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walked up a street fairly wide, and so well paved that we noticed none of the weeds and other growths which generally denote desertion or little use. By the bright light of the moon we could see that the architecture was simple, and of a character highly gratifying to the eye. All the buildings were of stone and of good size. We were greatly excited and interested, and proposed to continue our walks until the moon should set, and to return on the following morning" to live here, perhaps," said Bentley. "What could be so romantic and yet so real? What could conduce better to the marriage of verse and philosophy?" But as he said this we saw around the corner of a cross-street some forms as of people hurrying away.

"The specters," said my companion, laying his hand on my arm.

"Vagrants, more likely," I answered, "who have taken advantage of the superstition of the region to appropriate this comfort and beauty to themselves."

"If that be so," said Bentley, "we must have a care for our lives."

We proceeded cautiously, and soon saw other forms fleeing before us and disappearing, as we supposed, around corners and into houses. And now suddenly finding ourselves upon the edge of a wide, open public square, we saw in the dim light- for a tall steeple obscured the moon-the forms of vehicles, horses, and men moving here and there. But before, in our astonishment, we could say a word one to the other, the moon moved past the steeple, and in its bright light we could see none of the signs of life and traffic which had just astonished us.

Timidly, with hearts beating fast, but with not one thought of turning back, nor any fear of vagrants,― for we were now sure that what we had seen was not flesh and blood, and therefore harmless,—we crossed the open space and entered a street down which the moon shone clearly. Here and there we saw dim figures, which quickly disappeared; but, approaching a low stone balcony in front of one of the houses, we were surprised to see, sitting thereon and leaning over a book which lay open upon the top of the carved parapet, the figure of a woman who did not appear to notice us. "That is a real person," whispered Bentley, "and it does not see us."

"No," I replied; "it is like the others. Let us go near it."

We drew near to the balcony and stood before it. At this the figure raised its head and looked at us. It was beautiful, it was young; but its substance seemed to be of an ethereal quality which we had never seen or known of. With its full, soft eyes fixed upon us, it spoke:

"Why are you here?" it asked. "I have said to myself that the next time I saw any of you I would ask you why you come to trouble us. Cannot you live content in your own realms and spheres, knowing, as you must know, how timid we are, and how you frighten us and make us unhappy? In all this city there is, I believe, not one of us except myself who does not flee and hide from you whenever you cruelly come here. Even I would do that, had not I declared to myself that I would see you and speak to you, and endeavor to prevail upon you to leave us in peace."

The clear, frank tones of the speaker gave me courage. "We are two men," I answered, "strangers in this region, and living for the time in the beautiful country on the other side of the river. Having heard of this quiet city, we have come to see it for ourselves. We had supposed it to be uninhabited, but now that we find that this is not the case, we would assure you from our hearts that we do not wish to disturb or annoy any one who lives here. We simply came as honest travelers to view the city."

The figure now seated herself again, and as her countenance was nearer to us, we could see that it was filled with pensive thought. For a moment she looked at us without speaking. "Men!" she said. "And so I have been right. For a long time I have believed that the beings who sometimes come here, filling us with dread and awe, are men."

"And you," I exclaimed "who are you, and who are these forms that we have seen, these strange inhabitants of this city?"

She gently smiled as she answered: "We are the ghosts of the future. We are the people who are to live in this city generations hence. But all of us do not know that, principally because we do not think about it and study about it enough to know it. And it is generally believed that the men and women who sometimes come here are ghosts who haunt the place."

"And that is why you are terrified and flee from us?" I exclaimed. "You think we are ghosts from another world?"

"Yes," she replied; "that is what is thought, and what I used to think."

"And you," I asked, "are spirits of human beings yet to be?"

"Yes," she answered; "but not for a long time. Generations of men, I know not how many, must pass away before we are men and women."

"Heavens!" exclaimed Bentley, clasping his hands and raising his eyes to the sky, "I shall be a spirit before you are a woman."

"Perhaps," she said again, with a sweet smile upon her face, "you may live to be very, very old."

But Bentley shook his head. This did not

THE PHILOSOPHY OF RELATIVE EXISTENCES.

BY FRANK R. STOCKTON.

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Na certain summer, not long gone, my friend Bentley and I found ourselves in a little hamlet which overlooked a placid valley, through which a river gently moved, winding its way through green stretches until it turned the end of a line of low hills and was lost to view. Beyond this river, far away, but visible from the door of the cottage where we dwelt, there lay a city. Through the mists which floated over the valley we could see the outlines of steeples and tall roofs; and buildings of a character which indicated thrift and business stretched themselves down to the opposite edge of the river. The more distant parts of the city, evidently a small one, lost themselves in the hazy summer atmosphere.

Bentley was young, fair-haired, and a poet; I was a philosopher, or trying to be one. We were good friends, and had come down into this peaceful region to work together. Although we had fled from the bustle and distractions of the town, the appearance in this rural region of a city, which, so far as we could observe, exerted no influence on the quiet character of the valley in which it lay, aroused our interest. No craft plied up and down the river; there were no bridges from shore to shore; there were none of those scattered and half-squalid habitations which generally are found on the outskirts of a city; there came to us no distant sound of bells; and not the smallest wreath of smoke rose from any of the buildings.

and he had not a cent left. During all that the place was building hundreds o came to him to buy houses or to hire t he would not listen to anything of the one must live in his town until it was Even his workmen were obliged to night to lodge. It is a town, sirs, in which nobody has slept for ev There are streets there, and places and churches, and public halls, an that a town full of inhabitants co it is all empty and deserted, an as far back as I can remember, this region when I was a little!

"And is there no one to gua we asked; "no one to protect ing vagrants who might cho session of the buildings?"

"There are not many va of the country," he said; they would not go over haunted."

"By what?" we aske "Well, sirs, I scarcely beings that are not fles is all I know about it living hereabouts hav in their lives, but I 1 gone there a second

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In answer to our inquiries our landlord told us that the city over the river had been built by one man, who was a visionary, and who had a great deal more money than common sense. "It is not as big a town as you would think, sirs," he said, "because the general mistiness of things in this valley makes them look larger than they are. Those hills, for instance, when you get to them are not as high as they look to be from here. But the town is big enough, in and a good deal too big; for it ruined its builder and owner, who when he came to die had money enough left to put up a decen

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"If that be so," said Bentley, Emm a care for our lives."

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Timidly, with hearts beating not one thought of turning had of vagrants, for we were now we had seem was not flesh therefore harmless-we cros and entered a street down shone clearly. Here and 6 figures, which quickly di proaching a low stone bale of the houses, we were therean and leaning overa upon the top of the caned cf a woman who did sut an

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"But how is it," I asked, "that you discovered that you are spirits and we mortal men ?" "There are so few of us who think of such things," she answered, "so few who study, ponder, and reflect. I am fond of study, and I love philosophy; and from the reading of many books I have learned much. From the book which I have here I have learned most; and from its teachings I have gradually come to the belief, which you tell me is the true one, that we are spirits and you men.”

"And what book is that?" I asked. "It is "The Philosophy of Relative Existences,' by Rupert Vance."

"Ye gods!" I exclaimed, springing upon the balcony, "that is my book, and I am Rupert Vance.' I stepped toward the volume to seize it, but she raised her hand.

"You cannot touch it," she said. "It is the ghost of a book. And did you write it?" "Write it? No," I said; "I am writing it. It is not yet finished."

"But here it is," she said, turning over the last pages. "As a spirit book it is finished. It is very successful; it is held in high estimation by intelligent thinkers; it is a standard work." I stood trembling with emotion. "High estimation!" I said. "A standard work!" "Oh, yes," she replied with animation; "and it well deserves its great success, especially in its conclusion. I have read it twice."

"But let me see these concluding pages," I exclaimed. "Let me look upon what I am to write."

She smiled, and shook her head, and closed the book. "I would like to do that," she said, "but if you are really a man you must not know what you are going to do."

"Oh, tell me, tell me." cried Bentley from

below, "do you know a book called 'Stellar Studies,' by Arthur Bentley? It is a book of poems."

The figure gazed at him. "No," it said presently; "I never heard of it."

I stood trembling. Had the youthful figure before me been flesh and blood, had the book been a real one, I would have torn it from her.

"O wise and lovely being!" I exclaimed, falling on my knees before her, "be also benign and generous. Let me but see the last page of my book. If I have been of benefit to your world; more than all, if I have been of benefit to you, let me see, I implore you—let me see how it is that I have done it."

She rose with the book in her hand. "You have only to wait until you have done it," she said, "and then you will know all that you could see here." I started to my feet, and stood alone upon the balcony.

"I AM Sorry," said Bentley, as we walked toward the pier where we had left our boat, "that we talked only to that ghost girl, and that the other spirits were all afraid of us. Persons whose souls are choked up with philosophy are not apt to care much for poetry; and even if my book is to be widely known, it is easy to see that she may not have heard of it."

I walked triumphant. The moon, almost touching the horizon, beamed like red gold. "My dear friend," said I, " I have always told you that you should put more philosophy into your poetry. That would make it live."

"And I have always told you," said he, "that you should not put so much poetry into your philosophy. It misleads people."

"It did n't mislead that ghost girl," said I. "How do you know?" said he. "Perhaps she is wrong, and the other inhabitants of the city are right, and we may be the ghosts after all. Such things, you know, are only relative. Anyway," he continued, after a little pause, “I wish I knew that those ghosts were now reading the poem I am going to begin to-morrow." Frank R. Stockton.

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BEACHED.

According to a superstitious observance among certain fisher-folk, the recovered boat of a drowned fisherman has ended its sphere of usefulness, and is beached, with curses and solemn imprecations by the assembled neighbors. A reference to the custom is made in "A Daughter of Fife," by Amelia E. Barr.

HEY have left her all alone, with her keel turned to the sun;
They have left her, with a curse, for the deed that she has done.
Only sunbeams lave her sides, as they float out to the west;
Only sand-drifts kiss the bow, where the sparkling wave has
pressed.

Even little children pause and grow silent, with great eyes,
To point their rosy hands in awe upon her where she lies.

The laden boats go by, with their snowy sails outspread;
The merry laughter echoes on the shore beside the dead;

Not a thought from those who prized her, that she knew well, face to face;
Not a glance upon the sea-starved one, so lonely in disgrace.

They have left her all alone, with her keel turned to the sun;
They have left her, with a curse, for the deed that she has done.

Throughout the long night, waves sob the tale unto the tide;
And she writhes in her anguish, and she moans in her pride.

And her strong heart-timbers shrink through the quivering summer day,
And the thirsty beams cry out for one touch of salty spray.

They have left her all alone, with her keel turned to the sun;
They have left her, with a curse, for the deed that she has done.

Oh, the pity in the fisher's hut, where lights burn dim and low!
Oh, the great nets idly drying, as the swift tides come and go!

Oh, the empty platters waiting, when the oaken board is spread!
Oh, the rude hearts broken, breaking, with the breaking of the bread!

Back she came, with ragged mainsail, plowing through a veil of foam,
Like a frightened steed a-quiver, pressing for the gates of home;

In the roar and in the tempest, she had weathered through the gale,
But her humble sun-browned lovers came not back beneath her sail.

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They have left her all alone, with her keel turned to the sun;
They have left her, with a curse, for the deed that she has done.

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