beach, a wild, happy child, finding all sorts of sea-treasures; and this morning, too, the sea had gifts for me—'the waters' were not all gone! I felt so glad that we had come to Oatland. I also at this period of my meditations felt a large avalanche of sand pouring over me. The volcano proved to be Fanny, who after 'unheard of sufferings and detentions, had succeeded in procuring a second relay of water, towels and breakfast'- - and beauty, too, I said to myself as I feasted my eyes on her loveliness, in her light blue cashmere morning-dress, the shade of blue which harmonized with the soft rose-color of her cheeks; her eyes and hair of that refined shade of brown which should frame a face like my friend's. Oh! I was glad that I come to Oatland with Fanny. I should have been quite as glad at that moment if we had had lodgings in the desert of Sahara, (I am not going to ask what we should have had for lunch at that place,) for I saw nothing but Fanny, Fanny every where, and was intoxicated with Fannya Fannytic!

-

We spread our camp-shawls on the beach, and sat there dreaming and talking; 'imbibing' the delicious sun-shine, sea-perfume, and above all, the sense of freedom, which was more exquisite to us than all the rest. But Abby Jane's gong and an unromantic longing for dinner at last 'broke up our meeting.'

At the dinner-table we encountered seven other spirits, (I trust they were not worse than ourselves!) and I passed my time (for I could not talk to Fanny before strangers) in conjecturing which spirit objected to hearing Browning read at the mid-night hour by a female lying across the door-sill. But I could not decide. They all looked as if they might object to it, and as though any one of the seven might have been the unhappy occupant of the opposite chamber. Yet there were two spirits, and only two, toward whom I felt an 'electric affinity.' They declined cabbage, and objected to the insipid fact that the entire desert was flavored à la rose -ice, cake and custards. I only wondered that the chowder escaped. I felt inclined to follow the example of jolly Sydney Smith, who at some dinner-party heard the young and very silent girl by his side say, 'No gravy, thank you,' and Smith thereupon begged to shake hands with her, saying she was the first person he had ever met who, like himself, 'never took gravy.' Mentally I shook hands with both these ladies. I could have kissed them too, they were so unlike the other 'foreigners' at the table. I felt certain it was not one of these that Fanny must challenge. They hated cabbage, and I was certain they liked Browning. These 'exceptional' persons sat together at the further end of the table, and as I sat at the foot of the table, and they at the head, they were charming objects in the landscape. Indeed my vis-à-vis, the one of the two friends in the black robes the deepest mourning which yet told not half the endless sorrow -the 'bootless bene' which her face expressed,* was grace itself. I believe she was beautiful, but her grace of person, manners and mind was what

เ

always, from first to last, gave me such pure delight. And her subdued and sad expression had yet a sweetness and patience mingled with it, which seemed to say that the ENDLESS SORROW was endless only for this world. Her companion was her companion. Lady was proclaimed in her voice, directly I heard it, though she only said: 'Shall I send you some chowder?' If I had hated chowder as the 'Woman in White' hated Browning on the previous night, I should have taken it when she asked me with such a voice. Of the other parties' at our table I did not take note. They had, I noticed, no particular deformity, but possessed the ordinary complement of eyes and ears; a nose was not wanting, that I observed, and there was no doubt as to the mouths. Some of these good souls, alas! took note of me, the parvus Iulus,* they would n't 'let me alone.' No good fairy, as we had hoped, gave us an invisible cap, to wear at the 'hour of meals,' the only hour when we came in contact with the crowd.

เ

The second day, as the unsuspecting Fanny had wandered foolishly into the 'sitting-room' without her 'familiar' by her side, a dreadful female from the 'Far West' instantly cornered her. Fanny, like the poor starling, cried aloud to me: I can't get out! I can't get out!' But I was at that moment lying full length on the piazza reading 'a Lost Love,' and already wondering where I had left my handkerchief, and I did not hear my friend's cry for help. So the Western lady opened her catechism :

'Can you tell me the name of number of her house?

[her dress-maker,] name of street, and

HAS she a father, has she a mother,
Has she a sister, has she a brother:

Is there a nearer one still, and
A dearer one yet than all other?'

Fanny, more ingenious than ingenuous, gave the following apt replies: 'All her dresses are made in Heaven. She has no relatives, excepting a greatgreat-grandmother, and one sister living in Russia, with whom my friend passes her winters, as she is inclined to lung complaints; she comes to Oatland in summer to get a little fresh air. She is engaged to the King of the Cannibal Islands, which is considered by her friends to be 'a fine match.' The Western lady, after this astounding intelligence, loved Fanny! so much that she left for Illinois shortly after the conversation. In less than a week (to our satisfaction) the Hotel Jenkins was deserted by all the foreigners, and only entertained, beside ourselves, the two lady friends, toward whom each day we felt ourselves drawn by a more irresistible attraction. And yet we made the frightful discovery that one of these women we loved was the 'Woman in White!'

She confided to me one day her conviction that the noon-day was superior to the mid-night hour for appreciating the beauties of Browning, which sometimes strike me as slightly obscure, and as requiring a good deal of day-light. We were careful not to annoy her again, and indeed we always felt a remorse for that first night, after knowing how much she suffered, and with what sweet

* Parva Iulia you mean. - SLOPER.

ness and unselfishness she bore her suffering. But, indeed, we needed no Browning, or any other man,' in the remaining three weeks, which were in themselves poems full of beauty. No more musquitoes, for very strangely 'they lived and loved' us for only one night, and we never heard from them again; and we did not advertise, not being interested in their fate. I have mentioned that we found no need of books, after that first awful night. 'Who can read at the sea-shore?' The waves are ever chanting unwritten poems; and when in the hot mid-day we all went to the beautiful cathedral woods to sit under the tall pines, what could 'men and women' say that we cared to hear? When each tuft of moss, each dancing sun-beam, each bird-note, each sight and sound gave strange rest to the tired heart, gave food to the hungry brain, gave thoughts which no poet could give; and gave, if you remained till after sun-set, lying on the soft green and red carpet, with which the family of pines always furnish their drawing-room, a very bad face-ache for the entire night, as two foolish virgins can testify.

Ah! Fanny, that wild, free wood-life! its beauty is even now a joy to me here in the city, where I am 'walled in' for my sins. Oh! those solemn pines in those ravishing noon-days. How they breathed over us their sensuous and fascinating perfume! What could we do but live-'feel life in every limb;' a mind or soul more or less! What mattered it? A body was all we wanted! not a Mantalini one, but a dem'd pleasant one.

'I am so glad,' said Franciska, as we were lying there one day, with no ' useful employment,' 'I am so glad I am not dead!'

I was 'ratherish' glad, too; for what could I take in exchange for Fanny? I would give-my life to be with her. And if she were dead, all the beauty of this beautiful world would be as sack-cloth and ashes to my sight; and Nature would refuse to comfort me- - Giulia !

But I must tell you about our afternoon drives. We will not talk any more about that dreadful 'white horse' and its grim rider, but discourse of the 'Jenkins' mare,' which Père Jenkins allowed us to whip and abuse any and every afternoon, for as many consecutive hours as we chose to be away; and we got much horse for very little money. The Jenkins family will never grow rich —‘though Yankees, they do not impose' upon you; and they are constantly heaping favors on you, 'only for love,' and are insulted if you refer to the usual mode of cancelling favors between landlord and guest. Fanny always drove the horse; and every pleasant day, [and I think they were all pleasant days at Oatland,] soon after the early dinner, we used to clamber into the palsied old wagon, much to the chagrin of the dear Mère Jenkins, who thought it 'dreadful queer' we did not prefer the smart, new buggy. 'You need n't be a bit afeard of hurting of it,' she would say, and we could not convince her that the open, not-to-be-injured old stager was our peculiar delight We could drive in a 'smart, covered buggy' in Boston; we wanted to get all the free air we could before we went back to that highly respectable village. Ah! what drives we had, going wherever we, the fancy or the horse led us! sometimes they would be drives into the real country, at others we would follow the sea for miles and miles,

Fanny, do you not yet feel the sea-breeze which came to meet us on 'Bacon Beach'? What were the wild waves saying' that afternoon? They said much to you I think; for in the twilight, as we drove slowly home, you talked-so that I could do naught but listen. I thought then- 'I would ride, ride -- forever ride!' if you would forever talk; if the sun-light would never quite fade away, and if— and if— and if

'O mocht' ich schweben, stolz und froh

Mit Dir, durch's ganze Leben so!'

But you ceased talking, and then I noticed how dark and chill it had become, and I felt as if only a ghost was by my side. It was our 'last ride' together; the next morning you went away, and took, as servant-girls do sometimes when 'they leave,' all the gold and silver with you!

That night, as we went to our rooms, at near the mid-night hour, we stood together at the open window and looked out on the flood of glory poured over the earth and sea. Why go to bed? we could do that any time. 'Night,' Fanny said, 'was not made for sleep.' She had read it somewhere in the Bible, and it must be true; it was made expressly for us to put on waterproofs and to descend softly the stairs so as not to awaken our two dear, gentle ladies; then to quietly turn the key of the front-door. O bother! Fanny has let it fall on the floor. No one stirs as yet, and the snoring of the Jenkins' couple in their chaste slumbers sounds to our guilty ears as sweetest music. Here we are on the piazza — hurrah! hurrah! The door is closed and locked, and we skurry away, down the long lane, across the broad fields, through the gate-way, by the little black cottage, where the witch lives who wrings out our bathing-dresses, and thereby accumulates a vast fortune by the end of the season. The witch does not appear. But who cares for witches? On such a night of such bewildering beauty, one feels all soul, and all the little paltry passions of day-light dwindle away. 'Fear?' We feared nothing that night ' in heaven above, or in the earth beneath, or in the waters under the earth!' We went nearer and nearer toward that fascinating monster the Ocean, whose awful dazzling beauty that night I shall never forget, though I pass countless ages in each planet of the solar system, and where I hope to see beauty that I never as yet have imagined; but that night is a part of myself now, and it can never pass away. 'Fanny,' I said at last, after we had been sitting very silent for some time, ‘Fanny, do you not feel like having one last plunge together? We have had our last drive, now for our last bath. Hear what the ocean is saying: 'Can you visit me? Come to my arms, and you shall forget all the hurts earth has given you.'' And just then a magnificent wave pursued us, and kissing our feet, slowly retired as though half-appeased.

'If he asks us again,' said Fanny, 'we will go to him. Come up further; if he cares for us, he can take the trouble to come again and kiss my hand.'

And now a glorious fellow made his appearance, so far off he seemed 'out at sea; but on he came, growing larger and larger, and gleaming in the moonlight. We saw his silver shield.' At last he sprang upon us and kissed Fanny's hand, and she said, for the first time: 'Yes, I will go. But permit me, Sir, to doff my dress.'

'Take my hand, Fanny. One, two, three, and away. Ah! again and once more! And is it, after all, worth the while to go back to earth? We must very soon, at the longest, shuffle off our silk dresses and coils of hair 'for good and all.'

'Why not to-night? your bill is paid, Fanny. You can leave in 'an honorable manner;' and my watch, new silk-dress and other 'effects' will settle up my little accounts in this world all 'fair and square.' And as for the other account, O Fanny! the good God is not as hard a creditor as the creature He has made. He will not demand from us the uttermost farthing, as the saints on earth do.'

But 'Fanny and I' concluded we would 'stop a spell,' and see what would 'happen' next week. And from being Naiads, we rubbed vigorously with the towels until we were Dry-ads, and went, like other Christians, very early to bed. Alas! at an early hour the next morning the fearful Cyclops made his appearance and took my Fanny from me.

'Oh! reservoir'

proceeding close the lid

goes

click!

I think the sun did not shine after Fanny went away. I could never find our lovely drives again. The waves only moaned when I walked on the beach; they would not tell me stories or chant me lullabies. The pines only sighed when I went to the woods; they would not make love to me, and indeed pretended never to have met me before. No one paid me the slightest attention, excepting an old cow, who expressed her willingness to do me some personal injury unless I left. So I came out of the woods. And I said one morning: -to the ocean. I paid my bill - an unromantic but honorable tossed' my draperies into my trunk — could n't lock it, could n't stuff them in, and then jump on the top of the trunk. There it I take a last look into drawers and closet, though 'perfectly sure I have not left a single article.' I discover one flannel morning-dress, which I had promised to leave, 'at my death,' to Fanny; three pairs' choice' under-sleeves; one 'lovely' skirt; sundry boxes left in the bureau-drawers. Collecting these forgotten ones, I by some miracle coax the trunk to receive them by 'particular request' of its proprietor. Another tremendous cramming and stuffing, another war-dance performed, and again— click! Trunk and self stand on the piazza, ready to be driven by the gallant Jenkins to the station. He himself requested that honor, and I jumped at his offer and into his wagon. All is ready; both trunks are aboard. The vast proportions of the beloved Mère Jenkins rise and fall with her conflicting emotions, intense satisfaction in my parting-gift, a very ugly knitted shawl, and real sorrow that so 'excellent a young woman' was about to leave, perhaps never more to return.

'Naöw, deu come down and stop a spell with us in the winter. Somehow, you seem like one of my own! I kinder hate to lose sight of ye.'

'One of her own.' Did I indeed bear a resemblance to Abby Jane? I could not flatter myself that I did. She was as sweet and fresh as a rose-bud not yet fully opened. Ah! me, there was the rub. You could not avoid shuddering at the thought that when she was fully opened, she would have a