remembered so vividly as that frightful face which was glued to the glass in "The Turn of the Screw," long, leerThe Contemporary Review.

ing, fiendish, not to be forgotten, because it was the face of a ghost. Mr. James is better about ghosts than about gods because of the essential difference between them. A ghost is a disembodied spirit. A god must always be an incarnate spirit. Admirable as are Mr. James's drawing-room dialogues, I always have an uneasy sense that they are dialogues with the dead. Not because they are untrue; rather because they are too true for life: the souls stand naked.

But Meredith made us feel the bodily presence of people as well as their spiritual presence; and even delighted in the very bodily, as in schoolboys. And all this is, I think, ultimately connected with his conception of the universe, vague or pantheist as many may call it. But Meredith was not a pantheist; he was a Pagan. The difference consists in this tremendous fact; that a Pagan always has sacraments, while a pantheist has none. Meredith always sought for special and solid symbols to which to cling; as in that fine poem called, "A Faith on Trial," in which all his agonies are answered, not by a synthesis or a cosmology, but suddenly by a white cherry-branch in bloom.

G. K. Chesterton.

About ten o'clock on the evening of the 11th of August, 1899, the little black whaler Haakon left the hval-station in Sigluefjord, one of the small inlets at the mouth of Eyjafjord, that long, narrow loch leading to Akureyri, the chief "town" on the northern coast of Iceland.

It was near the hour of sunset, and the crisp, sweet air was still. The bare, rugged mountain ranges were bathed in strong, warm purple light;

here and there a snow-patch flushed pink. The sky was clear, save to the westward, where a violet mist overhung the placid sea. Off the mouth of the fjord a fishing-boat lay motionless, her sad-colored twin-lugsails glorified in the beams pouring from just above the northern horizon. Towards the fjord steamed the French cruiser Le Lavoisier, on fishery service, her farprojecting ram cutting cleanly through the water, her white funnels gleaming,

and their smoke stretching in brown, unbroken trails for miles behind in the windless atmosphere. No other craft was visible on the vast expanse of ocean.

About the shores, which the Haakon was leaving at ten knots an hour, were dotted dwellings, some with narrow, peaked gables built of wood and painted in gay colors-gaudy greens. crude reds, and bright blues predominating. Many of these decorations had a fresh look, for in the last winter many of the homes had been wrecked by a blizzard from the Arctic, and now the upper floors were practically new. On the rough ground beside the houses men and women were busy haymaking. The Icelanders have a brief summer, and they must make the most of it. Few summer hours are too dark for haymaking, and the lengthy twilights and dawns as well as the long days of July and August find the dwarf scythe and rake at work.

For the Icelanders it had been a summer of plenty, so far as "plenty" is understood in Iceland; but for the Norwegians who owned the whaling station in Sigluefjord, and for the owners of the stations in other northern fjords, the season had been lean indeed. Never had the great blaahval and his lesser cousin, the finhval, been so scarce; never had disgusted gunners taken so many slender sejhvals, in desperate endeavors to keep the blubbertanks boiling and the factory hands employed. For the gunner, who is skipper, and all the crew of a whaler earn a certain bounty on each whale captured, and a blaahval means many kroner, but a sejhval few.

"I do not understand it at all," Kaptein Schroeder remarked to the mate who was steering the Haakon. "I do not understand it at all, Thorstein. In twelve years I have seen nothing like it."

The mate, a huge Icelander, with

shaggy, grizzled hair and beard and melancholy blue eyes, offered no response; and the captain, who was used to his fits of silence, continued: "The manager has told me to-day that the hunting must close next week unless we get more whales. And last year we were getting good luck till the first week of September. I do not understand it at all. I remember when I came first to Island I killed many a blaa and many a finhval a few miles from the station. I killed a blaa that gave one hundred and sixty barrels not three miles from the mouth of the fjord. Since then the whales have been going farther and farther away, but we have always found them somewhere. Yet last week we went four hundred miles along the Greenland ice, and saw never a blaa and but one fin. And we have sought everywhere for them. I tell you, I do not understand it at all. It has been a bad season for us, and the company will pay no dividend."

Styrmand Thorstein, steadying the wheel with his knees, produced a small snuff-flask of horn mounted with silver, and applied it to his nostrils. "Ja," he said presently, "it has been a bad season; but I knew it would be a bad season, kaptein. I told you so in May. Be thankful it has not been worse."

"Worse!" Kaptein Schroeder laughed shortly. "It could not have been worse."

The mate shrugged his shoulders and gave the wheel a half-turn.

"I say it could not have been worse," the other repeated.

Thorstein stared gloomily ahead. "Death is worse than life," he said slowly. "There have been no dead men on the Haakon," he added under his breath; and aloud, "Be thankful."

"Ach, you dreamer!" said the captain good-humoredly. "You have

been dreaming again! Why do you never have good dreams?"

"A bad dream is a good dream if one takes warning from it, kaptein. To-day I had a dream which was a warning."

"I

"You were sleeping on shore to-day," Schroeder remarked with a smile. have noticed that your bad dreams come to you when you sleep on shore, Thorstein. Your wife gives you too good meals."

The mate ignored this little pleasantry.

"It was a bad dream," he said reflectively. "We go to the ice to-night, kaptein?" he asked after a pause.

"Ja. North to the ice, and then west."

"That is well. In my dreams we went east, and not to the ice."

"Dreams go by contraries," said Schroeder, lighting his pipe.

Thorstein paid no attention to the observation.

"In my dream I saw Kap Langanaes, a great knölhval, and the Haakon. And I heard the sound of hearts weepingthe sound that one hears only in dreams. I say it is well that we go west, Kaptein Schroeder."

"That shows what nonsense your dream was, my good Thorstein. But

I should be glad to strike a great knölhval now. It is strange that all the season we have not struck one, not even a small one."

"That is also well," said the other solemnly. "It is bad to kill the knölhval that is man's good friend. My great-grandfather”

The skipper rose from the seat in the corner of the steering-box, and took the wheel from the styrmand's hands. He had heard about Thorstein's greatgrandfather before. "You had better turn in now, Thorstein. Go and dream a good, merry dream for a change." The Icelander stepped aside from the wheel, but did not leave the steering

box. "When my great-grandfather, with his brother, was fishing sharks off Gjögr one day in the year 1784, his boat was surrounded by the little, fierce, toothed whales; and they were going to attack the boat and devour my great-grandfather and his brother"

"Yes," said the Norwegian impatiently. "And then a knölhval came and beat and frightened the little, fierce whales, and kept them off till great-grandfather was safe ashore. It is a very good story, my friend, a very good story! But I have heard other stories-of knölhvals being eaten up by little, fierce whales."

your

"Such stories may also be true," said the mate quietly. "But my story is as my grandfather told it to me, and it is the truth. And there are others in Island who will tell you that the knöl is the good friend of man. Yes; and once, when I was at Isafjord, I met a traveller-a learned doctor-and he told me that himself had read of the very thing I tell you in a book written by a Franskmand a hundred years ago. So I say it is bad to kill the knöl, kaptein."

Schroeder laughed and patted the man's shoulder soothingly. "Yet you have helped to kill many a knöl in your time, Thorstein."

"I have obeyed orders. But it makes me feel sick to see a knöl harpooned. Often he is so tame and friendly, and he comes so close to the steamer that is waiting to give him his death. And when the knöl is a mother, playing with her young one, it is Ah, I will turn in." He left the steeringbox abruptly.

"Sov vel!" the captain called after him. "Dream of a blaahval this timea great fat bull blaahval-and where it is to be found."

But Thorstein shook his head and went slowly aft.

The sun had gone, and now the bare

hills looked brown and cold, and shadows deepened upon them. But the twilight would linger to meet the dawn. The French cruiser, entering the fjord at half-speed-for the channel requires cautious navigation-would pass the Haakon at close quarters. Kaptein Schroeder steered his little steamer to bring her within easy hailing distance of the big one. Le Lavoisier had come from the eastern coast, and perhaps she might have news of the whaling there. Schroeder, who had more than once taken the chief officer on a short hunting-cruise, now descried him waving his hand on the high bridge. Schroeder spoke into the tube on his right, and presently the engines stopped, and the Haakon glided onward, slower and slower, till she came to rest almost in the course of the cruiser. As the very prominent ram drew level with the whaler the Frenchman, leaning over the bridge, shouted in broken Norsk, "Off Langanaes-at noon to-day-whales-Nordkapers."

Kaptein Schroeder jumped. "Nordkapers!" he yelled. "Er De vis paa det?"

He

The Frenchman was positive. had made some study of whales, and knew a Nordkaper, the cousin of the ""right whale," when he saw one. "Jeg er vis paa det!" he called; adding, "Bon voyage!" as the cruiser slid onward.

Schroeder waved his fur cap and bawled his thanks. "Tusinde tak! Farvel!" The next instant his mouth was at the speaking-tube giving the order, "Full speed ahead!" and other instructions.

As the little Haakon got into her twelve-knot stride her bow swung round to the nor'-east and remained pointing in that direction.

hearty slap on the shoulder and burst out laughing.

"Kaptein!" said Thorstein again.

"What now, dreamer? Ah! you heard what the Franskmand said. It was good, eh-very good? In the morning we strike a Nordkaper! Think of it! A Nordkaper after all those weeks of nothing but little sejhvals! Perhaps we take two-and a Nordkaper has not been brought to the station for years." Once more he smote the mate's shoulder and laughed loudly.

Thorstein shook his head. "I have heard tell of Nordkapers at Langanaes," he said slowly, "but I do not believe that the Franksmand saw Nordkapers to-day. He saw knölhvals. Will you not go to the ice, kaptein, and maybe we shall get a blaahval?"

Schroeder emitted an impatient clicking sound and looked up at the compass.

"Even if the Franksmand saw Nordkapers to-day, they will be away now. It is a hundred and thirty miles to Langanaes. We cannot sight it for ten hours. Kaptein," the Icelander continued solemnly, "in my dream I heard the sound of hearts weeping. Off Langanaes there is bad luck for us. I pray you"

"Hold op!" Kaptein Schroeder was angry. "Have done with this nonsense! It is my wish that we go to Langanaes, and if I find no Nordkapers and only one knöl, I kill him all the same. I tell you, Thorstein, I will kill him! I have my company to think of, also myself and my men. Do you want the men to laugh at you? Then tell them the foolishness you have told me. You Icelanders, you have too much time for dreaming in the winter. You should leave it in the summer. And what is a dream?" His voice became less harsh. "Many a dream have I dreamed, and never aught has happened. A dream is but a warm breath

on a cold glass-a nothing. Think no more of your silly dream, Thorstein."

The styrmand hung his head and plucked softly at his grizzled beard. "When it is well with you, kaptein, it is well with me," he said at last very quietly. Then, as if rousing himself, "I will sleep now."

Kaptein Schroeder nodded kindly. "After all," he remarked, "it is very likely that we shall get nothing but sejhvals. Send Sigurd to the wheel. At midnight you will take charge."

Thorstein seemed to be about to speak, but turned away without doing 60. When the seaman Sigurd had taken the wheel, the captain once more seated himself in the corner of the steering-box, puffing thoughtfully at his pipe, and glancing about him for weather-signs.

It promised to be a fine night. There was scarcely a ripple on the water; the evening breeze was of the faintest. Astern the mountains rose clear and cold in the twilight that was still too strong to allow the stars to be visible. Overhead, the sky was pale blue and cloudless; but above the northern horizon hung island-like masses of brilliant, burning orange. There was no sound save the regular thud of the engines and the rhythmic wash of the bow-waves.

Kaptein Schroeder exhaled a long stream of smoke and drew a big breath of the keen air in a manner betokening satisfaction. He was a comparatively young man and of sanguine temperament, but until to-night the poorness of the whaling had been depressing him. Now the bare possibility of securing a Nordkaper, whose baleen was of considerable value as well as its blubber, acted on him like a stimulant. He ignored the fact that at the fag-end of the hunting-season it would require an unprecedented run of luck in the shape of blue-whales and Nordkapers to make up for the leanness of the last

three months. In the meantime it was pleasant to indulge in anticipations of killing a Nordkaper on the morrow, and as he thought of it he softly hummed a Norsk folk-song.

He bore Thorstein no ill-will. Many a time he had resented the styrmand's gloomy forebodings, but his resentment had never been of long duration. Thorstein was a good mate and trustworthy, though his moody nature had cost him his post on half a score of whalers ere he shipped on the Haakon under good-natured Kaptein Schroeder. He had been mate of the Haakon for seven seasons; whereas a single season had exhausted the patience of each of his previous skippers. Perhaps the length of his service on the Haakon surprised no one more than himself, he had been so used to changes in the past. For an Icelander he was well off. Few of his neighbors in Sigluefjord touched money once in the year; they bartered their stockfish for other necessities. But Thorstein and his wife possessed a little box of beaten brass, an ancient thing, a treasure of his ancestors for more generations than he could tell; and in it were many Danish and Norwegian five-kroner notes, a little gold, and some silver. They possessed, also, a son who was a poetand a cripple. They believed he was

a great poet, both in the Icelandic tongue and the Danish. The cripple's chief desire was to see the capitals of his own country and Denmark. And at the close of each whaling-season Thorstein and his wife counted up the money in the brass box, and smiled and sighed, and sighed and smiled.

"Reykjavik," she would murmur. "Kjöbenhavn," he would answer. And then they would bid the young man be of good hope.

For six springs Kaptein Schroeder had brought from Christiania a parcel of books for Thorstein's son, who frankly loved him. Thorstein himself