Classic Audiobook Collection - The Hill of Dreams by Arthur Machen ~ Full Audiobook [horror]

Episode Date: October 26, 2022

The Hill of Dreams by Arthur Machen audiobook. Genre: horror The novel recounts the life of a young man, Lucian Taylor, focusing on his dreamy childhood in rural Wales, in a town based on Caerleon. The Hill of Dreams of the title is an old Roman fort where Lucian has strange sensual visions, including ones of the town in the time of Roman Britain. Later it describes Lucian's attempts to make a living as an author in London, enduring poverty and suffering in the pursuit of art. Generally thought to be Machen's greatest work, it was little noticed on its publication in 1907 save in a glowing review by Alfred Douglas. It was actually written between 1895 and 1897 and has elements of the style of the decadent and aesthetic movement of the period, seen through Machen's own mystical preoccupations. For ad-free listening try our premium subscription Chapters (Approximate) (00:00:00) Chapter 1 (01:04:07) Chapter 2 (01:55:58) Chapter 3 (02:56:38) Chapter 4 (03:49:16) Chapter 5 (04:39:42) Chapter 6 (05:42:31) Chapter 7 (06:36:02) Chapter 8 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

The Hill of Dreams Chapter 1 There was a glow in the sky as if great furnace doors were opened. But all the afternoon his eyes had looked on glamour. He had strayed in fairyland. The holidays were nearly done, and Lucy and Taylor had gone out resolved to lose himself, to discover strange hills and prospects that he had never seen before.

The air was still, breathless, exhausted after his. heavy rain, and the clouds looked as if they had been molded of lead. No breeze blew upon the hill, and down in the well of the valley not a dry leaf stirred, not a bow shook in all the dark January woods. About a mile from the rectory he had diverged from the main road by an opening that promised mystery and adventure. It was an old neglected lane, little more than a ditch, worn ten feet deep by its winter waters, and shadowed by great untrimmed hedges, densely woven together. On each side were turbid streams, and here and there a torrent of water gushed down the banks, flooding the lane. It was so deep and dark that he could not

get a glimpse of the country through which he was passing, but the way went down and down to some unconjectured hollow. Perhaps he walked two miles between the high walls of the lane before its descent ceased, but he thrilled with the sense of having journeyed very far, all the way from the known to the unknown. He had come, as it were, into the bottom of a bowl amongst the hills, and black wood shut out the world. From the road behind him, from the road before him, from the unseen wells beneath the trees, rivulets of waters swelled and streamed down towards the center, to the brook that crossed the lane. Amid the dead and wearied silence of the air, beneath leaden and motionless clouds,

it was strange to hear such a tumult of gurgling and rushing water, and he stood for a while on the quivering footbridge, and watched the rush of dead wood and torn branches and wisps of straw all hurrying madly past him, to plunge into the heaped spume, the barmy froth that had gathered against a fallen tree. Then he climbed again, and went up between limestone rocks, higher and higher, till the noise of waters became indistinct, a faint humming of swarming hives in summer. He walked some distance on level ground till there was a break in the banks and a style on which he could lean and look out. He found himself, as he had hoped, afar and forlorn. He had strayed into outland and occult

territory. From the eminence of the lane, skirting the brow of a hill, he looked down into deep valleys and dingles, and beyond, across the trees, to remoter country, wild bare hills, and dark wooded lands meeting the gray still sky. Immediately beneath his feet the ground slid, sloped steep down to the valley, a hillside of close grass patched with dead bracken, and dotted and there with stunted thorns, and below there were deep oak woods, all still and silent, and lonely, as if no one ever passed that way. The grass and bracken and thorns and woods all were brown and gray beneath the leaden sky.

And as Lucien looked he was amazed, as though he were reading a wonderful story. the meaning of which was a little greater than his understanding. Then, like the hero of a fairy book, he went on and on, catching now and again glimpses of the amazing country in which he had penetrated, and perceived rather than seeing that as the day waned, everything grew more and more sombre. As he advanced, he heard the evening sounds of the farms, the low of the cattle and the barking of the sheep-dogs,

a faint, thin noise from far away. It was growing late, and as the shadows blackened, he walked faster, till once more the lane began to descend. There was a sharp turn, and he found himself with a good deal of relief and a little disappointment on familiar ground. He had nearly described a circle and knew this end of the lane very well. It was not much more than a mile from home. He walked smartly down the hill. The air was all glimmering and indistinct, transmuting trees and hedges into ghostly shapes, and the walls of the White House farm flickered on the hillside, as if they were moving towards him. Then a change came. First, a little breath of wind brushed with a dry whispering sound through the hedges. The few leaves left on the boughs

began to stir, and one or two danced madly, and as the wind freshened and came up from a new quarter, the sapless branches above rattled against one another like bones. The growing breeze seemed to clear the air and lighten it. He was passing the style where a path led to old Mrs. Gibbons' desolate little cottage, in the middle of the fields, at some distance even from the lane, and he saw the light blue smoke of her chimney rise distinct above the gaunt green-gauge trees, against a pale band that was broadening along the horizon. As he passed the style with his head bent, in his eyes on the ground, something white started out from the black shadow of the hedge, and in the strange

twilight, now tinged with a flush from the west, a figure seemed to swim past him and disappear. For a moment he wondered who it could be. The light was a light with a light of the was so flickering and unsteady, so unlike the real atmosphere of the day, when he recollected it was only Annie Morgan, old Morgan's daughter at the White House. She was three years older than he, and it annoyed him to find that though she was only fifteen, there had been a dreadful increase in her height since the summer holidays. He had got to the bottom of the hill, and lifting up his eyes, saw the strange changes of the sky. The pale band had had broadened into a clear, vast space of light, and above the heavy leaden clouds were

breaking apart and driving across the heaven before the wind. He stopped to watch, and looked up at the great mound that jutted out from the hills into mid-valley. It was a natural formation, and always it must have had something of the form of a fort, but its steepness had been increased by Roman art, and there were high banks on the summer which Lucian's father had told him were the Valem of the camp, and a deep ditch had been dug to the north to sever it from the hillside. On this summit, oaks had grown, queer, stunted-looking trees with twisted and contorted trunks, and writhing branches, and these now stood out black against the lighted sky. And then the air changed once more, the flush increased, and a spot-like blood

appeared in the pond by the gate, and all the clouds were touched with fiery spots and dapples of flame. Here and there it looked as if awful furnace doors were being opened. The wind blew wildly, and it came up through the woods with a noise like a screen, and a great oak by the roadside ground its boughs together with a dismal grating jar. As the red gained in the sky, the earth and all upon it glowed. Even the gray winter fields and the bare hillsides crimsoned, the water-pools were cisterns of molten brass, and the very road glittered. He was wonderstruck, almost aghast, before the scarlet magic of the afterglow.

The old Roman fort was invested with fire, flames from heaven were smitten about its walls, and above there was a dark floating cloud, like fume of smoke, and every haggard writhing tree showed as black as midnight against the black of the furnace. When he got home, he heard his mother's voice calling, "'Here's Lucian at last. Mary, Master Lucian has come. You can get the tea ready.' He told the long tale of his adventures, and felt somewhat mortified when his father seemed perfectly acquainted with the whole course of the lane, and knew the names of the wild woods through which he had passed in awe.

You must have gone by the Darren, I suppose. That was all he said. Yes, I noticed the sunset. We should have some stormy weather. I don't expect to see many in church tomorrow. It was buttered toast for tea because it was the holidays. The red curtains were drawn and a bright fire was burning, and there was old familiar furniture,

a little shabby, but charming from association. It was much pleasanter than the cold, and squalid schoolroom, and much better to be reading chambers as journal than learning Euclid, and better to talk to his father and mother than to be answering such remarks as, "'I say, Tater, I've torn my trousers. How much do you charge from ending?' "'Lucy, dear, come quick and sew this button on my shirt!' That night the storm woke him, and he groped with his hands amongst the bedclothes and sat up, shuddering, not knowing where he was.

He had seen himself in a dream, within the Roman fort, working some dark horror, and the furnace doors were opened, and a blast of flame from heaven was smitten upon him. Lucian went slowly, but not discreditably, up the school, gaining prizes now and again, and falling in love more and more with useless reading and unlikely knowledge. He did his allegics and iambics well enough, but he preferred exercising himself in the rhymed Latin of the Middle Ages. He liked history, but he loved to meditate on a land laid waste, Britain deserted by the legions, the rare pavements riven by frost, Celtic magic still brooding on the wild hills and in the black depths of the forest,

the rosy marble stained with rain and the walls growing gray. The masters did not encourage these researchers. A pure enthusiasm they felt, should be for cricket and football. The Delatante might even play fives and read Shakespeare without blame, but healthy English boys should have nothing to do with decadent periods. He was once found guilty of recommending Vionne to a schoolfellow named Barnes. Barnes tried to extract unpleasantness from the text during preparation and rioted in his place, owing to his incapacity for the language.

The matter was a serious one. The headmaster had never heard of Vion, and the culprit gave up the name of his literary admirer without remorse. Hence sorrow for Lucian, and complete immunity for the miserable, illiterate Barnes, who resolved to confine his researches to the Old Testament, a book which the headmaster knew well. As for Lucian, he plotted on, learning his work decently and sometimes doing very creditable Latin and Greek prose. His schoolfellows thought him quite mad, and tolerated him, and indeed were very kind to him in their barbarous manner. He often remembered in afterlife acts of generosity and good nature done by wretches like Barnes, who had no care for old French nor for curious

meters, and such recollections always moved him to emotion. Travelers tell such tales, cast upon cruel shores amongst savage races, they have found no little kindness and warmth of hospitality. He looked forward to the holidays as joyfully as the rest of them. Barnes and his friend Duskut used to tell him their plans and anticipation. They were going home to brothers and sisters, and to cricket, more cricket, or to football, more football, and in the winter there were parties and jollities of all sorts. In return, he was a little bit of all sorts. In return, he was a he would announce his intention of studying the Hebrew language, or perhaps Provensal, with a walk up a bare and desolate mountain by way of open-air amusement, and on a rainy day for choice.

Whereupon Barnes would impart to dusk it his confident belief that old Taylor was quite cracked. It was a queer, funny life that of school, and so very unlike anything in Tom Brown. He once saw the headmaster patting the head of the bishop's little boy. while he called him, my little man, and smiled hideously. He told the tale grotesquely in the lower fifth room the same day, and earned much applause, but forfeited all liking directly by proposing a voluntary course of scholastic logic. One barbarian threw him to the ground, and another jumped on him,

but it was done very pleasantly. There were indeed some few of a worse class in the school, solemn sycophants, prigs perfected from tender years, who thought life already serious, and yet, as the headmaster said, were joyous manly young fellows. Some of these dressed for dinner at home, and talked of dances when they came back in January. But this virulent sort was comparatively infrequent and achieved great success in the afterlife. Taking his school days as a whole, he always spoke up for the system. And years afterward, he described with enthusiasm the strong beer at a roadside tavern some

way out of the town. But he always maintained that the taste for tobacco, acquired in early life, was the great life was the great note of the English public school. Three years after Lucian's discovery of the narrow lane and the vision of the flaming fort, the August holidays brought him home at a time of great heat. It was one of those memorable years of English weather, when some Provencel spell seems wreathed round the island in the northern sea, and the grasshoppers chirp loudly as the cicadas, the hills smell of rosemary, and white walls of the old farmhouses blaze in the sunlight,

as if they stood in Arl or Avignon or famederoson by Rhone. Lucian's father was laid at the station, and consequently Lucian bought the confession of an English opium eater which he saw on the bookstall. When his father did drive up, Lucian noticed that the old trap had had a new coat of dark paint, and that the pony looked advanced in years. "'I was afraid that I should be late, Lucian,' said his father. "'Though I made old Polly go like anything. I was just going to tell George to put her into the trap.

When young Philip Harris came to me in a terrible state, he said his father fell down all of a sudden like, in the middle of the field, and they couldn't make him speak, and would I please to come and see him. So I had to go, though I couldn't do anything for the poor fellow. They had sent for Dr. Burroughs, and I'm afraid he will find it a bad case of sunstroke. The old people say they never remember such a heat before. The pony jogged steadily along the burning Turnpike road, taking revenge for the hurrying on the way to the station. The hedges were white with a limestone dust, and the vapor of heat palpitated over the fields.

Lucian showed his confessions to his father and began to talk of the beautiful bits he had already found. Mr. Taylor knew the book well, had read it many years before. Indeed, he was almost as difficult to surprise as that character in Dodei, who had one formula for all the chances of life, and when he saw the drowned academician dragged out of the river, merely observed, Javu tussah.

Mr. Taylor the parson, as his parishioners called him, had read the fine books and loved the hills and woods, and now knew no more of pleasant or sensational surprises. Indeed, the living was much depreciated in value, and his own private means were reduced almost to vanishing point, and under such circumstances the great style loses many of its finer savers. He was very fond of Lucian and cheered by his return, but in the evening he would be a sad

man again, with his head resting on one hand and eyes reproaching sorry fortune. Nobody called out, "'Here's your master with Master Lucian, you can get tea ready,' when the pony jogged up to the front door. His mother had been dead a year, and a cousin kept house. She was a respectable person called Deacon of middle age, an ordinary standards, and, consequently, there was cold mutton on the table. There was a cake, but nothing of flour, baked in ovens, would rise at Miss Deacon's avocation. Still, the meal was laid in the beloved parlor with the view of hills and valleys and climbing woods from the open window, and the old furniture was still pleasant to see, and the old books in the shelves had many

memories. One of the most respected of the armchairs had become weak in the casters and had to be artfully propped up, but Lucian found it very comfortable after the hard forms. When tea was over, he went out and strolled in the garden and the orchards, and looked over the style down into the brake where foxgloves and bracken and broom mingled with the hazel undergrowth, where he knew of secret glades and untracked recesses, deep in the the woven green, the cabinets for many years of his lonely meditations. Every path about his home, every field and hedgerow, had dear and friendly memories for him, and the odor of the meadow-sweet was better than the incense steaming in the sunshine.

He loitered and hung over the style till the far-off woods began to turn purple, till the white mists were reaving in the valley. Day after day, through all that August, morning and evening were wrapped in haze. Day after day the earth shimmered in the heat, and the air was strange, unfamiliar. As he wandered in the lanes and sauntered by the cool, sweet verge of the woods, he saw and felt that nothing was common or accustomed, for the sunlight transfigured the meadows and changed all the forms of the earth. the violent Provensal sun, the elms and beaches looked exotic trees, and in the early morning,

when the mists were thick, the hills had put on an unearthly shape. The one adventure of the holidays was the visit to the Roman fort, to that fantastic hill about whose steep bastions and haggard oaks he had seen the flames of sunset writhing nearly three years before. Ever since that Saturday evening in January, the last lonely valley had been a desirable place to him. He had watched the green battlements in summer and winter weather, had seen the heaped mounds rising dimly amidst the drifting rain, had marked the violent height, swim up from the ice-white bulwarks, glimmer and vanish in hovering April twilight. In the hedge of the lane there was a gate on which he used to lean and

look down south to where the hill surged up so suddenly, its summit defined on summer evenings not only by the rounded ramparts, but by the ring of dense green foliage that mark the circle of oak trees. Higher up the lane, on the way he had come that Saturday afternoon, one could see the white walls of Morgan's farm on the hillside to the north, and on the south there was the style with the view of old Mrs. Gibbons' cottage smoke. But down in the hollow, looking over the gate, there was no hint of human work, except those green and antique battlements on which the oak stood in circle, guarding the inner wood. The ring of the fort drew him with stronger fascination during that hot August weather. Standing, or as his headmaster would

have said, mooning by the gate, and looking into that enclosed and secret valley, it seemed to his fancy as if there were a halo about the hill, an aureole that played like flame around it. One afternoon as he gazed from his station by the gate the sheer sides and the swelling bulwere were more than ever things of enchantment. The green oak ring stood out against the hill, as still and bright as in a picture, and Lucian, in spite of his respect for the law of trespass, slid over the gate. The farmers and their men were busy on the uplands with the harvest, and the adventure was irresistible. At first he stole along by the brook in the shadow of the alders, where the grass and the flowers of wet meadows grew richly. But as he was a little, as he was a

As he drew nearer to the fort, and its height now rose sheer above him, he left all shelter and began desperately to mount. There was not a breath of wind. The sunlight shone down on the bare hillside. The loud chirp of the grasshoppers was the only sound. It was a steep as steep ascent as the valley sank away. He turned for a moment and looked down towards the stream which now seemed to wind remote between the alders. Above the valley there were small dark figures moving in the cornfield.

And now and again there came the faint echo of a high-pitched voice singing through the air as on a wire. He was wet with heat. The sweat streamed off his face and he could feel it trickling all over his body. But above him the green bastions rose defiant, and the dark ring of oaks promised coolness. He pressed on and higher, and a little. And a little bit of the green bastions rose defiant, and the dark ring of oaks promised coolness. He pressed on and higher, and at last began to crawl up the valum, on hands and knees, grasping the turf and here and there the roots that had burst through the red earth. And then he lay panting with deep breaths on the summit. Within the fort it was all dusky and cool and hollow. It was as if one stood at the bottom of a great cup. Within, the wall seemed

higher than without, and the ring of oaks curved up like a dark green vault. There were nettles growing thick and rank in the foss. They looked different from the common nettles in the lanes, and Lucian, letting his hand touch a leaf by accident, felt the sting burn like fire. Beyond the ditch there was an undergrowth, a dense thicket of trees, stunted and old, crooked and withered by the winds into awkward and ugly forms. Beach and oak and hazel and ash and yew twisted and so shortened and deformed that each seemed like the nettle of no common kind. He began to fight his way through the ugly growth, stumbling and getting hard knocks from the rebound of twisted boughs. His foot struck once or twice against something harder than wood, and looking down he saw stones white with the leprosy of age, but still showing the work of the axe.

And farther, the roots of the stunted trees gripped the foot-high relics of a wall, and a round heap of fallen stones nourished rank, unknown herbs, that smelt poisonous. The earth was black and unctious, and bubbling under the feet, left no track behind. From it, in the darkest places where the shadow was thickest, swelled the growth of an abominable fungus, making the still air sick with its corrupt odor, and he shuddered as he felt the horrible thing pulped beneath his feet. Then there was a gleam of sunlight, and as he thrust the last boughs apart, he stumbled into the open space in the heart of the camp.

It was a lawn of sweet, close turf in the center of the matted break, of clean, firm earth from which no shameful growth sprouted, and near the middle of the glade was a stump of a felled yew tree, left untrimmed by the woodman. Lucian thought it must have been made for a seat, a crooked bow through which a little sap still ran was a support for the back, and he sat down and rested after his toil. It was not really so comfortable a seat as one of the school forms,

but the satisfaction was to find anything at all that would serve for a chair. He sat there, still panting after the climb and his struggle through the dank and jungle-like thicket, and felt as if he were growing hotter and hotter. The sting of the nettle was burning his hand, and the tingling fire seemed to spread all over his body. Suddenly he knew that he was alone, not merely solitary, that he had often been amongst the woods

and deep in the lanes, but now it was a wholly different and a very strange sensation. He thought of the valley winding far below him, all its fields by the brook green and peaceful and still, without path or track. Then he had climbed the abrupt surge of the hill, and passing the green and swelling battlements, the ring of oaks and the matted thicket, had come to the central space. In behind there were he knew many desolate fields, wild as common, untrodden, unvisited. He was utterly alone. He still grew hotter as he sat on the stump, and at last lay down at full length on the soft grass, and more at his ease felt the waves of heat pass over his body. And then he began to dream, to let his fancy stray over half-imagined, deletious, deletioning,

delicious things, indulging a virgin mind in its wanderings. The hot air seemed to beat upon him in palpable waves, and the nettle sting tingled and itched intolerably, and he was alone upon the fairy hill, within the great mounds, within the ring of oaks, deep in the heart of the matted thicket. Slowly and timidly he began to untie his boots, fumbling with the laces,

and glancing all the while on every side, at the ugly, misshapen trees that hedged the lawn. Not a branch was straight, not one was free, but all were interlaced and grew one about another, and just above the ground were the cankered stems joined the protuberate roots. There were forms that imitated the human shape, and faces and twining limbs that amazed him. Green mosses were hair and tresses were stark and gray lichen. a twisted roots welled into a limb. In the hollows of the rotted bark he saw the masks of men. His eyes were fixed and fascinated by the simulacra of the wood, and could not see his hands,

and so at last and suddenly it seemed he lay in the sunlight, beautiful with his olive skin, dark-haired, dark-eyed, the glooming bodily vision of a strayed fawn. The thick flames now quivered in the substance of his nerves, hints of mysteries, secrets of life passed trembling through his brain. Unknown desire stung him. As he gazed across the turf and into the thicket, the sunshine seemed really to become green, and the contrast between the bright glow poured on the lawn and the black shadow of the break made an odd flickering light, in which all the grotesque postures of stem and root began

to stir. The wood was alive. The turf beneath him heaved and sank as with the deep swell of the sea. He fell asleep and lay still on the grass in the midst of the thicket. He found out afterwards that he must have slept for nearly an hour. The shadows had changed when he awoke. His senses came to him with a sudden shock, and he sat up and stared at his bare limbs in stupid amazement. He huddled all on his clothes and laced his boots, wondering what folly had beset him. Then, while he stood indecisive, hesitating, his brain a whirl of puzzled thought, his body trembling, his hands shaking, as with electric heat, sudden remembrance possessed him. A flaming blush shone red on his cheeks and glowed and thrilled through his limbs.

As he awoke, a brief and slight breeze had stirred in a nook of the matted bows, and there was a glinting that might have been the flash of sudden sunlight across shadow, and the branches rustled and murmured for a moment, perhaps at the wind's passage. He stretched out his hands, and cried to his visitant to return. He entreated the dark eyes that had shone over him, and the scarlet lips that had kissed him. And then panic fear rushed into his heart, and he ran blindly, dashing through the wood. He climbed the Valem and looked out, crouching, lest anybody should see him. Only the shadows were changed, and a breath of cooler air mounted from the brook. The fields were still and peaceful, the black figures

moved, far away amidst the corn, and the faint echo of the high-pitched voices sang thin and distant on the evening wind. Across the stream, in the claspers, and the clenched. left on the hill opposite to the fort, the blue wood smoke stole up a spiral pillar from the chimney of old Mrs. Gibbons' cottage. He began to run full tilt down the steep surge of the hill, and never stopped till he was over the gate and in the lane again. As he looked back down the valley to the south, he saw the violent ascent, the green swelling bulwarks, and the dark ring of The sunlight seemed to play about the fort with an aureole of flame. "'Where on earth have you been all this time, Lucian?' said his cousin when he got home.

"'Why, you look quite ill. It has really madness of you to go walking in such weather as this. I wonder you haven't got a sunstroke, and the tea must be nearly cold. I couldn't keep your father waiting, you know.' He muttered something about being rather tired and sat down to his tea. It was not cold, for the cozy have been put over the pot, but it was black and bitter strong, as his cousin expressed it. The draft was unpalatable, but it did him good, and the thought came with great consolation that he had only been asleep and dreaming queer, nightmarish dreams. He shook off all his fancies with resolution, and thought the loneliness of the camp

and the burning sunlight, and possibly the nettle-sting, which still did not. Still tingled most abominably must have been the only factors in his far-ago of impossible recollections. He remembered that when he had felt the sting, he had seized a nettle with thick folds of his handkerchief, and having twisted off a good length and put it in his pocket to show his father. Mr. Taylor was almost interested when he came in from his evening stroll about the garden and saw the specimen.

"'Well, did you manage to come across that, Lucian?' he said. You haven't been to Carmen, have you? No, I got it from the Roman fort by the Common. Oh, the twine! You must have been trespassing, then. Do you know what it is? No, I thought it looked different from the Common Nettles. Yes, it's a Roman nettle, Arctic pellilifera. It's a rare plant. Burrough says it's to be found at Carmen,

but I was never able to come across it. I must add it to the flora of the parish. Mr. Taylor had begun to compile a floor. accompanied by Hortesicus, but both stayed on high shelves, dusty, and fragmentary. He put the specimen on his desk, intending to fasten it in the book, but the maid swept it away, dry and withered, in a day or two. Lucian tossed and cried out in his sleep that night, and the awakening in the morning was, in a measure, a renewal of the awakening in the fort.

But the impression was not so strong, and in a plain room it seemed all delirium, a phantasmagoria. He had to go down to Carmen in the afternoon, for Mrs. Dixon, the Vickers' wife, had commanded his presence at tea. Mr. Dixon, though fat and short and clean-shaven, ruddy of face, was a safe man, with no extreme views on anything.

He deplored all extreme party convictions and thought the great needs of our beloved church were conciliation, moderation, and above all amalgamation, so he pronounced the word. Mrs. Dixon was tall, imposing, splendid, well-fitted for the Episcopal order, with gifts that would have shown at the palace. There were daughters who studied German literature, and thought Miss Francis Ridley Havergall wrote poetry,

but Lucian had no fear of them. He dreaded the boys. Everybody said they were such fine manly fellows, such disliked, such gentlemanly boys with such a good manner sure to get on in the world. Lucene had said, Bother, in a very violent manner, when the gracious invitation was conveyed to him, but there was no getting out of it. Miss Deacon did her best to make him look smart.

His ties were all so disgraceful that she had to supply the want with a narrow ribbon of sky-blue tint. And she brushed him so long and so violently that he quite understood why a horse sometimes bites and sometimes kicks the groom. He set out between two and three in a gloomy frame of mind. He knew too well what spending the afternoon with honest manly boys meant. He found the reality more lurid than his anticipation.

The boys were in the field, and the first remark he heard when he got inside of the group was, "'Hello, Lucian! How much for the tie!' "'Fine tie!' another, a stranger observed. "'You bagged it from the kitten, didn't you?' Then they made up a game of cricket, and he was put in first. He was LB.W. in his second over, so they all said, and had to field for the rest of the afternoon. Arthur Dixon, who was about his own age, forgetting all the laws of hospitality, told him he was a beastly muff when he missed a catch, rather a difficult catch.

He missed several catches, and it seemed as if he were always panting after balls, which, as Edward Dixon said, any fool, even a baby could have stopped. At last the game broke up, solely from Lucian's lack of skill, as everybody declared. Edward Dixon, who was thirteen, had a swollen red face and a projecting eye, wanted to fight him for spoiling the game, and the others agreed that he funked the right in a rather dirty manner. The strange boy, who was called Dacardi, and was understood to be faintly related to Lord Ducardi of McCarthy Town, said openly that the fellows at his place wouldn't stand

such a sneak for five minutes. So the afternoon passed off very pleasantly indeed, till it was time to go into the vicarage for weak tea, homemade cake, and unripe plums. He got away at last, as he went out the gate, he heard D'Cardy's final observation. We'd like to dress well at our place. His governor must be beastly poor to let him go about like that. Do you see his trousers are all ragged at heel? Is old Taylor a gentleman? It had been a very gentlemanly afternoon, but there was a certain relief when the vicarage was far behind,

and the evening smoke of the little town, once the glorious capital of Siluria, hung haze-like over the ragged roofs, and mingled with the river mist. He looked down from the height of the road, on the huddled houses, saw the points of light start out suddenly from the cottages on the hillside beyond, and gazed at the long, lovely valley, fading in the twilight, till the darkness came, and all that remained was the somber ridge of the forest.

The way was pleasant through the solemn-scented lane, with glimpses of dim country, the vague mystery of night overshadowing the woods and meadows. A warm wind blew gusts of odor from the meadow-sweet by the brook, now and then bee and beetles span homeward through the air, booming a deep note as from a great organ far away. And from the verge of the wood came the woo-hoo, woo-hoo, woo-hoo of the owls, a wild strain sound that mingled with the whir and rattle of the night-jar deep in the bracken.

The moon swam up through the films of misty cloud and hung a golden-glorious lantern in mid-air. And, set in the dusky hedge, the little green fires of the glow-worms appeared, He sauntered slowly up the lane, drinking in the religion of the scene, and thinking the country by night as mystic and wonderful as a dimly lit cathedral. He had quite forgotten the manly young fellows and their sports, and only wished as the land began to shimmer and gleam in the moonlight that he knew by some medium of words or

color how to represent the loveliness about his way. "'Had a pleasant evening, Lucian,' said his father when he, He came in. Yes, I had a nice walk home. Oh, in the afternoon we played cricket. I didn't care for it much. There was a boy named Descartie there. He is staying with the Dixons.

Mrs. Dixon whispered to me when we were going into tea. He's a second cousin of Lord Dacarty's, and she looked quite grave as if she were in church. The parson grinned grimly and lit his old pipe. Baron Dacarty's great-grandfather was a Dublin attorney, he remarked. which his name was Jeremiah McCarthy. His prejudiced fellow-citizens called him the unjust steward, also the bloody attorney, and I believe that to hell with McCarthy was quite a popular cry about the time of the Union. Mr. Taylor was a man of very wide, in irregular reading, and a tenacious memory.

He often used to wonder why he had not risen in the church. He had once told Mr. Dixon a singular androleteak anecdote concerning the bishop's college days, and he never discovered why the prelate did not bow according to his custom when the name of Taylor was called at the next visitation. Some people said the reason was lighted candles, but that was impossible, as the Reverend and Honorable Smallwood Stafford, Lord Bemis's son, who had a cure of souls in the cathedral city, was well known to burn no end of candles, and with him the bishop was on the best of terms. Indeed, the bishop often stayed at Copsie Hall, Lord Bemis' place in the West. Lucian had mentioned the name of Decardy with intention, and had perhaps exaggerated a little

Mrs. Dixon's respectful manner. He knew such incidents cheered his father, who could never look at these subjects from a proper point of view, and, as people said, sometimes made the strangest remarks for a clergyman. This irreverent way of treating serious things was one of the great bonds between father and son, but it tended to increase their isolation. People said they would often have liked to ask Mr. Taylor to garden parties and tea parties and other cheap entertainments, if only he had not been such an extreme man and so queer. Indeed, a year before, Mr. Taylor had gone to a garden party at the Castle Carmen,

and had made such fun of the bishop's recent address on missions to the Portuguese, that the Gervaises and Dixons and all who heard him were quite shocked and annoyed. And, as Mrs. Myrick of Len Raven observed, his black coat was perfectly green with age, so on the whole the Gervaises did not like to invite Mr. Taylor again. As for the son, nobody cared to have him. Mrs. Dixon, as she said to her husband, really asked him out of his husband. of charity. I'm afraid he seldom gets a real meal at home, she remarked, so I thought he would enjoy a good

wholesome tea for once and away. But he is such an unsatisfactory boy. He would only have one slice of that nice plain cake, and I couldn't get him to take more than two plums. They were really quite ripe, too, and boys are usually so fond of fruit. Thus Lucian was forced to spend his holidays chiefly in his own company, and make the best he could of the right peaches on the south wall of the rectory garden. There was a certain corner where the heat of that hot August seemed concentrated, reverberated from one wall to the other, and here he liked to linger of mornings when

the mists were still thick in the valleys, mooning, meditating, extending his walk from the quince to the medlar and back again, beside the moldering walls of mellowed brick. He was full of a certain wonder and awe, not unmixed with a swell of strange exultation, and wished more and more to be alone, to think over that wonderful afternoon within the fort. In spite of himself, the impression was fading. He could not understand that feeling of mad, panic, terror that drove him through the thicket and down the steep hillside. Yet he had experienced so clearly the physical shame and reluctance of the flesh.

He recollected that for a few seconds after his awakening the side of his own body had made him shudder and writhe, as if it had suffered some profoundest degradation. He saw before him a vision of two forms. A fawn with tingling and prickling flesh lay expectant in the sunlight, and there was also the likeness of a miserable, shamed boy, standing with trembling body and shaking unsteady hands. It was all confused, a procession of blurred images, now of rapture and ecstasy, and now of terror and shame, floating in a light that was altogether phantasmal and unreal.

He dared not approach the fort again. He lingered in the road to Carmen that passed behind it, but a mile away and separated by the wild land and a strip of wood from the towering battlements. Here he was looking over a gate one day, doubtful and wondering, when he heard a heavy step behind him, and glanced round quickly saw it was old Morgan of the White House. "'Good afternoon, Master Lucian,' he began. "'Mr. Taylor pretty well, I suppose. I be going to the house a minute.

The men in the fields are wanting some more cider. Would you come and taste a drop of cider, Master Lucian? It's very good, sir, indeed. Lucian did not want any cider, but he thought it would please old Morgan if he took some, so he said he should like to taste the cider very much indeed. Morgan was a sturdy, thick-set old man of the ancient stock, a stiff churchman who breakfasted regularly on fat broth and carefilly cheese in the fashion of his ancestors.

Hot-spiced elder wine was for winter nights and gin for festal seasons. The farm had always been the freehold of the family, and when Lucien, in the wake of the yeoman, passed through the deep porch by the oaken door down into the long, dark kitchen, he felt as though the seventeenth century still lingered on. One mullioned window, set deep in the sloping wall, gave all the light there was through quarries of thick glass in which there were whirls and circles, so that the lapping rose-branch and the garden and the fields beyond were distorted to the sight. Two heavy beams, open but whitewashed, ran across the ceiling. A little glow of fire sparkled in the great fireplace, and a curl of blue smoke fled up the cavern of the chimney.

Here was the genuine chimney corner of our fathers. There were seats on each side of the fireplace where one could sit snug and sheltered on December nights, warm and merry in the blazing light, and listen to the battle of the storm. and hear the flame spit and hiss at the falling snowflakes. At the back of the fire were great blackened tiles with raised initials and a date. I.M. 1684. "'Sit down, Master Lucian, sit down, sir,' said Morgan. "'Anyne,' he called through one of the numerous doors.

"'Here's Master Lucian, the parson, we'll like a drop of cider. Fetch a jug, will you directly?' "'Very well, father.' Came the voice from the dairy, and presently the girl entered, wiping the jug she held. In his boyish way, Lucian had been a good deal disturbed by Annie Morgan. He could see her on Sundays from his seat in church, and her skin, curiously pale, her lips that seemed as though they were stained with some brilliant pigment. Her black hair and the quivering black eyes gave him odd fancies, which he had hardly shaped to himself.

Annie had grown into a woman in three years, and he was still a boy. She came into the kitchen, courteying and smiling. "'Good-day, Master Lucian, and how was Mr. Taylor, sir?' "'Pretty well, thank you. I hope you are well.' "'Nosely, sir, thank you. How nice your voice do sound in church, Master Lucian, to be sure. I was telling father about it last Sunday.' Lucian grinned and felt uncomfortable, and the girl sat down the jug on the round table and brought a glass from the dresser. She bent close over him as she poured out the green

oily cider, fragrant of the orchard. Her hand touched his shoulder for a moment, and she said, I beg your pardon, sir, very prettily. He looked up eagerly at her face. The black eyes, a little oval in shape, were shining, and the lips were smiled. Annie wore a plain dress of some black stuff, open at the throat. Her skin was beautiful. For a moment, the ghost of a fancy hovered unsubstantial in his mind, and then Annie curtsied as she handed him the cider and replied to his thanks with, and welcome kindly, sir. The drink was really good, not thin nor sweet, but round and full and generous, with a fine yellow, flame twinkling through the green when one held it up to the light. It was like a stray sunbeam

hovering on the grass in a deep orchard, and he swallowed the glassful with relish, and had some more, warmly commending it. Mr. Morgan was touched. "'I see you know a good thing, sir,' he said. "'Is indeed now, it's good stuff, though it's my own making. My old grandfather, he planted the trees in the time of the wars, and he was a very good judge of an apple in his day and generation. And a famous grafter he was, to be sure. You will never see no swelling in the trees he grafted at all whatever. Now there's James Morris, Pennyroll. He's a famous grafter, too. And yet, them red streaks he grafted for me five year ago, they be all swollen like below the graft already. Would you like to taste a blem and pippin now, Master Lucien? There'd be

a few left in the loft, I believe. Lucian said he should like an apple very much, and the farmer went out by another door, and Annie stayed in the kitchen talking. She said Mrs. Trevor, her married sister, was coming to them soon to spend a few days. She's got such a beautiful baby, said Annie, and he's quite sensible like already,

though he's only nine months old. Mary would like to see you, sir, if you would be so kind as to step in, That is, if it's not troubling you at all, Master Lucian, I suppose you must be getting a fine scholar now, sir. I am doing pretty well, thank you, said the boy. I was first in my form last term. Fancy to think of that!

Do you hear, father? What a scholar, Master Lucian be getting. He be a rare grammarian, I'm sure, said the farmer. You do take after your father, sir. I always do say that nobody have got such a good deliverance in the pulpit. Lucy did not find the Blenheim orange as good as the cider, but

he ate it with all the appearance of relish, and put another with thanks in his pocket. He thanked the farmer again when he got up to go, and Annie curtsied and smiled and wished him good day and welcome kindly. Lucian heard her saying to her father as he went out, what a nice-mannered young gentleman he was getting to be sure, and he went on his way,

thinking that Annie was really very pretty, and speculating as to whether he would have the courage to kiss her if they met in a dark lane. He was quite sure she would only laugh and say, Oh, Master Lucian! For many months he had occasional fits of recollection, both cold and hot, but the bridge of time, gradually lengthening, made those dreadful and delicious images grow more and more indistinct. Till at last they all passed into that wonderland which a youth looks back upon in amazement, not knowing why this used to be a symbol of terror or that of joy. At the end of each term he would come home and find his father a little more despondent, and harder to cheer even for a moment, and the wallpaper and the furniture grew more and more dingy and shabby.

The two cats, loved and ancient beasts, that he had been in and more, and more shabby. The two cats, loved and ancient beasts, that he remembered when he was quite a little boy before he went to school, died miserably one after the other. Old Polly, the pony, at last fell down in the stable from the weakness of old age and had to be killed there. The battered old trap ran no longer along the well-remembered lanes. There was long meadow grass on the lawn, and the trained fruit trees on the wall had got quite out of hand.

At last, when Lucian was seventeen, his father was obliged to take him from school. He could no longer afford the fees. This was the sorry ending of many hopes, and dreams of a double-first, a fellowship, distinction, and glory that the poor Parson had long entertained for his son. And the two moped together in the shabby room, one on each side of the sulky fire, thinking of dead days and finished plans and seeing a gray future in the years that advanced towards them. At one time there seemed some chance of a distant relative coming forward to Lucian's assistance,

and indeed it was quite settled that he should go up to London with certain definite aims. Mr. Taylor told the good news to his acquaintances. His coat was too green now for any pretense of friendship. and Lucian himself spoke of his plans to Burroughs the doctor and Mr. Dixon and one or two others. Then the whole scheme fell through, and the parson and his son suffered much sympathy. People, of course, had to say they were sorry, but in reality the news was received with high spirits. With the joy with which one sees a stone as it rolls down a steep place, give yet another bounding leap towards the pool beneath.

Mrs. Dixon heard the pleasant tidings from Mrs. Cully, who came in to talk about the mother's meeting and the band of hope. Mrs. Dixon was nursing little Athelwig, or some such name at the time, and made many affecting observations on the general righteousness with which the world was governed. Indeed, poor Lucian's disappointment seemed distinctly to increase her faith in the divine order, as if it had been some example in Butler's analogy. "'Aren't Mr. Tater's views very extreme?' she said to her husband the same evening. "'I'm afraid they are,' he replied.

"'I was quite grieved at the last diocesan conference at the way in which he spoke. The dear old bishop had given an address on auricular confession. He was forced to do so, you know, after what had happened, and I must say that I never felt prouder of our beloved church. Mr. Dixon told all the Homeric story of the conference, reciting the achievements of the champions, deploring this and applauding that. It seemed that Mr. Taylor had had the audacity to quote authorities

which the bishop could not very well repudiate, though they were directly opposed to the safe episcopal pronouncement. Mrs. Dixon, of course, was grieved. It was sad to think of a clergyman behaving so shamefully. "'But you know, dear,' she proceeded, "'I have been thinking about that unfortunate Taylor boy and his disappointments, and after what you've just told me, I am sure it's some kind of judgment on them both.

Has Mr. Taylor forgotten the vows he took at his ordination? But don't you think, dear, I am right, and that he has been punished, the sins of the fathers? Somehow or other, Lucian divined the atmosphere of threatenings and judgments, and shrank more and more from the small society of the countryside.

For his part, when he was not mooning in the beloved fields and woods of happy memory, he shut himself up with books, reading whatever could be found on the shelves, and amassing a store of incongruous and obsolete knowledge. Long did he linger with the men of the 17th century,

delaying the gay sunlit streets with pepice and listening to the charmed sound of the Restoration Revel, roaming by peaceful streams with Isaac Walton and the great Catholic divines, enchanted with the portrait of Herbert the loving ascetic, awed by the mystic breath of Crashaw. Then the cavalier poets sang their gallant songs, and Herrick made Dean Pryor

magic ground by the holy incantation of a verse. And in the old Proverbs and homely sayings of the time, he found the good and beautiful English life, a time full of grace and dignity and rich merriment. He dived deeper and deeper into his books. He had taken all obsolescence to be his province. In his disgust at the stupid usual questions, will it pay, what good is it, and so forth, he would only read what was uncouth and useless. The strange pomp and symbolism of the cabala, with its hint of more terrible things. The Rosicrucian mysteries of flood, the enigmas of Vaughan, the dreams of alchemists, all these were his delight. Such were his companions, with the hills and hanging woods,

the brooks and lonely water-pools. Books, the thoughts of books, the stirrings of imagination, all fused into one fantasy by the magic of the outland country. He held himself aloof from the walls of the fort. He was content to see the heaped mounds, the violent height with fairy bulwarks, from the gate in the lane, and to leave all within the ring of oaks in the mystery of his boyhood's vision.

He professed to laugh at himself and at his fancies of that hot August afternoon when sleep came to him within the thicket, But in his heart of hearts there was something that never faded, something that glowed like the red glint of a gypsy's fire seen from afar across the hills and mists of the night, and known to be burning in a wild land. Sometimes, when he was sunken in his books, the flame of delight shot up and showed him a whole province and continent of his nature all shining and a glow.

and in the midst of the exultation and triumph he would draw back a little afraid. He had become ascetic in his studious and melancholy isolation, and the vision of such ecstasies frightened him. He began to write a little, at first very tentatively and feebly, and then with more confidence. He showed some of his verses to his father, who told him with a sigh that he had once hoped to write, in the old days at Oxford, he added.

"'They are very nicely done,' said the parson. "'But I'm afraid you won't find anybody to print them, my boy.' So he pottered on, reading everything, imitating what struck his fancy, attempting the effect of the classic meters in English verse, trying his hand at a mask, a restoration comedy, forming impossible plans for books which rarely got beyond half a dozen lines on a sheet of paper,

beset with splendid fancies which refused to abide before the pen. But the vain joy of conception was not altogether vain, for it gave him some armor about his heart. The months went by, monotonous, and sometimes blotted with despair. He wrote and planned and filled the waste-paper basket with hopeless efforts. Now and then he sent verses or prose articles to magazines, empathetic ignorance of the trade. He felt the immense difficulty of the career of literature without clearly understanding it. The battle was happily in a mist, so that the host of the enemy, terribly arrayed, was to some extent hidden.

Yet there was enough of difficulty to appall. From following the intricate course of little nameless brooks, from hushed twilight woods, from the vision of the mountains and the breath of the great wind, passing from deep to deep, he would come home filled with thoughts and emotions, mystic fancies which he yearned to translate into the written word. And the result of the effort seemed always to be Bethos. Wooden sentences, a portentous stilted style, obscurity and awkwardness clogged the pen. It seemed impossible to win the great secret of language. The stars glittered only in the darkness, and vanished away in clearer light.

The periods of despair were often long and heavy, the victories very few and trifling. Night after night he sat writing after his father had knocked out his last pipe, filling a page with difficulty in an hour, and usually forced to thrust the stuff away in despair and go unhappily to bed, conscious that after all his labor he had done nothing. And these were moments when the accustomed vision of the land alarmed him, and the wild domed hills and darkling woods seemed symbols of some terrible secret in the inner life of that stranger himself. Sometimes when he was deep in his books and papers,

sometimes on a lonely walk, sometimes amidst the tiresome chatter of Kerman's society, lady, he would thrill with a sudden sense of awful hidden things, and there ran that quivering flame through his nerves that brought back the recollection of the matted thicket, and that earlier appearance of the bare black boughs enrapped with flames. Indeed, though he avoided the solitary lane and the sight of the sheer height with its ring of oaks and molded mounds, the image of it grew more intense as the symbol of certain hints and suggestions. The exultant and insurgent flesh seemed to have its temple and castle within those olden walls, and he longed with all his heart to escape, to set himself free in the wilderness

of London, and to be secure amidst the murmur of modern streets. End of Chapter 1 Chapter 2 of The Hill of Dreams by Arthur Mackon. This Librovoc's recording is in the public domain. The Hill of Dreams Chapter 2 Lucian was growing really anxious about his manuscript. He had gained enough experience at 23

to know that editors and publishers must not be hurried. But his book had been lying at Messrs. Bight's office for more than three months. For six weeks he had not dared to expect an answer, but afterwards life had become agonizing. Every morning, at post-time, the poor wretch nearly choked with anxiety to know whether his sentence had arrived, and the rest of the day was racked with alternate pangs of hope and despair. Now and then he was almost assured of success. Conning over these painful and eager pages

in memory, he found parts that were admirable, while again his inexperience reproached him, and he feared he had written a raw and awkward book, wholly unfit for print. Then he would compare what he remembered of it with notable magazine articles and books praised by reviewers, and fancy that, after all, there might be good points in the thing. He could not help liking the first chapter, for instance. Perhaps the letter might come tomorrow. So it went. Week after week of sick torture made more exquisite by such gleams of hope.

It was as if he were stretched in anguish on the rack, and the pain relaxed and kind words spoken now and again by the tormentors, and then once more the grinding pain and burning agony. At last he could bear the suspense no longer, and he wrote to Monsieur's bite, inquiring in a humble manner whether the manuscript had arrived in safety. The firm replied in a very polite letter, expressing regret that the reader had been suffering from a cold in the head, and had therefore been unable to send in his report. A final decision was promised in a week's time, and the letter ended with apologies for the delay

and a hope that he had suffered no inconvenience. Of course the final decision did not come at the end of the week, but the book was returned at the end of three weeks, with a circuiter thanking the author for his kindness in submitting the manuscript, and regretting that the firm did not see their way to producing it. He felt relieved. The operation that he had dreaded and deprecated for so long was at last over, and he would no longer grow sick of mornings when the letters were brought in.

He took his parcel to the sunny corner of the garden, where the old wooden seat stood sheltered from the biting march winds. M.ir's bite had put in with the circuiter one of their short lists, a neat booklet, headed, Mr. Bight in Company's recent publications. He settled himself comfortably on the seat, lit his pipe, and began to read, A Baden to Beat, a novel of Sporting Life by the Honorable Mrs. Scuddemore Ruddymead, author of Yoakes with the Mudshire Pack, the Sportly Stables, Etc, etc., three volumes,

at all libraries. The press, it seemed, pronounced this to be a charming book, Mrs. Runnymede has wit and humor enough to furnish forth half a dozen ordinary sporting novels. Told with the sparkle and vivacity of a past mistress in the art of novel writing, said the review, while Miranda of Smart Society positively bubbled with enthusiasm. "'You must forgive me, Aminta,' wrote this young person. "'If I have not sent the description I promised of Madame Lulu's new creations and others of that ilk, I must a tale unfold.

Tom came in yesterday and began to rave about the Honorable Mrs. Scudmore Runnymede's last novel, a bad undebeat. She says all the smart set are talking of it, and it seems the police have to regulate the crowd at muddies. You know I read everything Mrs. Runnymede writes, so I sent out Miggs directly to beg, borrow, or steal a copy, and I confess I burnt the midnight oil before I laid it down. Now, mind you get it, you will find it so awfully chic. Nearly all the novelists on Monsieur's Byte's list were ladies. Their works all ran to three volumes, and all of them pleased the press, the review, and Miranda of Smart Society.

One of these books, Millison's Marriage, by Sarah Pocklington Sanders, was pronounced fit to lie on the schoolroom table, on the drawing-room bookshelf, or beneath the pillow of the most gently nurtured of our daughters. This, the reviewer went on, is high praise. especially in these days when we are deafened by the loud-voiced clamor of self-styled artists. We would warn the young men who prate so persistently of style in literature, construction and prose harmonies, that we believe the English reading public will have none of them.

Harmless amusement, a gentle flow of domestic interest, a faithful reproduction of the open and manly life of the hunting field, pictures of innocent and healthy English girlhood such as Miss Sandler, here affords us. These are the topics that will always find a welcome in our homes, which remain bolted and barred against the abandoned artist and the scrawlophila stylist. He turned over the pages of the little book and chuckled in high relish. He discovered an honest enthusiasm, a determination to strike a blow for the good and true that refreshed and exhilarated. A beaming face, spectacled and whiskered probably, an expansive waste of

coat, and a tender heart, seemed to shine through the words which Monsieur's bite had quoted. And the alliteration of the final sentence. That was good, too. There was style for you if he wanted it. The champion of the blushing cheek and the gushing eye showed that he too could handle the weapons of the enemy if he cared to trouble himself with such things. Lucian leant back and roared with indecent laughter till the tabby tomcat who had succeeded to the poor dead beasts looked up reproachfully from his sunny corner with a face like the reviewers, innocent and round and whiskered.

At last he turned to his parcel and drew out some half-dozen sheets of manuscript and began to read in a rather desponding spirit. It was pretty obvious, he thought, that the stuff was poor and, and beneath the standard of publication. The book had taken a year and a half in the making. It was a pious attempt to translate into English prose, the form and mystery of the domed hills,

the magic of occult valleys, the sound of the red swollen brook swirling through leafless woods. Daydreams and toilet nights had gone into the eager pages. He had labored hard to do his very best, writing and rewriting, weighing his cadences, beginning over and over again, grudging no patience, no trouble, if only it might be pretty good, good enough to print and sell to a reading public, which had become critical. He glanced through the manuscript in his hand, and to his astonishment he could not help

thinking that in its measure it was decent work. After three months his prose seemed fresh and strange as if it had been wrought by another man, and in spite of himself, he found charming things and impressions that were not commonplace. He knew how weak at all was compared with his own conceptions. He had seen an enchanted city, awful, glorious, with flames smitten about its battlements, like the cities of the Sangral, and he had molded his copy in such poor clay as came to his hand. Yet, in spite of the gulf that yawned between the idea and the work, he knew as he read

that the thing accomplished was very far from a failure. He put back the leaves carefully and glanced again at Monsieur's Bites' list. It had escaped his notice that a bad and a beat was in its third three-volume edition. It was a great thing, at all events, to know in what direction to aim, if he wished to succeed. If he worked hard, he thought, he might someday win the approval of the coy and retiring Miranda of smart society. That modest maiden might, in his praise, interrupt her task of disinterested advertisement, her philanthropic counsels to, go to jumpers, and mind you, ask for Mr. C. Jumper, who will show you the lovely blue paper with the yellow spots at ten shillings

the piece. He put down the pamphlet and laughed again at the books and the reviewers, so that he might not weep. This then was English fiction. This was English criticism. farce, after all, was but an ill-played tragedy. The rejected manuscript was hidden away, and his father quoted Horace's maxim as to the benefit of keeping literary works for some time in the wood.

There was nothing to grumble at, though Lucian was inclined to think the duration of the reader's guitar a little exaggerated. But this was a trifle. He did not arrogate to himself the position of a small commercial traveler who expects prompt civility as a matter of course, and not at all as a favor. He simply forgot his old book, and resolved that he would make a better one if he could. With the hot fit of resolution, the determination not to be snuffed out by one refusal upon him, he began to beat about in his mind for some new scheme. At first it seemed that he had hit upon a promising subject. He began

to plot out chapters and scribbled hints for the curious story. that had entered his mind, arranging his circumstances and noting the effects to be produced with all the enthusiasm of the artist. But after the first breath, the aspect of the work changed. Page after page was tossed aside as hopeless. The beautiful sentences he had dreamed of refused to be written, and his puppets remain stiff and wooden, devoid of life or motion. Then all the old despairs came back. The agonies of the artificial who strives and perseveres in vain. The scheme that seemed of amorous fire turned to cold, hard ice in his hands. He let the pen drop from his fingers and wondered how he could have ever dreamed

of writing books. Again, the thought occurred that he might do something if he could only get away, enjoying the sad procession in the murmuring London streets, far from the shadow of these awful hills. But it was quite impossible. The relative who had once promised assistance was appealed to and wrote expressing his regret that Lucian had turned out a loafer, wasting his time in scribbling instead of trying to earn his living. Lucian felt rather hurt at this letter, but the parson only grinned grimly as usual.

He was thinking of how he signed a check many years before in the days of his prosperity, and the check was payable to this didactic relative, then in but a poor way, and of a thankful turn of mind. The old rejected manuscript had almost passed out of his recollection. It was recalled oddly enough. He was looking over the reader and enjoying the admirable literary criticisms, some three months after the return of his book, when his eye was attracted by a quoted

passage in one of the notices. The thought and style both awakened memory. The cadences were familiar and beloved. He read through the review from the beginning. It was a very favorable one, and pronounced the volume an immense advance on Mr. Ritson's previous work. Here undoubtedly the author has discovered a vein of pure metal, the reviewer added, and we predict that he will go far.

Lucian had not yet reached his father's stage, but was unable to grin in the manner of that irreverent parson. The passage selected for high praise was taken almost word for word from the manuscript now resting in his room, the work that had not reached the high standard of Monsieur Bighton Company, who, curiously enough, were the publishers of the book reviewed in the reader. He had a few shillings in his possession, and wrote at once to a bookseller in London for a copy of The Chorus in Green,

as the author had oddly named the book. He wrote on June 21st and thought he might fairly expect to receive the interesting volume by the 24th. But the postman, true to his tradition, brought nothing for him, and in the afternoon he resolved to walk down to Carmen in case it might have come by a second post, or it might have been mislaid at the office. They forgot parcels sometimes, especially when the bag was heavy and the weather hot. This 24th was a sultry and oppressive day. A gray veil of cloud obscured the sky, and a vaporous mist hung heavily over the land and fumed up from the valleys.

But at five o'clock, when he started, the clouds began to break, and the sunlight suddenly streamed down through the misty air, making waves and channels of rich glory and bright islands in the gloom. It was a pleasant and shining evening when, passing by devious back streets to avoid the barbarians, as he very rudely called the respectable inhabitants of the town, he reached the post-office, which was also the general shop. "'Yes, Mr. Taylor, there is something for you, sir,' said the man. "'Williams, the postman, forgot to take it up this morning.' And he handed over the packet.

Lucian took it under his arm and went slowly through the ragged winding lanes till he came into the country. He got over the first stile on the road, and sitting down in the shelter of a hedge, cut the strings, and opened the parcel. The chorus in green was got up in what reviewers call a dainty manner, a bronze-green cloth, well-cut gold lettering, wide margins, and black, old-faced type, all witness to the good taste of Monsieur's Byton company. He cut the pages hastily and began to read. He soon found that he had wronged to Mr. Ritson. That old literary hand had by no means stolen his book wholesale, as he had expected. There were about two hundred pages in the pretty little volume, and of these

about ninety were Lucians, dovetailed into a rather different scheme, with skill that was nothing short of exquisite. And Mr. Ritson's own work was often very good, spoiled here and there for some tastes by the cataloging method, a somewhat materialistic way of taking an inventory of the holy country things, but for that very reason, contrasting to a great advantage with Lucian's hints and dreams and note of haunting. And here and there Mr. Ritson had made little alterations in the style of the passages he had conveyed, and most of these alterations were amendments, as Lucian was obliged to confess, though he would have liked to argue one or two points with his collaborator and corrector. He lit his pipe and leaned back comfortably in the hedge, thinking

things over, weighing very coolly his experience of humanity, his contact with the society of the countryside, the affair of the chorus in green, and even some little incidents that had struck him as he was walking through the streets of Carmen that evening. At the post-office, when he was inquiring for his parcel, he had heard two old women grumbling in the street. It seemed, so far as he could make out, that both had been disappointed in much the same way. One was a Roman Catholic, hardened and beyond the reach of conversion. She had been advised to ask alms of the priests, who are always creeping and crawling about.

The other old sinner was a dissenter, and Mr. Dixon has quite enough to do to relieve a good church people. Mrs. Dixon, assisted by Henrietta, was, it seemed, the Lady High Omener, who dispensed these charities. As she said to Mrs. Colley, they would end by keeping all the beggars in the county, and they really couldn't afford it. A large family was an expensive thing, and the girls must have new frocks. Mr. Dixon is always telling me in the girls that we must not demoralize the people by indiscriminate charity. Lucyan had heard of these sage councils, and through it them as he listened to the bitter complaints of the gaunt, hungry old women. In the back street by which he passed out of the town he saw a large healthy boy kicking

a sick cat. The poor creature had just strength enough to crawl under an outhouse door, probably to die in torments. He did not find much satisfaction in thrashing the boy, but he did it with hearty goodwill. Further on, at the corner where the turnpike used to be, was a big notice announcing a meeting at the schoolroom and aid of the missions to the Portuguese. Under the patronage of the Lord Bishop of the Diocese was the imposing headline. The Reverend Merivale Dixon, Vicar of Carmen, was to be in the chair, supported by Stanley

Gervais, Esquire, J.P., and many of the clergy and gentry of the neighborhood. Signor Diabo, formerly a Romanist priest, now an evangelist in Lisbon, would address the meeting. Funds are urgently needed to carry on this good work, concluded the notice. So he lay well back in the shade of the hedge and thought whether some sort of an article could not be made by vindicating the terrible Yahoo's. One might point out that they were in many respects a simple and unsophisticated race, whose faults were the result of their enslaved position, while such virtues as they had were all their own.

They might be compared, he thought, much to their advantage, with more complex civilizations. there was no hint of anything like the bite system of publishing in existence amongst them. The great Yahoo Nation would surely never feed and encourage a scabby Hounam, expelled for his foulness from the horse community and the witty dean in all his minuteness, had said nothing of safe Yahoo's. On reflection, however, he did not feel quite secure of this part of his defense. He remembered that the leading brutes had favorites, who were employed in certain, and simple domestic offices about their masters, and it seemed doubtful whether the contemplated

vindication would not break down on this point. He smiled queerly to himself as he thought of these comparisons, but his heart burned with a dull fury. Throwing back his unhappy memory, he recalled all the contempt and scorn he had suffered. As a boy, he had heard the masters murmuring their disdain of him and of his desire to learn other than ordinary schoolwork. As a young man he had suffered the insolence of these wretched people about him. Their cackling laughter at his poverty jarred and grated in his ears. He saw the acrid grin of some miserable idiot woman, some creature beneath the swine in intelligence and manners,

merciless as he went by with his eyes on the dust in his ragged clothes. He and his father seemed to pass down an avenue of jeers and contempt, and contempt from such animals as these. This putrid filth, molded into human shape, made only to fawn on the rich and beslaver them, thinking no foulness too foul if it were done in honor of those in power and authority. And no refined cruelty of contempt too cruel if it were contempt of the poor and humble and oppressed.

It was to this obscene and ghastly throng that he was something to be pointed at. And these men and women spoke of sacred things, and knelt before the awful altar of God, before the altar of tremendous fire, surrounded as they professed by angels and archangels and all the company of heaven. And in their very church they had one aisle for the rich and another for the poor. And the species was not peculiar to Carmen, the rich businessmen in London and the successful brother, author, were probably amusing themselves at the expense of the poor struggling creature they had injured and wounded. Just as the healthy boy had burst into a great laugh when the miserable sick cat cried out in bitter agony and trailed its limbs slowly as it

crept away to die. Lucian looked into his own life and his own will, and he saw that in spite of his follies and his want of success, he had not been consciously malignant. He had never deliberately aided in oppression, or looked on it with enjoyment and approval, and he felt that when he lay dead beneath the earth, eaten by swarming worms, he would be in a pure company than now, when he lived amongst human creatures. And he was to call this loathsome beast, all sting and filth, brother. I had rather call the devils my brothers, he said in his heart, I would fare better in hell.

Blood was in his eyes, and as he looked up the sky, seemed of blood, and the earth burned with fire. The sun was sinking low on the mountain when he set out on the way again. Burroughs, the doctor, came home in his trap, met him a little lower on the road, and gave him a friendly good night. Long way round on this road, isn't it? said the doctor. As you have come so far, why don't you try the shortcut across the fields. You will find it easily enough. Second start on the left hand, and then go straight ahead." He thanked Dr. Burroughs and said he would try the shortcut, and Burroughs spanned on homeward. He was a gruff and honest bachelor, and often felt very sorry for the lad, and wished he

could help him. As he drove on, it suddenly occurred to him that Lucian had an awful look on his face, and he was sorry he had not asked him to jump in and to come to supper. A hearty slice of beef, with strong ale, whiskey and soda afterwards, a good pipe and certain revelation tales which the doctor had treasured for many years would have done the poor fellow a lot of good he was certain. He half turned round on his seat and looked to see if Lucian were still in sight, but he had passed the corner and the doctor drove on, shivering a little. The mists were beginning to rise from the wet banks of the river. Lucian trailed slowly along the road, keeping a lookout for the style the doctor had mentioned.

It would be a little of an adventure, he thought, to find his way by an unknown track. He knew the direction in which his home lay, and he imagined he would not have much difficulty in crossing from one style to another. The path led him up a steep bare field, and he was at the top, the town in the valley winding up to the north stretched before him. The river was stilled at the flood, and the yellow water, reflecting the sunset, glowed in its deep pools like dull brass. These burning pools, the level meadows fringed with shuddering reeds, the long dark sweep of the forest on the hill, were all clear and distinct. Yet the light seemed to have clothed them with a new garment, even as voices from the streets of Carmen sounded strangely, mounting up thin with the smoke.

There beneath him lay the huddled cluster of Carmen, the rugged and uneven roofs that marked the winding and sordid streets, here and there a pointed gable rising above its meaner fellows. Beyond, he recognized the piled mounds that marked the circle of the amphitheater, and the dark edge of trees that grew where the Roman wall whitened and waxed old beneath the frosts and rains of eighteen hundred years. Thin and strange mingle together. The voices came up to him on the hill.

It was as if an outland race inhabited the ruined city and talked in a strange language of strange and terrible things. The sun had slid down the sky, and hung quivering over the huge dark dome of the mountain like a burnt sacrifice, and then suddenly vanished. In the afterglow the clouds began to writhe and turn scarlet, and shone so strangely reflected in the pools of the snake-like river, that one would have said the still water stirred.

The fleeting and changing of the clouds seemed to quicken the stream, as if it bubbled and sent up gouts of blood. But already, about the town, the darkness was forming. Fast, fast the shadows crept upon it from the forest, and from all sides, banks and wreaths of curling mist were gathering, as if a ghostly leaguer were being built up against the city and the strange race who lived in its streets. Suddenly there burst out from the stillness the clear and piercing music of the revely, calling, recalling, iterated, reiterated,

and ending with one long, high, fierce, shrill note with which the steep hills rang. Perhaps a boy in the school band was practicing on his bugle, But for Lucian it was magic. For him it was the note of the Roman trumpet, Tuba Miram-Spargum Sonum, filling all the hollow valley with its command, reverberated in dark places in the far forest, and resonant in the old graveyards without the walls. In his imagination he saw the earthen gates of the tombs broken open, and the serried legion swarming to the eagles.

by century they passed by. They rose, dripping from the riverbed. They rose from the level, their armor shone in the quiet orchard. They gathered in ranks and companies from the cemetery, and as the trumpet sounded, the hill fort above the town gave up its dead. By hundreds and thousands, the ghostly battle surged about the standard, behind the quaking mist, ready to march against the moldering walls they had built so many years before. He turned sharply. It was growing very dark, and he was afraid of missing his way. At first the path led him by the verge of a wood. There was a noise of rustling and murmuring from the trees, as if they were taking evil counsel together. A high hedge shut out the sight of the

darkening valley, and he stumbled on mechanically without taking much note of the turnings of the track, and when he came out from the wood-shadow to the open country, he stood for a moment, quite bewildered and uncertain. A dark, wild, twilight country lay before him, confused dim shapes of trees near at hand, and a hollow below his feet, and the further hills and woods were dimmer, and all the air was very still.

Suddenly the darkness about him glowed. A furnace fire had shot up on the mountain, and for a moment the little world of the woodside and the steep hill shone in a pool. shone in a pale light, and he thought he saw his path beaten out in the turf before him. The great flame sank down to a red glint of fire, and it led him on down the ragged slope, his feet striking against the ridges of ground and falling from beneath him at a sudden dip. The bramble bushes shot out long, prickly vines, amongst which he was entangled, and lower

he was held back by wet, bubbling earth. He had descended into a dark and shone, shady valley, beset and tapestried with gloomy thickets. The weird wood noises were the only sounds, strange, unutterable mutterings, dismal, inarticulate. He pushed on in what he hoped was the right direction, stumbling from style to gait, peering through mist and shadow, and still vainly seeking for any known landmark. Presently, another sound broke upon the grim air. The murmur of water poured over stones, gurgling against the old misshapen roots of trees, and running clear in a deep channel. He passed into the chill breath of the brook, and almost fancy he heard two voices speaking in its murmur.

There seemed a ceaseless utterance of words, an endless argument. With the mood of horror pressing on him, he listened to the noise of waters, and the wild fancy seized him that he was not deceived. that two unknown beings stood together there in the darkness and tried the balances of his life and spoke his doom. The hour in the matted thicket rushed over the great bridge of years to his thought. He had sinned against the earth, and the earth trembled and shook for vengeance. He stayed still for a moment, quivering with fear, and at last went on blindly, no longer caring for the path, if only he might escape from the toils of that dismal shuddering.

hollow. As he plunged through the hedges the bristling thorns tore his face and hands. He fell among stinging nettles and was prickled as he beat out his way amidst the gorse. He raised headlong, his head over his shoulder, through a windy wood, bare of undergrowth. There lay about the ground moldering stumps, the relics of trees that had thundered to their fall, crashing and tearing to earth long ago. And from these remains there flowed out of pale, thin radiance, filling the spaces of the sounding wood with a dream of light. He had lost all count of the track. He felt he had fled for hours, climbing and descending, and yet not advancing. It was as if he stood still, and the shadows of the land went by in a vision. But at last a hedge, high and straggling, rose before him.

and as he broke through it, his feet slipped, and he fell headlong down a steep bank into a lane. He lay still, half stunned, for a moment, and then, rising unsteadily, he looked desperately into the darkness before him, uncertain and bewildered. In front it was black as a midnight cellar, and he turned about and saw glint in the distance, as if a candle were flickering in a farmhouse window. He began to walk with trembling feet towards the light, when suddenly something pale started out from the shadows before him, and seemed to swim and float down the air. He was going downhill, and he hastened onwards, and he could see the bars of a style

framed dimly against the sky, and the figure still advanced with that gliding motion. Then, as the road declined to the valley, the landmark he had been seeking appeared. To his right there surged up in the darkness the darker summit of the Roman fort, and the streaming fire of the great full moon glowed through the bars of the wizard oaks, and made a halo shine about the hill. He was now quite close to the white appearance, and saw that it was only a woman walking swiftly down the lane. The floating movement was an effect due to the somber air and the moon's glamour.

the gate, where he had spent so many hours gazing at the fort, they walked foot to foot, and he saw it was Annie Morgan. "'Good evening, Master Lucian,' said the girl. "'It's very dark, sir, indeed.' "'Good evening, Annie,' he answered, calling her by her name for the first time, and saw that she smiled with pleasure. "'You are out late, aren't you?' "'Yes, sir, but I've been taking a bit of supper to old Mrs. Gibbon.

She's been very poorly the last few days, and there's nobody to do anything for her. Then there were really people who helped one another. Kindness and pity were not mere myths, fictions of society, as useful as dough and row and as non-existent. The thought struck Lucian with a shock. The evening's passion and delirium, the wild walk and physical fatigue, had almost shattered him in body and mind. He was degenerate, decadent, and the rough rains and blustering winds of life, which a stronger man would have laughed at and enjoyed, were to him hailstorms and fire-showers.

After all, Monsieur's bite, the publishers, were only sharp men of business, and these terrible Dixon's and Jervaises and collies merely the ordinary limited clergy and gentry of a quiet country town. Sturdier sense would have dismissed Dixon as an old humbug. Stanley Jervais's Esquire J.P. as a bit of a bounder, and the ladies as rather a shoddy lot. But he was walking slowly now in painful silence, his heavy, lagging feet, striking against the loose stones. He was not thinking of the girl beside him, only something seemed to swell and grow and swell within his heart. It was all the torture of his days, weary hopes and weary disappointment, scorn, rankling and throbbing, and the thought, I had rather call the devil's my brothers and live with them in hell. He choked and gasped for breath, and felt involuntary

muscles working in his face, in the impulses of a madman stirring him. He himself was in truth the realization of the vision of Carmen that night, a city with moldering walls beset by the ghostly legion. Life and the world and the laws of the laws of vermin. the sunlight had passed away, and the resurrection and kingdom of the dead began. The Celt assailed him, becoming from the weird wood he called the world, and his far-off ancestors, the little people, crept out of their caves, muttering charms and incantations in hissing inhuman speech. He was beleaguered by desires that had slept in his race for ages. "'I am afraid you are very tired, Master Lucian. Would you like me to give you my hand over this

rough bit. He had stumbled against a great round stone and had nearly fallen. The woman's hand sought his in the darkness, and as he felt the touch of the soft, warm flesh, he moaned, and a pang shot through his arm to his heart. He looked up and found he had only walked a few paces since Annie had spoken. He had thought they had wandered for hours together. The moon was just mounting above the oaks, and the halo round the dark hill brightened. He stopped short, keeping his hold of Annie's hand, looked into her face. A hazy glory of moonlight shone around them and lit up their eyes. He had not greatly altered since his boyhood. His face was pale olive in color, thin and oval. Marks of pain had

gathered about the eyes, and his black hair was already stricken with gray. But the eager, curious gaze still remained, and what he saw before him lit up his sadness with a new fire. She stopped, too, and did not offer to draw away, but looked back with all her heart. They were alike in many ways. Her skin was also of that olive color, but her face was sweet as a beautiful summer night, and her black eyes showed no dimness, and the smile on the scarlet lips was like a flame when it brightens a dark and lonely land. You are sorely tired, Master Lucian. Let us sit down here, the gate. It was Lucian who spoke next.

"'My dear, my dear!' And their lips were together again, and their arms locked together, each holding the other fast. And when the poor lad let his head sink down on his sweetheart's breast and burst into a passion of weeping. The tears streamed down his face, and he shook with sobbing in the happiest moment that he had ever lived. The woman bent over him and tried to comfort him, but his tears were his consolation and his triumph. Annie was whispering to him, her hand laid on his heart. She was whispering beautiful, wonderful words that soothed him as a song. He did not know what they meant. Annie, dear, dear Annie, what are you saying to me? I have never heard such beautiful words. Tell me, Annie, what do they mean?

She laughed and said it was only nonsense that the nurses sang to the children. "'No, no, you are not to call me Master Lucian any more,' he said when they parted. "'You must call me Lucian, and I—I worship you, my dear Annie.' He fell down before her, embracing her knees and adored, and she allowed him, and confirmed his worship. He followed slowly after her, passing the path which led to her home with a longing glance. chance. Nobody saw any difference in Lucian when he reached the rectory. He came in with his usual dreamy indifference, and told how he had lost his way by trying the shortcut. He said he had met Dr. Burroughs on the road, and that he had recommended the path by the fields. Then, as

dully as if he had been reading some story out of a newspaper, he gave his father the outlines of the bite case, producing the pretty little book called The Chorus in Green. The Parsons listened in amazement. "'You mean to tell me that you wrote this book?' he said. He was quite roused. "'No, not all of it. Look, that bit is mine, and that. At the beginning of this chapter, nearly the whole of the third chapter is by me.'

He closed the book without interest, and indeed he felt astonished at his father's excitement. The incident seemed to him unimportant. "'And you say that eighty or ninety pages of this book are yours, and these scoundrels have stolen your work?' "'Well, I suppose they have. I'll fetch the manuscript if you would like to look at it.' The manuscript was duly produced, wrapped in brown paper, with Monsieur's Bites' address label on it, and the post-office dated stamps. And the other book has been out a month. The parson, forgetting the sacerdotal office and his good habit of grinning, swore at Miser's

Byte and Mr. Ritson, calling them damned thieves, and then began to read the manuscript and to compare it with the printed book. "'Why, it's splendid work. My poor fellow,' he said after a while. "'I had no notion you could write so well. I used to think of such things in the old days at Oxford. Old Bill, the tutor used to praise my essays, but I never wrote anything like this. and this inferno-ruffian of Aritson has taken all your best things and mix them up with his own rot to make it go down. Of course, you'll expose the gang.

Lucien was mildly amused. He couldn't enter into his father's feelings at all. He sat smoking in one of the old easy-chairs, taking the rare relish of a hot grog with his pipe, and gazing out of his dreamy eyes at the violent old parson. He was pleased that his father's, liked his book, because he knew him to be a deep and sober scholar and a good judge of good letters, but he laughed to himself when he saw the magic of print. The parson had expressed

no wish to read the manuscript when it came back in disgrace. He had merely grinned, said something about boomerangs, and quoted Horace with relish. Whereas now, before the book in its neat case, lettered with another man's name, his approbation of the writing and his disapproval of the scoundrels, as he called them, were loudly expressed, and though a good smoker, he blew and puffed vehemently at his pipe.

"'You'll expose the rascals, of course, won't you?' he said again. "'Oh, no, I think not. It really doesn't matter much, does it? After all, there are some very weak things in the book. Doesn't it strike you as young?' I have been thinking of another plan, but I haven't done much with it lately. But I believe I've got hold of a really good idea this time,

and if I can manage to see the heart of it, I hope to turn out a manuscript worth stealing. But it's so hard to get at the core of an idea, the heart, as I call it. He went on after a pause. It's like having a box you can't open, though you know there's something wonderful inside. But I do believe I have a fine thing in my hands,

and I mean to try my best to work it. Lucian talked with enthusiasm now, but his father, on his side, could not share these ardors. It was his part to be astonished at excitement over a book that was not even begun, the mere ghost of a book flitting elusive in the world of unborn masterpieces and failures.

He had loved good letters, but he shared unconsciously in the general belief that literary attempt is always pitiful, though he did not subscribe to the other half of the popular faith, that literary success is a matter of very little importance. He thought well of books, but only of printed books. In manuscripts he put no faith, and the Apollo post-futurum tense he could not in any manner conjugate.

He returned once more to the topic of palpable interest. But about this dirty trick these fellows have played on you, You won't sit quietly and bear it, surely. It's only a question of writing to the papers.' They wouldn't put the letter in, and if they did, I should only get laughed at. Some time ago a man wrote to the reader, complaining of his play being stolen. He said that he had sent a little one-act comedy to Burley, the great dramatist, asking for his advice.

Burley gave his advice and took the idea for his very own successful play. So the man said, and I dare say, it was a man. was true enough. But the victim got nothing by his complaint. A pretty state of things, everybody said. Here's a Mr. Thompson that no one has ever heard of, bothers Burley with his rubbish, and then accuses him of petty larceny. Is it likely that a man of Burley's position, a playwright, who can make his five thousand a year easily, would borrow from an unknown Thompson? I should think it very likely indeed, Lucian went on shuckling, but that was their very verdict. No, I don't think I'll write to the papers.

Well, well, my boy, I suppose you know your own business best. I think you are mistaken, but you must do as you like. It's all so unimportant, said Lucian, and he really thought so. He had sweeter things to dream of, and desired no communion of feeling with that madman who had left Carmen some few hours before. He felt he had made a fool of himself. He was ashamed to think of the fatuity of which he had been guilty. Such boiling hatred was not only wicked, but absurd. A man could do no good who put himself into a position of such violent antagonism against his fellow creatures. So Lucien rebuked his heart, saying that he was old enough to know better. But he remembered that he had sweeter things to dream of. There was a secret ecstasy

that he treasured unlocked tied away, as a joy too exquisite, even for thought, till he was quite alone. And then there was that scheme for a new book that he had laid down hopelessly some time ago. It seemed to have arisen into life again within the last hour. He understood that he had started on a false tack. He had taken the wrong aspect of his idea. Of course, the thing couldn't be written in that way. It was like trying to read a page turned upside down, and he saw those characters he had vainly sought suddenly disambushed, and a splendid, inevitable sequence of events unrolled before him. It was a true resurrection.

The dry plot he had constructed revealed itself as a living thing, stirring and mysterious, and warm as life itself. The parson was smoking stolidly to all appearance, but in reality he was full of amazement at his own son, and now and again he slipped sly, furtive glances towards the tranquil young man in the armchair by the empty hearth. In the first place, Mr. Taylor was genuinely impressed by what he had read of Lucian's work. He had so long been accustomed to look upon all effort as futile that success amazed him.

In the abstract, of course, he was prepared to admit that some people did write well and got published and made money, just as other persons successfully backed an outsider at heavy odds. But it had seemed as improbable that Lucian should show even the beginnings of achievement in one direction as in the other. Then the boy evidently cared so little about it. He did not appear to be proud of being worth robbing, nor was he angry with the robbers. He sat back luxuriously in the disreputable old chair, drawing long, slow, wreaths of smoke, tasting his whiskey from time to time, evidently well at ease with himself. The father saw him smile, and it suddenly dawned upon him that his son was very handsome.

He had such kind, gentle eyes and a kind mouth, and his pale cheeks were flushed like a girl's. Mr. Taylor felt moved. What a harmless young fellow Lucian had been! no doubt a little queer and different from others, but wholly inoffensive and patient under disappointment. And Miss Deacon, her contribution to the evening's discussion, had been characteristic. She had remarked, firstly, that writing was a very unsettling occupation, and secondly, that it was extremely foolish to entrust one's property to people of whom one knew nothing.

Father and son had smiled together at these observations, which were probably true enough. Mr. Taylor at last left Lucian alone. He shook hands with a good deal of respect and said, almost deferentially, "'You mustn't work too hard, old fellow. I wouldn't stay up too late if I were you, after that long walk. You must have gone miles out of your way.'

"'I'm not tired now, though. I feel as if I could write my new book on the spot.' And the young man laughed a gay, sweet laugh that struck the father as a new note in his son's life. He sat still a moment after his father had left the room. He cherished his chief treasure of thought in its secret place. He would not enjoy it yet. He drew up a chair to the table at which he wrote, or tried to write, and began taking pens and paper from the drawer. There was a great pile of ruled paper there, all of it used on one side, and signifying many hours of desperate scribbling.

of heart-searching and rack of his brain, an array of poor, eager lines written by a waning fire with waning hope, all useless and abandoned. He took up the sheets cheerfully and began in delicious idleness to look over these fruitless efforts. A page caught his attention. He remembered how he wrote it while a November storm was dashing against the pains. And there was another, with a queer blood in one corner. He had got up from his chair and looked out, and and all the earth was white fairyland, and the snowflakes whirled round and round in the wind. Then he saw the chapter begun of a night in March, a great gale blew that night and rooted up one of the ancient ewes in the churchyard.

He had heard the tree shrieking in the woods, and the long wail of the wind, and across the heaven a white moon fled awfully before the streaming clouds. And all these poor abandoned pages now seemed sweet and passed on happiness was transmuted into happiness, and the nights of toil were holy. He turned over half a dozen leaves and began to sketch out the outlines of the new book on the unused pages, running out a skeleton plan on one page and dotting fancies, suggestions, hints on others. He wrote rapidly, overjoyed to find that loving phrases grew under his pen. A particular scene he had imagined filled him with desire. He gave him. He gave him.

gave his hand free course and saw the written work glowing. The action and all the heat of existence quickened and beat on the wet page. Happy fancies took shape in happier words, and when at last he leaped back in his chair he felt the stir and rush of the story, as if it had been some portion of his own life. He read over what he had done with a renewed pleasure in the nimble and flowing workmanship, and as he put the little pile of manuscript tenderly in the drawer, he paused to enjoy the anticipation of tomorrow's labor. And then, but the rest of the night was given to tender and delicious things, and when he went up to bed, a scarlet dawn was streaming from the east.

End of Chapter 2. Chapter 3 of The Hill of Dreams by Arthur Mackon. This Libervox recording is in the public domain. The Hill of Dreams. Chapter 3 For days Lucian lay in a swoon of pleasure, smiling when he was addressed,

sauntering happily in the sunlight, hugging recollection warm to his heart. Annie had told him that she was going on a visit to her married sister, and said, with a caress, that he must be patient. He protested against her absence, but she fondled him, whispering her charms in his ear till he gave in and then they said goodbye, Lucian adoring on his knees.

The parting was as strange as the meeting, and that night, when he laid his work aside, he let himself sink deep into the joys of memory. All the encounter seemed as wonderful and impossible as magic. "'And you really don't mean to do anything about those rascals?' said his father. "'Rascoes? Which rascals? Oh, you mean bite. I had forgotten all about it. No, I don't think I shall trouble.

They're not worth powder and shot. And he returned to his dream, pacing slowly from the meddler to the quince and back again. It seemed trivial to be interrupted by such questions. He had not even time to think of the book he had recommenced so eagerly, much less of this labor of long ago. He recollected without interest that it caused him many pains, that it was pretty good here and there, and that it had been stolen, and it seemed that there was nothing more to be said on the matter.

He wished to think of the darkness in the lane, of the kind voice that spoke to him, of the kind hand that sought his own, as he stumbled on the rough way. So far it was wonderful. Since he had left school and lost the company of the worthy barbarians who had befriended him there, he had almost lost the sense of kinship with humanity. He had come to dread the human form as men dread the hood of a cobra. To Lucian, a man or a woman, meant something that stung, that spoke words that rankled, and poisoned his life with scorn.

At first, such malignity shocked him. He would ponder over words and glances and wonder if he were not mistaken, and he still sought now and then for sympathy. The poor boy had romantic ideas. about women. He believed they were merciful and pitiful, very kind to the unlucky and helpless. Men perhaps had to be different. After all, the duty of a man was to get on in the world, or, in plain language, to make money, to be successful, to cheat rather than to be cheated, but always to be successful. And he could understand that one who fell below this high standard

must expect to be severely judged by his fellows. For example, there was young Bennett, Miss Spurray's nephew. Lucian had met him once or twice when he was spending his holidays with Miss Spurry, and the two young fellows compare literary notes together. Bennett showed some beautiful things he had written, over which Lucian had grown both sad and enthusiastic. It was such exquisite, magic verse, and so much better than anything he ever hoped to write.

right, that there was a touch of anguish in his congratulations. But when Bennett, after many vain prayers to his aunt, threw up a safe position in the bank and betook himself to a London Garrett, Lucian was not surprised at the general verdict. Mr. Dixon, as a clergyman, viewed the question from a high standpoint, and found it all deplorable. But the general opinion was that Bennett was a hopeless young lunatic. Old Mr. Gervais went purple when his name was mentioned, and the young Dixon sneered very merrily over the adventure. "'I always thought he was a beastly young ass,' said Edward Dixon. But I didn't think he'd chuck away his jenses like that. Said he couldn't stand a bank. I hope he'll be able to stand bread and

water. That's all those literary fellows get, I believe, except Tennyson and Mark Twain and those sort of people. Lucian, of course, sympathized with the unfortunate Bennett, but such judgments were, after all, only natural. The young man might have stayed in the bank and succeeded to his aunt's thousand a year, and everybody would have called him a very nice young fellow, clever, too. But he had deliberately chosen, as Edward Dixon had said, to chuck his chances away for the sake of literature. Piety, and a sense of the main chance had a light pointed the way to a delicate course of wheedling, to a little harmless practicing

on Miss Spurray's infirmities, to frequent compliances of a soothing nature, and the young ass have been blind to the direction of one and the other. It seemed almost right that the vicar should moralize, that Edward Dixon should sneer, and that Mr. Gervais should grow purple with contempt. Men, Lucian thought, were like judges, who may pity the criminal in their hearts, but are forced to vindicate the outraged majesty of the law by a severe sentence. He felt the same consideration applied to his own case. He knew that his father should have had more money, that his clothes should be newer and of a better cut, and that he should have gone to the university and made good friends. If such had been his fortune, he could have looked

his fellow men proudly in the face, upright and unashamed. Having put on the whole armor of a first-rate West End Taylor, with money in his pocket, having taken anxious thought for the morrow, and having some useful friends and good prospects. In such a case, he might have held his head high in a gentlemanly and Christian community. As it was, he had usually avoided the reproachful glance of his fellows, feeling that he deserved their condemnation. But he had cherished for a long time his romantic sentimentalities about women. Literary conventions borrowed from the minor poets and pseudo-medievalists, or so he thought afterwards. But, fresh from school, wearied a little with the perpetual society of barbarian, though worthy boys, he had in his soul

a charming image of womanhood, before which he worshipped with mingled passion and devotion. It was a nude figure, perhaps, but the shining arms were to be wound about the neck of a vanquish night. There was rest for the head of a wounded lover. The hands were stretched forth to do works of pity, and the smiling lips were to murmur, not love alone, but consolation in defeat. Here was the refuge for a broken heart. Here the scorn of men would but make tenderness increase.

Here was all pity and all charity with loving kindness. It was a delightful picture, conceived in the, come rest on this bosom, and a ministering angel thou manner, with touches of allurement that made devotion all the sweeter. He soon found that he had idealized a little. In the affair of young Bennett, while the men were contemptuous, the women were virulent. He had been rather fond of Agatha Gervais, and she, so other lady said, had set her cap at him. Now, when he rebelled and lost the goodwill of his aunt, dear Miss Spurry, Agatha insulted him with all conceivable rapidity.

After all, Mr. Bennett, she said, you will be nothing better than a beggar now, will you? You mustn't think me cruel, but I can't help speaking the truth. Write books! Her expression filled up the incomplete sentence. She waggled with indignant emotion. These passages came to Lucian's ears, and indeed the Gervaises boasted of how well poor Agatha had behaved. Never mind, Gathe, old Gervais had observed.

If the impudent young puppy comes here again, we'll see what Thomas can do with the horse whip. Poor dear child, Mrs. Gervais added in telling the tale, and she was so fond of him too, but, of course, it couldn't go on after his shameful behavior. But Lucene was troubled. He sought vainly for the ideal womanly, the tender note of, come rest on this bosom. Ministering angels, he felt convinced, do not rub red pepper and sulfuric acid into the wounds of suffering mortals.

Then there was the case of Mr. Vaughn, a squire in the neighborhood, at whose board all the aristocracy of Kerman had feasted for years. Mr. Vaughn had a first-rate cook, and his cellar was rare, and he was never so happy as when he shared his good things with his friends. His mother kept his house, and they delighted all the girls with frequent dances, while the men sighed over the amazing champagne. Investments proved disastrous, and Mr. Vaughn had to sell the Grey Manor House by the river.

He and his mother took a little modern stucco villa in the world. in Carmen, wishing to be near their dear friends. But the men were, very sorry, rough on you, Vaughan. Always thought those Patagonians were risky, but you wouldn't hear of it. Hope we shall see you before very long. You and Mrs. Vaughan must come to tea some day after Christmas. Of course, we are all very sorry for them, said Henrietta Dixon. No, we haven't called on Mrs. Vaughn yet.

They have no regular servant, you know. only a woman in the morning. I hear old Mother Vaughan, as Edward will call her, does nearly everything, and their house is absurdly small. It's little more than a cottage. One really can't call it a gentleman's house. Then Mr. Vaughan, his heart in the dust, went to the Gervais's and tried to borrow five pounds of Mr. Gervais.

He had to be ordered out of the house, and, as Edith Gervais said, It was all very painful. He went out in such a funny way, she added, just like a dog when he's had a whipping. Of course it's sad, even if it is all his own fault, as everybody says, but he looked so ridiculous as he was going down the steps that I couldn't help laughing. Mr. Vaughn heard the ringing, youthful laughter as he crossed the lawn.

Young girls, like Henrietta Dix, and Edith Jervais naturally viewed the Vaughan's comical position with all the high spirits of their age. But the elder ladies could not look at matters in this frivolous light. "'Hush, dear, hush,' said Mrs. Jervais. It's all too shocking to be a laughing matter. Don't you agree with me, Mrs. Dixon? The sinful extravagance that went on at the penter always frightened me. You remember that ball they gave last year? Mr. Jervais assured me that that the champagne must have cost at least a hundred and fifty shillings the dozen. "'It's dreadful, isn't it?' said Mrs. Dixon,

when one thinks of how many poor people there are who would be thankful for a crust of bread. "'Yes, Mrs. Dixon,' Agatha joined in, "'and you know how absurdly the Vaughn spoilt the cottagers. "'Oh, it was really wicked. "'One would think Mr. Vaughn wished to make them above their station. Edith and I went for a walk one day nearly as far as Penter, and we begged a glass of water of old Mrs. Jones who lives in that pretty cottage near the brook. She began praising the vorns in the most fulsome manner, and showed us some flannel things they had given her at Christmas.

I assure you, my dear Mrs. Dixon, the flannel was the very best quality. No lady could wish for better. It couldn't have cost less than half a crown a yard. I know, my dear, I know. I "'No. Mr. Dixon always said it couldn't last. How often I have heard him say that the vans were pauperizing all the common people about Penter, and putting everyone else in a most unpleasant position. Even from a worldly point of view, it was very poor taste on their part, so different from the true charity that Paul speaks of. "'I only wish they had given away nothing worse than flannel,' said Miss Colley, a young lady of very strict views.

But I assure you there was a perfect orgy, I can call it nothing else, every Christmas. Great joints of prime beef and barrels of strong beer, and snuff and tobacco distributed wholesale, as if the poor wanted to be encouraged in their disgusting habits. It was really impossible to go through the village for weeks after. The whole place was poisoned with the fumes of horrid tobacco pipes. "'Well, we see how that sort of thing ends,' said Mrs. Dixon, summing up judicially.

"'We had intended to call, but I really think it would be impossible after what Mrs. Jervais has told us. The idea of Mr. Vaughn trying to sponge on poor Mr. Jervais in that shabby way, I think meanness of that kind is so hateful.' It was the practical side of all this that astonished Lucian. He saw that in reality there was no high-flown quixitism in a woman's nature. The smooth arms, made he had thought for caressing, seemed muscular. The hands meant for the doing of works of pity in his system, appeared dexterous in the giving of stingers, as Barnes might say,

and the smiling lips could sneer with great ease. Nor was he more fortunate in his personal experiences. As has been told, Mrs. Dixon spoke of him in connection with judgments, and the younger ladies did not exactly cultivate his acquaintance. Theoretically, they adored books and thought poetry too sweet, but in practice they preferred talking about mares and fox-terriers and their neighbors. They were nice girls enough, very like other young ladies and other country towns, content with the teaching of their parents, reading the Bible every morning in their bedrooms,

and sitting every Sunday in church amongst the well-dressed sheep on the right hand. It was not their fault if they failed to satisfy the ideal of an enthusiastic, dreamy boy. And indeed they would have thought his feigned woman immodest, absurdly sentimental, a fright, never where stays, my dear, and horrid. At first he was a good deal grieved at the loss of that charming, tender woman, the work of his brain. When the Miss Dixon's went haughtily by with a scornful waggle, when the Miss Gervais's passed in the wagonette laughing as the mud splashed him, the poor fellow would look up with a face

of grief that must have been very comic, like a dying duck, as Edith Jervais said. Edith was really very pretty, and he was very pretty. he would have liked to talk to her even about Fox Terriers if she would have listened. One afternoon at the Dixons he really forced himself upon her, and with all the obtuseness of an enthusiastic boy tried to discuss the lotus-eaters of Tennyson. It was too absurd. Captain Kempton was making signals to Edith all the time, and Lieutenant Gatwick had gone off in disgust, and he had promised to bring her a puppy by Vic out of wasp. At last the poor girl could bear it no longer.

Yes, it's very sweet, she said at last. When did you say you were going to London, Mr. Taylor? It was about the time that his disappointment became known to everybody, and the shot told. He gave her a piteous look and slunk off, just like the dog when he's had a whipping, to use Edith's own expression. Two or three lessons of this description.

produced their due effect, and when he saw a male Dixon or Jervais approaching him, he bit his lip and summoned up his courage. But when he described a ministering angel, he made haste and hid behind a hedge or took to the woods. In course of time, the desire to escape became an instinct, to be followed as a matter of course, in the same way he avoided the adders on the mountain. His old ideas were almost if not quite forgotten. He knew that the female of the bet humane, like the adder, would in all probability sting, and he therefore shrank from its trail, but without any feeling of special resentment. The one had a poisoned tongue, as the other had a poisoned fang, and it was well to leave them

both alone. Then had come that sudden fury of rage against all humanity, as he went out of the Carmen, carrying the book that had been stolen from him by the enterprising bite. He shuddered as he thought of how nearly he had approached the verge of madness, when his eyes filled with blood and the earth seemed to burn with fire. He remembered how he had looked up to the horizon and the sky was blotched with scarlet, and the earth was deep red, with red woods and red fields. There was something of horror in the memory, and in the vision of that wild night, walked through dim country, when every shadow seemed a symbol of some terrible impending doom.

The murmur of the brook, the wind shrilling through the wood, the pale light flowing from the moldered trunks, and the picture of his own figure fleeing and fleeting through the shades. All these seemed unhappy things that told a story in fatal hieroglyphics. And then the life and laws of the sunlight had passed away, and the resurrection and kingdom of the dead began. Though his limbs were weary, he had felt his muscles grow strong as steel. A woman, one of the hated race, was beside him in the darkness, and the wild beast woke within him, ravening for blood and brutal lust. All the raging desires of the dim race from which he came assailed his heart. The ghosts issued out from the weird wood and from the caves in the hills, besieging

him, as he had imagined the spiritual legion besieging Carmen, beckoning him to a hideous battle and a victory that he had never imagined in his wildest dreams. And then, out of the darkness, the kind voice spoke again, and the kind hand was stretched out to draw him up from the pit. It was sweet to think of that which he had found at last. The boy's picture incarnate, all the passion and compassion of his longing. all the pity and love and consolation. She, that beautiful, passionate woman,

offering up her beauty and sacrifice to him, she was worthy indeed of his worship. He remembered how his tears had fallen upon her breast, and how tenderly she had soothed him, whispering those wonderful, unknown words that sang to his heart. And she had made herself defenseless before him, caressing and fondling the body that had been so despised. He exulted in the happy thought that he had knelt down on the ground before her

and had embraced her knees and worshipped. The woman's body had become his religion. He lay awake at night looking into the darkness with hungry eyes, wishing for a miracle that the appearance of the so-desired form might be shaped before him. And when he was alone in quiet places in the wood, he fell down again on his knees, and even on his face, stretching out vain hands in the air as if they would feel her flesh. His father noticed in those days that the inner pocket of his coat was stuffed with papers.

He would see Lucian walking up and down in a secret shady place at the bottom of the orchard, reading from his sheaf of manuscript, replacing the leaves and again drawing them out. He would walk a few quick steps and pause as if enraptured, gazing in the air as if he looked through the shadows of the world into some sphere of glory, feigned by his thought. Mr. Taylor was almost alarmed at the sight. He concluded, of course, that Lucien was writing a book. In the first place there seemed something immodest in seeing the operation performed under one's eyes.

It was as if the makeup of a beautiful actress were done on the stage. stage, in full audience. As if one saw the rounded calves fixed in position, the flushings drawn on, the voluptuous outlines of the figure produced by means purely mechanical, blushes mantling from the paint-pot, and the golden tresses well secured by the wig-maker. Books, Mr. Taylor thought, should swim into one's ken mysteriously. They should appear all printed and bound without a parent genesis, just as children are suddenly told that they have a little sister, found by Mama in the garden. But Lucian was not only engaged in composition, he was plainly rapturous, enthusiastic. Mr. Taylor saw him throw up his hands and bow his head

with strange gesture. The parson began to fear that his son was like some of those mad Frenchmen of whom he had read. Young fellow, who had a sort of fury of literature, who gave their whole lives to it, spending days over a page and years over a book, pursuing art as Englishmen pursue money, building up a romance as if it were a business. Now Mr. Taylor held firmly by the walking-stick theory. He believed that a man of letter should have a real profession, some solid employment in life. Get something to do, he would have liked to say, and then you can write as much as you please.

Look at Scott, look at Dickens, and Trollope. And then there was the social point of view. It might be right, or it might be wrong, but there could be no doubt that the literary man, as such, was not thought much of in English society. Mr. Taylor knew his thackeray, and he remembered that old Major Pendennis, society personified, did not exactly boast of his nephew's occupation.

Even Warrington was rather ashamed to own his connection with journalism, and Pendennis himself laughed openly at his novel writing as an agreeable way of making money, a useful appendage to the cultivation of Dukes, his true business in life. This was the plain English view, and Mr. Taylor was no doubt right enough in thinking it good, practical common sense. Therefore, when he saw Lucian loitering and sauntering, musing amorously over his manuscript, exhibiting manifest signs of that fine fury which Britons have ever found absurd,

he felt grieved at heart, and more than ever sorry that he had not been able to send the boy to Oxford. B and C would have knocked all this nonsense out of him, he thought. He would have taken a double first like my poor father and made something of a figure, in the world. However, it can't be helped. The poor man sighed and lit his pipe and walked in another part of the garden. But he was mistaken in his diagnosis of the symptoms. The book that Lucien had begun lay unheeded in the drawer. It was a secret work that he was engaged on, and the manuscripts that he took out of that inner pocket never left him day or night. He slept with

them next to his heart, and he would kiss them when he was quite alone, and pay them such devotion as he would have paid to her whom they symbolized. He wrote on these leaves a wonderful ritual of praise and devotion. It was the liturgy of his religion. Again and again he copied and recopied this madness of a lover, dallying all days over the choice of a word, searching for more exquisite phrases. No common words, no such phrases as he might use in a tale would suffice. The sentences of worship must stir and be quickened, they must glow and burn, and be decked out as with rare work of jewelry. Every part of that holy and beautiful body must be adored. He sought for terms of extravagant praise. He bent his soul and mind low before her, licking the dust under her feet,

abased and yet rejoicing as a templar before the image of buffomit. He exulted more especially in the knowledge that there was nothing of the conventional or common in his ecstasy. He was not the fervent, adoring lover of Tennyson's poems, who loves with passion and yet with a proud respect, with the love always of a gentleman for a lady. Annie was not a lady. The Morgans had farmed their land for hundreds of years. They were what Miss Gervais and Miss Colley and the rest of them called common people. Tennyson's noble gentleman thought of their ladies with something of reticence. They imagined them dressed in flowing and courtly robes, walking with slow dignity. They dreamed of them as always stately, the future mistresses of their houses, mothers of their

heirs. Such lovers bowed, but not too low, remembering their own honor, before those who were to be equal companions and friends as well as wives. It was not such conceptions as these that he embodied in the amazing emblems of his ritual. He was not, he told himself, a young officer, something in the city, or a rising barrister, engaged to a Miss Dixon or Miss Gervais. He had not thought of looking out for a nice little house in a good residential suburb, where they would have pleasant society. There were to be no consultations about wallpapers or jocose whispers from friends as to the necessity of having a room that would do for a nursery. No glad young thing had leant on his arm while they chose the

sweet and white enamel, and China for our bedroom, and the modest salesman doing his best to spare their blushes. When Edith Gervais married, she would get Mama to look out for two really good servants, as we must begin quietly, and Mama would make sure that the drains and everything were right. Then her girlfriends would come on a certain solemn day to see all her lovely things. Two dozen of everything! Look, Ethel, did you ever see such ducky frills? And that insertion, isn't it quite too sweet?

My dear Edith, you are a lucky girl. All the underlinen specially made by Madame Lulu. What delicious things! I hope he knows what a prize he is winning. Oh, do look at those lovely ribbon bows. You, darling, how happy you must be. Real Valenciennes. Then, a whisper in the lady's ear, and her reply,

"'Oh, don't, Nellie!' So they would chirp over their treasures, as in Rabaulay they chirped over their cups, and everything would be done in due order till the wedding day, when Mama, who had strained her sinews and the commandments to bring the match about, would weep and look indignantly at the unhappy bridegroom. "'I hope you'll be kind to her, Robert.' Then, in a rapid whisper to the bride, "'Mind, you insist on Wyman's flushing the drains when you come back.

Servants are so careless and dirty, too. Don't let him go about by himself in Paris. Men are so queer one never knows. You have got the pills.' And aloud, after these, Cicreta, "'God bless you, my dear. Good-bye! Cluck, cluck, good-bye!'

There were stranger things written in the menu. script pages that Lucian cherished, sentences that burnt and glowed like coals of fire which hath a most vehement flame. There were phrases that stung and tingled as he wrote them, and sonorous words poured out in ecstasy and rapture, as in some of the old litanies. He hugged the thought that a great part of what he had invented was in the true sense of the word occult. page after page might have been read aloud to the uninitiated without betraying the inner meaning. He dreamed night and day over these symbols. He copied and recopied the manuscript nine times before he wrote it out fairly in a little book, which he had made himself of a skin of creamy vellum.

In his mania for acquirements that should be entirely useless, he had gained some skill in illumination, or limning, as he preferred to call it, always chiener, choosing the obscure word as the obscure arts. First, he set himself to the severe practice of the text. He spent many hours and days of toil in struggling to fashion the serried columns of black letter, writing and rewriting till he could shape the massive character with firm true hand.

He cut his quills with the patience of a monk in the scriptorium, shaving and altering the nib, lightning and increasing the pressure and flexibility of the points, till the pen satisfied him and gave a stroke both broad and even. Then he made experiments in in inks, searching for some medium that would rival the glossy black letter of the old manuscripts, and not till he could produce a fair page of text did he turn to the more entrancing labor of the capitals and borders and ornaments. He mused long over the Lombardic letters. as glorious in their way as a cathedral, and trained his hand to execute the bold and flowing lines.

And then there was the art of the border, blossoming in fretted splendor all about the page. His cousin, Miss Deacon, called it all a great waste of time, and his father thought he would have done much better in trying to improve his ordinary handwriting, which was both ugly and illegible. Indeed, there seemed but a poor demand for the Limner's art. He sent some specimens of his skill to an artistic firm in London, a verse of the maud curiously emblazoned, and a Latin hymn with the notes pricked on a red stave.

The firm wrote civilly, telling him that his work, though good, was not what they wanted, and enclosing an illuminated text. "'We have great demand for this sort of thing,' they concluded, And if you care to attempt something in this style, we should be pleased to look at it. The said text was, Thou God, seest me. The letter was of a degraded form, bearing much the same relation to the true character as a church-warden Gothic building does to Canterbury Cathedral.

The colors were varied. The initial was pale gold, the H-pink, the old black, the U-blue, and the first letter was somehow connected with a bird's nest, containing the young of the pigeon, who were waited on by the female bird. "'What a pretty text,' said Miss Deacon. "'I should like to nail it up in my room. Why don't you try to do something like that, Lucian? You might make something by it.' "'I sent them these,' said Lucian,

but they don't like them much. "'My dear boy, I should think not. Like them? What were you thinking of to draw those queer, stiff flowers all round the border? Roses! They don't look like roses at all events. Where do you get such ideas from? But the design is appropriate.

Look at the words. My dear Lucian, I can't read the words. It's such a queer, old-fashioned writing. Look how plain that text is. One can see what it's about. And this other one, I can't. can't make it out at all. It's a Latin hymn. A Latin hymn? Is it a Protestant hymn? I may be old-fashioned, but hymns ancient and modern is quite good enough for me. This is the music, I suppose.

But, my dear boy, there are only four lines, and whoever heard of note shaped like that. You have made some square and some diamond shape? Why didn't you look in your poor mother's old music? It's in the ottoman in the drawing-room. I could have shown you how to make the notes. There are crochets, you know, and quavers. Miss Deacon laid down the illuminated herbs beeta in despair. She felt convinced that her cousin was next door to an idiot. And he went out into the garden and raged behind a hedge.

He broke two flower-pots and hid an apple-tree very hard with his stick, and then, feeling more calm, wondered, what was the use in trying to do anything. He would not have put the thought into words, but in his heart he was aggrieved that his cousin liked the pigeons and the text and did not like his emblematical roses and the Latin hymn. He knew he had taken great pains over the work,

and that it was well done, and being still a young man, he expected praise. He found that in this hard world there was a lack of appreciation. A critical spirit seemed to be. abroad. If he could have been scientifically observed as he writhed and smarted under the strictures of the old fool, as he rudely called his cousin, the spectacle would have been extremely diverting. Little boys sometimes enjoy a very similar entertainment. Either with their

tiny fingers or with Mama's nail scissors, they gradually deprive a fly of its wings and legs. The odd gyrations and queer thin buzzing of the creature, as it spins comically round and round, never failed to provide a fund of harmless amusement. Lucian, indeed, fancied himself a very ill-used individual, but he should have tried to imitate the nervous organization of the flies, which, as Mama says, can't really feel. But now, as he prepared the vellum leaves, he remembered his art with joy. He had not labored to do beautiful work in vain.

He read over his manuscript once more and thought of the designing of the pages. He made sketches on furtive sheets of paper, and hunted up books in his father's library for suggestions. There were books about architecture and medieval ironwork, and brasses which contributed hints for adornment, and not content with mere pictures, he sought in the woods and hedges, scanning the strange forms of trees, and the poisoned growth of great water plants, and the parasite twining of honeysuckle and briny. In one of these rambles he discovered a red earth which he made into a pigment, and he found in the unctuous juice of a certain fern, an ingredient which he thought made his black ink

still more glossy. His book was written all in symbols, and in the same spirit of symbolism him, he decorated it, causing wonderful foliage to creep about the text, and showing the blossom of certain mystical flowers, with emblems of strange creatures, caught and bound in rose thickets. All was dedicated to love and a lover's madness, and there were songs in it which haunted him with their lilt and refrain. When the book was finished, it replaced the loose leaves as his constant companion by day and night. Three times a day he repeated his ritual to himself, seeking out the loneliest places in the woods, or going up to his room, and from the fixed intentness and rapture of his gaze,

the father thought him still severely employed in the questionable process of composition. At night he contrived to wake for his strange courtship, and he had a peculiar ceremony when he got up in the dark and lit his candle. From a steep and wild hillside, not far from the house, he had cut from time to time five large boughs of spiked and prickly gorse. He had brought them into the house one by one, and had hidden them in the big box that stood beside his bed. Often he woke up weeping and murmuring to himself the words of one of his songs,

and then when he had lit the candle, he would draw out the gorse boughs and place them on the floor, and taking off his nightgown, gently lay himself down on the bed of thorns and spines. Lying on his face, with the candle in the book before him, he would softly and tenderly repeat the praises of his dear, dear Annie, and as he turned over page after page, and saw the raised gold of the magescules glow and flame in the candlelight, he pressed the thorns in into his flesh. At such moments he tasted in all its acute savor the joy of physical pain. And after two or three experiences of such delights he altered his book, making a curious sign

in Vermilion on the margin of the passages where he was to inflict on himself this sweet torture. Never did he fail to wake at the appointed hour. A strong effort of will broke through all the heaviness of sleep, and he would rise up, joyful, though weeping, and reverently set his thorny bed upon the floor, offering his pain with his praise. When he had whispered the last word and had risen from the ground, his body would be all freckled with drops of blood. He used to view the marks with pride. Here and there a spine would be left deep in the flesh, and he would pull these out roughly, tearing through the skin. On some nights, when he had pressed with more fervor on the thorns, his thighs would stream

with blood, red beads standing out on the flesh and trickling down to his feet. He had some difficulty in washing away the bloodstains, so as not to leave any traces to attract the attention of the servant. And after a time he returned no more to his bed when his duty had been accomplished. For coverlet he had a dark rug, a good deal worn, and in this he would wrap his naked bleeding body and lie down on the hard floor, well content to add an aching rest to the account of his pleasures. He was covered with scars, and those that healed during the day were torn open afresh at night. The pale olive skin was red with the angry marks of blood, and the graceful form of the young man appeared like the body of a tortured

martyr. He grew thinner and thinner every day, for he ate but little. The skin was stretched on the bones of his face, and the black eyes burnt in dark purple hollows. His relations noticed that he was not looking well. "'Now, Lucian, it's perfect madness of you to go on like this,' said Miss Deacon one morning at breakfast. "'Look how your hands shakes. Some people would say that you have been taking brandy. And all that you want is a little medicine, and yet you won't be advised. You know it's not my fault. I have asked you to try Dr. Jelly's cooling powders again and again. He remembered the forcible exhibition of the powders when he was a boy, and felt thankful that those days were over. He only grinned at his cousin and swallowed a great cup of strong

tea to steady his nerves, which were shaky enough. Mrs. Dixon saw him, one day in Carmen. It was very hot, and he had been walking rather fast. The scars on his body burnt and tingled, and he tottered as he raised his hat to the vicar's wife. She decided, without further investigation, that he must have been drinking in public houses. It seems a mercy that poor Mrs. Taylor was taken, she said to her husband. She has certainly been spared a great deal. That wretched young man passed me this afternoon. He was quite intoxicated. Oh, very sad, said Mr. Dixon. A little port, my dear. Thank you, Mary Vale. I will have another glass of sherry. Dr. Burroughs is always scolding me and saying I must take something to

keep up my energy, and this sherry is so weak. The Dixon's were not teetotolers. They regretted it deeply and blamed the doctor, who insisted on some stimulant. However, there was some consolation in trying to convert the parish to total abstinence, or, as they curiously called it, temperance. Old women were warned of the sin of taking a glass of beer for supper. Aged laborers were urged to try corkho the new temperance drink. An uncouth beverage, styled coffee, was dispensed at the reading room. Mr. Dixon preached an eloquent, temperate sermon, soon after the above conversation,

taking as his text, Beware of the leaven of the Pharisees. In his discourse he showed that fermented liquor and leaven had much in common, that beer was at the present day put away during Passover by the strict Jews, and in a moving peroration he urged his dear brethren, and, more especially, those amongst us who are poor in this world's goods, to beware indeed of that evil leaven which was sapping the manhood of our nation. Mrs. Dixon cried after the church, "'Oh, Maryvale, what a beautiful sermon! How earnest you were! I hope it will do good!'

Mr. Dixon swallowed his port with great decorum, but his wife fuddled herself every evening with cheap sherry. She was quite unaware of the fact of the fact of her own. fact, and sometimes wondered in a dim way why she always had to scold the children after dinner. And so strange things sometimes happened in the nursery, and now and then the children looked queerly at one another after a red-faced woman had gone out, panting. Lucian knew nothing of his accuser's trials, but he was not long in hearing of his own intoxication. The next time he went down to Carmen, he was hailed by the doctor. "'Be drinking again today?'

"'No,' said Lucian in a puzzled voice. "'What do you mean?' "'Oh, well, if you haven't, that's all right, as you'll be able to take a drop with me. Come along in?' Over whiskey and pipes, Lucian heard of the evil rumors affecting his character. "'Mrs. Nixon assured me you were staggering from one side of the street to the other. "'You quite frightened her,' she said. Then she asked me if I recommended her to take one or two ounces of spirit at bedtime for

the palpitation, and of course I told her two would be better. I have my living to make here, you know, and upon my word I think she wants it. She's always gurgling inside like waterworks. I wonder how old Dixon can stand it. I like ounces of spirit, said Lucian. That's taking it medicinally, I suppose. I've often heard of ladies who have to take it medicinally, and that's how it's done. That's it. Dr. Burroughs won't listen to me. I tell him how I dislike the taste of spirits,

but he says they are absolutely necessary for my constitution. My medical man insists on something at bedtime. That's the style. Lucian laughed gently. All these people have become indifferent to him. He could no longer feel savage indignation at their little hypocrisies and malignancies. Their voices, uttering calumny and morality and futility, had become like the thin, shrill, angry note of a gnat on a summer evening. He had his own thoughts and his own life, and he passed on without heeding. "'You come down to Cairman pretty often, don't you?' said the doctor. "'I've seen you two or three times in the last. Last fortnight."

"'Yes, I enjoy the walk.' "'Well, look me up whenever you like, you know. I am often in just at this time, and a chat with a human being isn't bad now and then. It's a change for me. I'm often afraid I shall lose my patience.' The doctor had the weakness of these terrible puns, dragged headlong into the conversation. He sometimes exhibited them before Mrs. Jervais, who would smile in a faint and dignified manner and say, "'Ah, I see. Very amusing, indeed. We had an old coachman once who was very clever,

I believe, at that sort of thing, but Mr. Gervais was obliged to send him away. The laughter of the other domestics was so very boisterous.' Lucian laughed, not boisterously, but good-humoredly at the doctor's joke. He liked Burroughs, feeling that he was a man and not an automatic gabbling machine. You look a little pulled down, said the doctor, when Lucian rose to go. No, you don't want my medicine. Plenty of beef and beer will do you more good than drugs. I dare say it's the hot weather that has thinned you a bit. Oh, you'll be all right again in a month.

As Lucian strolled out of the town on his way home, he passed a small crowd of urchins assembled at the corner of an orchard. They were enjoying themselves immensely. The healthy boy, the same whom he had seen some weeks ago operating on a cat, seemed to have recognized his selfishness in keeping his amusements to himself. He had found a poor lost puppy, a little creature with bright, pitiful eyes, almost human in their fond, friendly gaze. It was not a well-bred little dog.

It was certainly not that famous puppy by Vic out of Wasp, It had rough hair and a foolish long tail which it wagged beseechingly, at once deprecating severity and asking kindness. The poor animal had evidently been used to gentle treatment. It would look up in a boy's face and give him a leap, fawning on him, and then bark in a small, doubtful voice, and cower moments on the ground, astonished perhaps at the strangeness, the bustle and animation. The boys were beside themselves with eagerness. There was quite a babble of voices, arguing,

discussing, suggesting. Each one had a plan of his own which he brought before the leader, a stout and sturdy youth. "'D drown him! What you be thinking of, mum?' he was saying. "'Take no spart at all. You shut your mouth, gays. You be going to ask your mother for the boiling water? Is Bob Williams? I do know all that. But where be you are going to get the fire from. Be quiet, man, can't you? Thomas Trevor, be this dog urine or mine. Now look you, if you don't all of you shut your bloody mouths, I'll take the dog home and keep him. There now. He was a born leader of men. A singular depression and lowness of spirit showed itself on the boy's faces. They recognized that the threat might very possibly be executed,

and their countenances were at once composed to humble attention. The puppy was still cowering on the ground in the midst of them. One or two tried to relieve the tension of their feelings by kicking him in the belly with their hobnail boots. It cried out with the pain and writhed a little, but the poor little beast did not attempt to bite or even snarl. It looked up with those beseeching friendly eyes at its persecutors, and faunaed them again and tried to wag its tail and be merry, pretending to play with a straw on the road, hoping

perhaps to win a little favor in that way. The leader saw the moment for his masterstroke. He slowly drew a piece of rope from his pocket. "'What do you say to that, man? Now, Thomas Trevor, will hang him over there bow. Will that suit you, Bobby Williams?' There was a great shriek of approval and delight. All was again bustle and animation.

I'll tie it round his neck. Get out, man. You don't know how it be done. Is I do, Charlie. Now let me, guays, now do let me. You be sure he won't bite? He ain't mad, be he? Suppose we were to tie up his mouth first.

The puppy still fond and curried favor and wagged that sorry tail and laid down crouching on one side of the road, sad and sorry in his heart, but still with a little gleam of hope. For now and again he tried to play and put up his face, praying with those fond, friendly eyes. And then, at last, his gambles and poor efforts for mercy ceased, and he lifted up his wretched voice in one long, dismal whine of despair.

But he licked the hand of the boy that tied the noose. He was slowly and gently swung into the air as Lucian went by unheeded. He struggled, and his legs twisted and writhed. The healthy boy pulled the rope, and his friends danced and shouted with good. glee. As Lucian turned the corner, the poor dangling body was swinging to and fro. The puppy was dying, but he still kicked a little. Lucian went on his way hastily and shuddering with disgust. The young of the human creature were really too horrible. They defiled the earth and made existence

unpleasant, as the pulpy growth of a noxious and obscene fungus spoils an agreeable walk. The sight of those malignant little animals with mouths that uttered cruelty, and filthy, with hands dexterous in torture, and feet swift to run all evil errands, had given him a shock and broken up the world of strange thoughts in which he had been dwelling. Yet it was no good being angry with them. It was their nature to be very loathsome. Only he wished they would go about their hideous amusements in their own back gardens where nobody could see them at work. It was too bad that he should be interrupted and offended in a quiet country road. He tried to put the incident out of his mind as if the whole thing had been a disagreeable story,

and the visions amongst which he wished to move were beginning to return when he was again rudely disturbed. A little girl, a pretty child of eight or nine, was coming along the lane to meet him. She was crying bitterly and looking to left and right, calling out some word all the time. Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack, little Jackie, Jack! Then she burst into tears afresh and peered into the hedge, and tried to peep through a gate into a field. Jackie, Jackie, Jackie!

She came up to Lucian, sobbing as if her heart would break, and dropped him an old-fashioned curtsy. Oh, please, sir, have you seen my little Jackie? What do you mean, said Lucian? What is it you've lost? A little dog, please, sir. A little terrier dog with white hair. Father gave me him a month ago and said I might keep him.

Someone did leave the garden gate open this afternoon, and he must have got away, sir, and I was so fond of him, sir, he was so playful and loving, and I'd be afraid he be lost. She began to call again without waiting for an answer. Jack! Jack! Jack! Jack! I'm afraid some boys have got your little dog, said Lucian.

They've killed him. You'd better go back home. He went on, walking as fast as he could in his endeavor to get beyond the noise of the child's crying. It distressed him, and he wished to think of other things. He stamped his foot angrily on the ground as he recalled the annoyances of the afternoon, and longed for some hermitage on the mountains, far above the stench, and the sound of humanity. A little farther, and he came to Crosswin, where the road branched off to right and left.

There was a triangular plot of grass between the two roads. There the cross had once stood, the goodly and famous rude of the old local chronicle. The words echoed in Lucian's ears as he went by on the right hand. There were five steps that did go up to the first pace, and seven steps to the second pace, all of clean hewn Ashler, and all above it was most curiously and gloriously wrought with thorough, carved work. In the highest place was the holy rude with Christ upon the cross, having Mary on one side and John on the other, and below

were six splendid and glistering archangels that bore up the rude, and beneath them in their stories were the most fair and noble images of the twelve apostles, and of diverse other saints and martyrs. And in the lowest story there was a marvelous imagery of diverse beasts, such as oxen and horses and swine, and little dogs and peacocks, all done in the finest and most curious wise, so that they all seemed as they were caught in a wood of thorns, the which is their torment of this life. And here, once in the year, was a marvelous solemn service, when the parson of Carmen came out with the singers and all the people singing the song Benedesite Omnia Opera as they passed along the road in their procession. And when they stood at the rude, the priest did there his service,

making certain prayers for the beasts, and then he went up to the first pace and preached a sermon to the people, showing them that as our Lord Jew died upon the tree, of his dear mercy for us, and so we too O mercy to the beasts his creatures, for that they are all his poor legions and silly servants. And that, like as the holy Anjus do their suit to him on high, and the blessed twelve apostles and the martyrs and all the blissful saints served him aforetime on earth, and now praise him in heaven, so also do the beasts serve him, though they be in torment of life and below men, for their spirit goeth downward as holy writ teacheth us. It was a quaint old record, a curious relic of what the modern inhabitants of Carmen

called the Dark Ages. A few of the stones that had formed the base of the cross still remained in position, gray with age, blotched with black lichen and green moss. The remainder of the famous rude have been used to mend the roads, to build pigsties and domestic office. It had turned Protestant, in fact. Indeed, if it had remained, the parson of Carmen would have had no time for the service. The coffee stall, the Portuguese missions, the Society for the Conversion of the Jews, and important social duties took up all his leisure. Besides, he thought the whole ceremony unscriptural.

Lucian passed on his way, wondering at the strange contrasts of the Middle Ages, How was it that people who could devise so beautiful a service believed in witchcraft, demoniacal possession and obsession, in the incubus and succubus, and in the Sabbath, and in many other horrible absurdities? It seemed astonishing that anybody could even pretend to credit such monstrous tales, but there could be no doubt that the dread of old women who rode on broomsticks and liked black cats was once a very genuine terror. A cold wind blew up from the river at sunset, and the scars on his body began to burn and tingle.

The pain recalled his ritual to him, and he began to recite it as he walked along. He had cut a branch of thorn from the hedge and placed it next to his skin, pressing the spikes into the flesh with his hand till the warm blood ran down. He felt it was an exquisite and sweet observance for her sake. And then he thought of the secret golden palace he was building for her, the rare and wonderful city rising in his imagination. As the solemn night began to close about the earth, and the last glimmer of the sun faded from the hills, he gave himself anew to the woman, his body and his mind, all that he was,

and all that he had. End of Chapter 3. Chapter 4. of the Hill of Dreams by Arthur Mackon. This Libravox recording is in the public domain. The Hill of Dreams Chapter 4 In the course of the week, Lucian again visited Carmen.

He wished to view the amphitheater more precisely, to note the exact position of the ancient walls, to gaze up the valley from certain points within the town, to imprint minutely and clearly on his mind the surge of the hills about the city, and the dark tapestry of the hanging woods. And he lingered in the museum where the relics of the Roman occupation had been stored. He was interested in the fragments of tessellated floors, in the glowing gold of drinking cups, the curious beads of fused and colored glass, the carved amberwork,

the scent flagons that still retain the memory of unctuous odors, the necklaces, brooches, hairpins of gold and silver, and other intimate objects which had once belonged to Roman ladies. One of the glass flagons, buried in damp earth for many hundred years, had gathered in its dark grave all the splendors of the light, and now shone like an opal with a moonlight glamour and gleams of gold and pale sunset green and imperial purple. Then there were the wine jars of red earthenware, the memorial stones from graves, and the heads of broken gods, with fragments of occult things used in the secret rites of Mithras. Lucian read on the labels where all these objects were found, in the churchyard, beneath the

turf of the meadow, and in the old cemetery near the forest, and whenever it was possible he would make his way to the spot of discovery, and imagine the long darkness that it had hidden gold and stone and amber. All these investigations were necessary for the scheme he had in view, so he became, for some time, quite a familiar figure in the dusty deserted streets and in the meadows by the river. His continual visits to Carmen were a torturous puzzle to the inhabitants, who flew to their windows at the sound of a step on the uneven pavements. They were at a loss in their conjectures. His motive for coming down three times a week must

of course be bad, but it seemed undiscoverable. And Lucian, on his side, was at first a good deal put out by occasional encounters with members of the Gervais or Dixon or Colley tribes. He had often to stop and exchange a few conventional expressions, and such meetings, casual as they were, annoyed and distracted him. He was no longer infuriated or wounded by sneers of contempt, or by the cackling laughter of the young people when they passed him on the road. His hat was a shocking one, and his untidiness terrible. But such incidents were unpleasant, just as the smell of a drain was unpleasant, and threw the strange mechanism of his thoughts out of fear for the time. Then he had been disgusted by the affair of the boys and the little dog.

The loathsomeness of it had quite broken up his fancies. He had read books of modern occultuous, and remembered some of the experiments described. The adept, it was alleged, could transfer the sense of consciousness from his brain to the foot or hand. He could annihilate the world around him and pass into another sphere. Lucian wondered whether he could not perform some such operation for his own benefit. Human beings were constantly annoying him and getting in his way. Was it not possible to annihilate the race, or at all? events, to reduce them to wholly insignificant forms?

A certain process suggested itself to his mind, a work partly mental and partly physical, and after two or three experiments, he found to his astonishment and delight that it was successful. Here, he thought, he had discovered one of the secrets of true magic. This was the key to the symbolic transmutations of the Eastern Tales. The adept could, in truth, change. changed those who were obnoxious to him into harmless and unimportant shapes, not as in the letter of the old stories, by transforming the enemy, but by transforming himself.

The magician puts men below him by going up higher, as one looks down on a mountain city from a loftier crag. The stones on the road and such petty obstacles do not trouble the wise man on the great journey, and so Lucian, when obliged to stop, and converse with his fellow creatures, to listen to their poor pretences and inanities, was no more inconvenience that when he had to climb an awkward style in the course of a walk. As for the more unpleasant manifestations of humanity, after all, they no longer concerned him. Men, intent on the great purpose, did not suffer the current of their thoughts to be broken by the buzzing of a fly caught in a spider's web. So why should he be perturbed by the misery of a puppy

in the hands of village boys. The fly, no doubt, endured its tortures. Lying helpless and bound in those slimy bands, it cried out in its thin voice when the claws of the horrible monster fastened on it. But its dying agonies had never vexed the reverie of a lover. Lucian saw no reason why the boy should offend him more than the spider, or why he should pity the dog more than he pitied the fly.

The talk of the men and women might be wearisome and inept and often malignant, but he could not imagine an alchemist at the moment of success, a general in the hour of victory, or a financier with a gigantic scheme of swindling well on the market being annoyed by the buzz of insects. The spider is, no doubt, a very terrible brute with a hideous mouth and hairy, tiger-like claws when seen through the microscope. But Lucian had taken away the microscope from his eyes. He could now walk the streets of Carmen, confident and secure, without any dread of interruption,

for at a moment's notice the transformation could be affected. Once Dr. Burroughs caught him and made him promise to attend a bazaar that was to be held in aid of the Hungarian Protestants, Lucian assented, the more willingly, as he wished to pay a visit to certain curious mounds on a hill a little way out of the town, and he calculated on slinking off from the bazaar early in the afternoon. Lord Bemis was visiting Sir Vivian Ponsonby, a local magnate,

and had kindly promised to drive over and declared the bazaar open. It was a solemn moment when the carriage drew up and the great man alighted. He was rather an evil-looking old nobleman, but the clergy and gentry, their wives and sons and daughters, welcomed him with great and unctuous joy. Conversations were broken off in mid-sentence. Slow people gaped, not realizing why their friends had so suddenly left them. The Myricks came up hot and perspiring, in fear lest they should be too late.

Miss Cully, a yellow virgin of austere regard, smiled largely. Mrs. Dixon beckoned wildly with her parasol to the girls who were idly strolling in a distant part of the field, and the archdeacon ran at full speed. The air grew dark with bows and resonant with the genial laugh of the Archdeacon, the cackle of the younger ladies, and the shrill, parrot-like voices of the matrons. Those smiled who had never smiled before, and on some maiden faces there hovered that look of adoring ecstasy with which the old maidens graced their angels.

Then, when all the due rights had been performed, the company turned and began to walk towards the booths of their small vanity fair. Lord Bemis led the way with Mrs. Jervais. Mrs. Dixon followed with Sir Vivian Ponsonby, and the multitudes that followed cried saying, What a dear old man! Isn't it kind of him to come all this way? What a sweet expression, isn't it? I think he's an old love.

One of the good old sort! Real English nobleman! Oh, most correct, I assure you, If a girl gets into trouble, notice to quit at once. Always stands by the church. Twenty livings in his gift. Voted for the Public Worship Regulation Act. Ten thousand acres strictly preserved.

The old Lord was leering pleasantly and muttering to himself, Some fine gals here, like the looks of that filly with the pink hat. O' to see more of her. She'd give Lottie points. The pomp swept slowly across the grass. The archdeacon had got hold of Mr. Dixon, and they were discussing the misdees of some clergymen in the rural deanery. "'I can scarce credit it,' said Mr. Dixon.

"'Oh, I assure you, there can be no doubt. We have witnesses. There can be no question that there was a procession at L'Anfahungal on the Sunday before Easter. The choir and minister went round the church, carrying palm branches in their hands. "'Very shocking.' "'It has distressed the bishop. "'Martin is a hard-working man enough and all that,

"'but these sort of things can't be tolerated. "'The bishop told me that he had set his face against processions. "'Quite right. The bishop is perfectly right. "'Processions are unscriptural. "'It's the thin edge of the wage, you know, Dixon. "'Exactly, I have always resisted anything of the kind here. "'Right, Prince Pius Obster, you know. No. Martin is so imprudent. There's a way of doing things."

The scriptural procession led by Lord Bemis broke up when the stalls were reached and gathered round the noblemen as he declared the bazaar open. Lucian was sitting on a garden seat a little distance off, looking dreamily before him, and all that he saw was a swarm of flies, clustering and buzzing about a lump of tainted meat that lay on the grass. The spectacle in no away interrupted the harmony of his thoughts, and soon after the opening of the bazaar he went quietly away, walking across the fields in the direction of the ancient mounds he desired to inspect. All these journeys of his to Carmen and its neighborhood had a peculiar object. He was gradually leveling to the dust the squalid crawls of modern times, and rebuilding

the splendid and golden city of Siluria. All this mystic town was for the delight of his sweetheart and himself. For her, the wonderful villas, the shady courts, the magic of tessellated pavements, and the hangings of rich stuffs with their intricate and glowing patterns. Lucian wandered all day through the shining streets,

taking shelter sometimes in the gardens beneath the dense and gloomy Ilex trees, and listening to the splash and trickle of the fountains. Sometimes he would look out of a window and watch the crowd and color of the marketplace, place, and now and again a ship came up the river, bringing exquisite silks and the merchandise of unknown lands in the Far East. He had made a curious and accurate map of the town he proposed to inhabit, in which every villa was set down and named. He drew his lines

to scale with the gravity of a surveyor, and studied the plan till he was able to find his way from house to house on the darkest summer night. On the southern slopes about the town there were vineyards, always under a glowing sun, and sometimes he ventured to the furthest ridge of the forest where the wild people still lingered, that he might catch the golden gleam of the city far away, as the light quivered and scintillated on the glittering tiles. And there were gardens outside the city gates, where strange and brilliant flowers grew, filling the hot air with their odor, and scenting the breeze that blew along the streets. The dull modern life was far away, and people who saw him at this period wondered what

was amiss. The abstraction of his glance was obvious, even to eyes not oversharp. But men and women had lost all their power of annoyance and vexation. They could no longer even interrupt his thought for a moment. He could listen to Mr. Dixon with apparent attention, while he was in reality, enraptured by the entreating music of the double flute, played by a girl in the garden of Avalonius, for that was the name he had taken. Mr. Dixon was innocently discoursing archaeology, giving a brief resume of the view expressed by Mr. Windham at the last meeting of the Antiquarian Society. There can be no doubt that the Temple of Diana stood there in pagan times, he concluded, and Lucian assented to the opinion.

and asked a few questions which seemed pertinent enough. But all the time the flute notes were sounding in his ears, and the Ilex threw a purple shadow on the white pavement before his villa. A boy came forward from the garden. He had been walking amongst the vines and plucking the ripe grapes, and the juice had trickled down over his breast. Standing beside the girl, unashamed in the sunlight, he began to sing one of Sappho's love songs.

His voice was as full and rich as a woman's, but purged of all emotion. He was an instrument of music in the flesh. Lucian looked at him steadily. The white, perfect body shone against the roses and the blue of the sky, clear and gleaming as marble in the glare of the sun. The words he sang burned and flamed with passion, and he was as unconscious of their meaning as the twin pipes of the flute. and the girl was smiling.

The vicar shook hands and went on, well pleased with his remarks on the Temple of Diana, and also with Lucian's polite interest. "'He is by no means wanting an intelligence,' he said to his family. "'A little curious in manner, perhaps, but not stupid.' "'Oh, papa,' said Henrietta, "'don't you think he is rather silly? He can't talk about anything, anything interesting, I mean, and he pretends to know a lot about books, but I heard him say the other day he had never

read the Prince of the House of David or been her. Fancy! The vicar had not interrupted Lucian. The sun still beat upon the roses, and a little breeze bore the scent of them to his nostrils, together with the smell of grapes and vine leaves. He had become curious in sensation, and as he leant back upon the cushions covered with glistening yellow silk, he was trying to analyze a strange ingredient in the perfume of the air. He had penetrated far beyond the crude distinctions of modern times, beyond the rough, there's a smell of roses, there must be sweetbriar somewhere. Modern perceptions of odor were he knew far below those of the savage in delicacy. The degraded black fellow of Australia

could distinguish odors in a way that made the consumer of damper stare in a amazement. But the savages sensations were all strictly utilitarian. To Lucian, as he sat in the cool porch, his feet on the marble, the air came laden with sense as subtly and wonderfully interwoven and contrasted as the harmonica of a great master. The stained marble of the pavement gave a cool reminiscence of the Italian mountain. The blood-red roses palpitating in the sunlight sent out an odor mystical as passion itself, and there was a hint of the inebriation in the perfume of the trellised vines. Besides these, the girls' desire and the unripe innocence of the boy were as distinct as benzene and mure, both delicious and exquisite, and exhaled as freely

as the scent of the roses. But there was another element that puzzled him, an aromatic suggestion of the forest. He understood it at last. It was the vapor of the great red pines that grew beyond the garden. Their spicy needles were burning in the sun, and the smell was as fragrant as the fume of incense blown from far. The soft entreaty of the flute and the swelling rapture of the boy's voice beat on the air together, and Lucian wondered whether there were in the nature of things any true distinction between the impressions of sound and scent and color. The violent blue of the sky, the one mystery, then distinct entities. He could almost imagine that the boy's innocence

was indeed a perfume, and that the palpitating roses had become a sonorous chant. In the curious silence which followed the last notes, when the boy and girl had passed under the purple Ilex shadow, he fell into a reverie. The fancy that sensations are symbols and not realities hovered in his mind, and led him to speculate as to whether they could not actually be transmuted one into another. It was possible, he thought, that a whole continent of knowledge had been undiscovered, the energies of men having been expended in unimportant and foolish directions. Modern ingenuity had been employed on such trifles as locomotive engines, electric cables, and cantilever bridges. On elaborate devices,

for bringing uninteresting people nearer together. The ancients had been almost as foolish, because they had mistaken the symbol for the thing signified. It was not the material banquet which really mattered, but the thought of it. It was almost as futile to eat and take emetics and eat again as to invent telephones and high-pressure boilers. As for some other ancient methods of enjoying life,

one might as well set oneself to improve calico printing at once. Only in the Garden of Avalonius, said Lucian to himself, is the true and exquisite science to be found. He could imagine a man who was able to live in one sense while he pleased, to whom, for example, every impression of touch, taste, hearing, or seeing should be translated into odor, who at the desired kiss should be ravished with the scent of dark violets, to whom music should be the perfume of a rose garden at dawn.

When, now and again, he voluntarily resumed the experience of common life, it was that he might return with greater delight to the garden in the city of refuge. In the actual world the talk was of non-conformists, the larger franchise, and the stock exchange. People were constantly reading newspapers, drinking Australian burgundy, and doing other things equally absurd. They either looked shocked when the fine art of pleasure was mentioned, or confused it with going to musical comedies, drinking bad whiskey and keeping late hours in disreputable and vulgar company.

He found to his amusement that the profligate were by many degrees duller than the pious, but that the most tedious of all were the persons who preached promiscuity and called their system of pigging the new morality. He went back to the city lovingly, because it was built and adorned for his love. As the metaphysicians insist on the consciousness of the ego as the implied basis of all thought, so he knew that it was she in whom he had found himself, and through whom and for whom all true life existed. He felt that Annie had taught him the rare magic which had created the Garden of Avalonius. It was for her that he sought strange secrets and tried to penetrate the mysteries of sensation,

for he could only give her wonderful thoughts and a wonderful life, and a poor body stained with the scars of his worship. It was with this object, that of making the offering of himself a worthy one, that he continually searched for new and exquisite experiences. He made lovers come before him and confess their secrets, He pried into the inmost mysteries of innocence and shame, noting how passion and reluctance strive together for the mastery. In the amphitheater he sometimes witnessed strange entertainments

in which such tales as Daphne's and Chloe and the Golden Ass were performed before him. These shows were always given at night-time. A circle of torch-bearers surrounded the stage in the center, and above all the tears of seats were dark. He would look up at the soft blue of the summer sky, and at the vast, dim mountain hovering like a cloud in the west, and then at the scene illumined by a flaring light, and contrasted with violent shadows.

The subdued mutter of conversation in a strange language rising from bench after bench, swift hissing whispers of explanation, now and then a shout or a cry as the interest deepened. The restless tossing of the people as the end drew near. An arm lifted, a cloak thrown back, the sudden blaze of a torch lighting up purple or white or the gleam of gold in the black serried ranks.

These were impressions that seemed always amazing. And above the dusky light of the stars, around the sweet-scented meadows, and the twinkle of lamps from the still city, the cry of the sentries about the walls, the wash of the tide filling the river, and the salt savor of the sea. With such a scenic ornament,

he saw the tale of Apulius represented, heard the names of Photos and Berena and Lucius proclaimed, and the deep intonation of such sentences as Exe vaneris Hortator at Armaguer Lieber Advent-Advenit Ultro. The tale went on through all its marvelous adventures, and Lucian left the amphitheater and walked beside the river where he could hear indistinctly the noise of voices and the singing Latin, and note how the rumor of the stage mingled

with the murmur of the shuddering reeds and the cool lapping of the tide. Then came the farewell of the canter, the thunder of applause, the crash of symbols, the calling of the flutes, and the surge of the wind in the great dark wood. At other times it was his chief pleasure to spend a whole day in a vineyard planted on the steep slope beyond the ridge. A gray stone seat had been placed beneath a shady laurel, and here he often sat without motion or gesture for many hours. Below him, the tawny river swept round the town in a half circle. He could see the swirl of the yellow water, its eddies and miniature whirlpools, as the tide poured

up from the south. And beyond the river the strong circuit of the walls, and within the city glittered like a charming piece of mosaic. He freed himself from the obtuse modern view of towns as places where human beings live and make money and rejoice or suffer, for from the standpoint of the moment such facts were wholly impertinent. He knew perfectly well that for his present purpose the tawny sheen and shimmer of the tide was the only fact of importance about the river, and so he regarded the city as a curious work in jewelry. Its radiant marble porticos, the white walls of the villas, a dome of burning copper, the flash and scintillation of tiled roofs, the quiet red of brickwork, dark groves of Ilex and Cyprus

and laurel, glowing rose gardens, and here and there the silver of a Mountain seemed arranged and contrasted with a wonderful art. And the town appeared a delicious ornament, every cube of color owing its place to the thought and inspiration of the artificer. Lucian, as he gazed from his arbor amongst the trellised vines, lost none of the subtle pleasures of the sight. Noting every nuance of color he let his eyes dwell for a moment on the scarlet flash of poppies, and then on a glazed roof, which in the glance of the sun seemed to spout white fire. A square of vines was like some rare green stone. The grapes were massed so richly amongst the vivid leaves that even from far off there was a sense of irregular flecks and stains of

purple running through the green. The laurel garths were like cool jade. The gardens, where red, yellow, and white gleamed together in a mist of heat had the radiance of opal. The river was a band of dull gold. On every side, as if to enhance the preciousness of the city, the woods hung dark on the hills. Above the sky was violet, specked with minute feathery clouds, white as snowflakes. It reminded him of a beautiful bowl in his villa. The ground was of that same brilliant blue, and the artist had fused into the work, when it was hot, particles of pure white glass. For Lucian, this was a spectacle that enchanted many hours. Leaning on one hand, he would gaze at the city glowing in the sunlight,

till the purple shadows grew down the slopes, and the long melodious trumpet sounded for the evening watch. Then, as he strolled beneath the trellises, he would see all the radiant facets glimmering out, and the city faded into haze, a white wall shining here and there, and the gardens veiled in a dim glow of color. On such an evening he would go home with the sense that he had truly lived a day, having received for many hours the most acute impressions of beautiful color. Often he spent the night in the cool court of his villa, lying amidst soft cushions heaped upon the marble bench. A lamp stood on the table at his elbow, its light making the water

in the cistern twinkle. There was no sound in the court except the soft, continual plashing of the fountain. Throughout these still hours he would meditate, and he became more than ever convinced that man could, if he pleased, become lord of his own sensations. This surely was the true meaning concealed under the beautiful symbolism of alchemy. Some years before, he had read many of the wonderful alchemical books of the later Middle Ages, and had suspected that something other than the turning of lead into gold was intended. This impression was deepened when he looked into Lumaine de Lumine by Vaughn, the brother of the Silurist, and he had long puzzled himself in the endeavor to find a reasonable interpretation of

the hermetic mystery, and of the red powder, glistening and glorious in the sun. And the solution shone out at last, bright and amazing, as he lay quiet in the court of Avalonius. He knew that he himself had solved the riddle, that he held in his hand the powder of projection, the philosopher's stone transmuting all it touched to fine gold, the gold of exquisite impressions. He understood now something of the alchemical symbolism, the crucible and the furnace, the green dragon, and the sun blessed of the fire, had, he saw, a peculiar meaning. He understood, too, why the uninitiated were warned of the terror and danger through which they must pass, and the vehemence with which the adepts disclaimed all desire for material riches no longer

struck him as singular. The wise man does not endure the torture of the furnace in order that he may be able to compete with operators in pork and company promoters. Neither a steam yacht nor a grousemore, nor three liveried footmen, would add at all to his gratifications. Again, Lucian said to himself, Only in the court of Avalonius is the true science of the exquisite to be found. He saw the true gold into which the beggarly matter of existence may be transmuted by spagyric art. A succession of delicious moments. All the rare flavors of life concentrated, purged of their leaves, and preserved in a beautiful vessel. The moonlight fell green on the fountain and on the curious pavements,

and in the long, sweet silence of the night he lay still and felt that thought itself was an acute pleasure, to be expressed, perhaps, in terms of odor or color by the true artist. And he gave himself other and even stranger gratifications. Outside the city walls, between the baths and the amphitheater, was a tavern, a place where wonderful people met to drink wonderful wine. There he saw priests of Mithras and Isis, and of more occult rites from the east, men who wore robes of bright colors.

and grotesque ornaments, symbolizing secret things. They spoke amongst themselves in a rich jargon of colored words, full of hidden meanings and the sense of matters unintelligible to the uninitiated, alluding to what was concealed beneath roses, and calling each other by strange names. And there were actors who gave the shows in the amphitheater, officers of the Legion who had served in wild places, singers and dancing girls and heroes of strange adventure.

The walls of the tavern were covered with pictures painted in violent hues, blues and reds and greens, jarring against one another and lighting up the gloom of the place. The stone benches were always crowded. The sunlight came in through the door in a long, bright beam, casting a dancing shadow of vine leaves on the further wall. There a painter had made a joyous, figure of the young Bacchus, driving the lepers before him with his ivy staff, and the quivering shadow seemed a part of the picture. The room was cool and dark and cavernous,

but the scent and heat of the summer gushed in through the open door. There was ever a full sound, with noise and vehemence there, and the rolling music of the Latin tongue never ceased. The wine of the siege, the wine that we saved, cried one. Look for the jar marked Faunus, you will be glad. Bring me the wine of the owl's face. Let us have the swine of Saturn's Bridge. The boys who served brought the wine in dull red jars that struck a charming note against their white robes.

They poured out the violet and purple and golden wine with calm, sweet faces, as if they were assisting in the middle. histories, without any sign that they heard the strange words that flashed from side to side. The cups were all of glass, some were of deep green of the color of the sea near the land, flawed and specked with the bubbles of the furnace. Others were brilliant scarlet, streaked with irregular bands of white and having the appearance of white globules in the molded stem. There were cups of dark glowing blue, deeper and more sharp, shining than the blue of the sky. And running through the substance of the glass were veins

of rich gamboge yellow, twining from the brim to the foot. Some cups were of a troubled and clotted red, with alternating blotches of dark and light, some were variegated with white and yellow stains. Some were a film of rainbow colors. Some glittered, shot with gold threads through the clear crystal. Some were as if satisfied. Fliars hung suspended in running water. Some sparkled with the glint of stars. Some were black and golden like tortoise shell. A strange feature was the constant and fluttering motion of hands and arms. Gesture made a constant commentary on speech. White fingers, wider arms, and sleeves of all colors, hovered restlessly, appeared and disappeared, with an effect of threads crossing.

and recrossing on the loom. And the odor of the place was both curious and memorable, something of the damp, cold breath of the cave, meaning the hot blast of summer, the strangely mingled aromas of rare wines as they fell plashing and ringing into the cups, the drugged vapor of the east that the priests of Mithras and Isis bore from their steaming temples. These were always strong and dominant. And the women were so much scented, sometimes with unctuous and overpowering perfumes, and to the artist the experiences of those present were hinted in subtle and delicate nuances of odor. They drank their wine and caressed all day in the tavern. The women threw their round

white arms about their lover's necks. They intoxicated them with the scent of their hair. The priests muttered their fantastic jargon of theergy, and through the sonorous clash of voices, there always seemed the ring of the cry, Look for the jar marked faunus, you will be glad. Outside, the vine tendrils shook on the white walls, glaring in the sunshine. The breeze swept up from the yellow river, pungent with the salt sea savor. These tavern scenes were often the subject of Lucian's meditation

as he sat amongst the cushions on the marble seat. The rich sound of the voices impressed him above all things. and he saw that words have a far higher reason than the utilitarian office of imparting a man's thought. The common notion that language and linked words are important only as a means of expression he found a little ridiculous, as if electricity were to be studied solely with a view of wiring to people, and all its other properties left unexplored, neglected. Language, he understood, was chiefly important for the beauty of its sound, by its possession of words resonant, glorious to the ear, by its capacity, when exquisitely

arranged, of suggesting wonderful and indefinable impressions, perhaps more ravishing and farther removed from the domain of strict thought than the impressions excited by music itself. Here lay hidden the secret of the sensuous art of literature. It was the secret of suggestion, the art of causing delicious sensation by the use of words. In a way, therefore, literature was independent of thought. The mere English listener, if he had an ear attuned, could recognize the beauty of a splendid Latin phrase. Here was the explanation of the magic of Licitis.

From the standpoint of the formal understanding, it was an affected lament over some wholly uninitorial, interesting and unimportant Mr. King. It was full of nonsense about shepherds and flocks and muses and such stale stock of poetry. The introduction of St. Peter on a stage thronged with nymphs and river gods was blasphemous, absurd, and in the worst taste. There were touches of greasy Puritanism. The twang of the conventicle was only too apparent. And Licidus was probably the most perfect piece of pure literature in existence, because every word and phrase and line were sonorous, ringing and echoing with music.

Literature, he re-enunciated in his mind, is the sensuous art of causing exquisite impressions by means of words. And yet there was something more, besides the logical thought, which was often a hindrance, a troublesome, though inseparable, and accident, besides the sensation, always a pleasure and a delight, besides these there were the indefinable, inexpressible images which all fine literature summons to the mind. As the chemist in his experiments is sometimes astonished to find unknown, unexpected elements in the crucible or the receiver, as the world of material things is considered by some a thin veil of the immaterial universe. So he who reads wonderful prose or verse is conscious of suggestions

that cannot be put into words, which do not rise from the logical sense, which are rather parallel to than connected with the sensuous delight. The world so disclosed is rather the world of dreams, rather the world in which children sometimes live, instantly appearing and instantly vanishing away, a world beyond all expression or analysis, neither of the intellect nor of the senses. He called these fancies of his meditations of a tavern, and was amused to think that a theory of letters should have risen from the eloquent noise that rang all day about the violet and golden wine. "'Let us seek for more exquisite things,' said Lucian to himself.

He could almost imagine the magic transmutation of the senses accomplished. The strong sunlight was an odor in his nostrils. It poured down on the white marble and the palpitating roses like a flood. The sky was a glorious blue, making the heart joyous, and the eyes could rest in the dark green leaves and purple shadow of the isylics. The earth seemed to burn and leap beneath the sun. He fancied he could see. see the vine tendril stir and quiver in the heat, and the faint fume of the scorching pine

needles was blown across the gleaming garden to the seat beneath the porch. Wine was before him in a cup of carved amber, a wine of the color of a dark rose, with a glint as of a star or of a jet of flame deep beneath the rim. The cup was twined about with a delicate wreath of ivy. He was often loathed to turn away from the still contemplation of such things, from the mere joy of the violent sun and the responsive earth. He loved his garden and the view of the tessellated city from the vineyard on the hill, the strange clamor of the tavern and white photosque, appearing on the torch-lit stage. And there were shops in the town in which he delighted, the shops of the perfume-makers

and jewelers and dealers in curious wear. He loved to see all things made for ladies' use, to touch the gossamer silks that were to touch their bodies, to finger the beads of amber and the gold chains which would stir above their hearts, to handle the carved hairpins and broaches, to smell odors which were already dedicated to love. But though these were sweet and delicious gratifications,

he knew that there were more exquisite things of which he might be a spectator. He had seen the folly of regarding fine literature from the standpoint of the logical intellect, and he now began to question the wisdom of looking at life as if it were a moral representation. Literature, he knew, could not exist without some meaning, and considerations of right and wrong were to a certain extent inseparable from the conception of life, but to insist on ethics as the chief interest of the human pageant was surely absurd. One might as well read Licitis for the sake of its denunciation of our corrupted clergy, or Homer for manners and customs. An artist, entranced by a beautiful landscape,

did not greatly concern himself with the geological formation of the hills, nor did the lover of a wild sea inquire as to the chemical analysis of the water. Lucian saw a colored and complex life displayed before him, and he sat enraptured at the spectacle, not concerned to know whether actions were good or bad, but content if they were curious. In this spirit he made a singular study of corruption. Beneath his feet, as he sat in the garden porch, was a block of marble through which there ran a scarlet stain. It began with a faint line, thin as a hair. and grew as it advanced, sending out offshoots to right and left, and broadening to a pool of

brilliant red. There were strange lives into which he looked that were like the block of marble. Women with grave, sweet faces told him the astounding tale of their adventures, and how, they said, they had met the fawn when they were little children. They told him how they had played and watched by the vines and the fountains, and dallyed with the nymphs, and gazed at images reflected in the water-pools till the authentic face appeared from the wood. He heard others tell how they had loved the satyrs for many years before they knew their race, and there were strange stories of those who had long to speak but knew not the word of the enigma, and searched in all strange paths and ways before they found it. He heard the history of the woman who fell in love

with her slave-boy, and tempted him for three years in vain. He heard the tale from the woman's full red lips and watched her face, full of the ineffable sadness of lust as she described her curious stratagems in mellow phrases. She was drinking a sweet yellow wine from a gold cup as she spoke, and the odor in her hair and the aroma of the precious wine seemed to mingle with the soft strange words that flowed like an unguent from a carven jar. She told how she bought the boy in the market of an Asian city, and had him carried to her house in the grove of fig trees. Then, she went on, he was led into my presence as I sat between the columns of my court. A blue veil was spread above to shut out the heat of the sun, and rather

twilight, then light shone on the painted walls, and the wonderful colors of the pavement, and the images of love and the mother of love. The men who brought the boy gave him over to my girls, who undressed him before me, one drawing gently away his robe, another stroking his brown and flowing hair, another praising the whiteness of his limbs, and another caressing him and speaking loving words in his ear. But the boy looked sullenly at them all, striking away their hands and pouting with his lovely and splendid lips, and I saw a blush, like the rosy veil of dawn, reddening his body and his cheeks. Then I made them bathe him, and anoint him with scented oils from head to foot, till his limbs shone and glistened with the gentle and mellow glow of an ivory statue.

Then I said, You are bashful, because you shine alone amongst us all. See, we too will be your fellows. The girls began, first of all, fondling and kissing one another, and doing for each other the offices of waiting-maids. They drew out the pins and loosened the bands of their hair, and I never knew before that they were so lovely.

The soft and shining tresses flowed down, rippling like sea-waves. Some had hair golden and radiant as this wine in my cup. The faces of others appeared amidst the blackness of ebony. They were luxe that seemed of burnished and scintillating copper. Some glowed with hair of tawny splendor, and others were crowned with the brightness of the sardonics. Then, laughing, and without the appearance of shame,

they unfastened the brooches and bands which sustained their robes, and so allowed silk and linen to flow swiftly to the stained floor, so that one would have said there was a sudden apparition of the fairest nymphs. With many festive and jocose words they began to incite each other to mirth, praising the beauties that shone on every side, and calling the boy by a girl's name, they invited him to be their playmate. But he refused, shaking his head, and still standing, dumbfounded and aband. as if he saw a forbidden and terrible spectacle.

Then I ordered the women to undo my hair and my clothes, making them caress me with the tenderness of the fondest lover, but without a veil, for the foolish boy still scowled and pouted out his lips, stained with an imperial and glorious scarlet. She poured out more of the topaz-colored wine in her cup, and Lucian saw it glitter as it rose to the brim and mirrored the gleam of the lamps. The tale went on, recounting a hundred strange devices.

The woman told how she had tempted the boy by idleness and ease, giving him long hours of sleep, and allowing him to recline all day on soft cushions that swelled about him enclosing his body. She tried the experiment of curious odors, causing him to smell always about him the oil of roses, and burning in his presence rare gums from the, East. He was allured by soft dresses, being clothed in silks that caressed the skin with the sense

of a fondling touch. Three times a day they spread before him a delicious banquet, full of savor and odor and color. Three times a day they endeavored to intoxicate him with delicate wine. And so, the lady continued, I spared nothing to catch him in the glistening nets of love, taking only sour and contemptuous glances in return. And at last, in an incredible shape, I won the victory. And then, having gained a green crown, fighting in agony against his green and crude immaturity,

I devoted him to the theatre, where he amused the people by the splendor of his death. On another evening he heard the history of the man who dwelt alone, refusing allurements and was at last discovered to be the lover of a black statue. And there were tales of strange cruelties, of men taken by mountain robbers, and curiously maimed and disfigured, so that when they escaped and returned to the town they were thought to be monsters and killed at their own doors. Lucian left no dark or secret no nook of life unvisited. He sat down as he said at the

banquet, resolved to taste all the savers, and to leave no flagon unvisited. His relations grew seriously alarmed about him at this period. While he heard with some inner ear the suave and eloquent phrases of singular tales, and watched the lamplight in amber and purple wine, his father saw a lean pale boy, with black eyes that burnt in hollows and sad and sunken cheeks. You ought to try and eat more, Lucian," said the parson. And why don't you have some beer? He was looking feebly at the roast mutton and sipping a little water,

but he would not have eaten or drunk with more relish if the choicest meat and drink had been before him. His bones seemed, as Miss Deacon said, to be growing through his skin. He had all the appearance of an ascetic whose body has been reduced to misery by long and grievous penance. people who chanced to see him could not help saying to one another, "'How ill and wretched that Lucy and Taylor looks!' They were of course quite unaware of the joy and luxury

in which his real life was spent, and some of them began to pity him and to speak to him kindly. It was too late for that. The friendly words had as much lost their meaning as the words of contempt. Edward Dixon hailed him cheerfully in the street one day. "'Come into my den, won't you, old fellow?' he said. "'Won't you see the pater?' "'I've managed to bag a bottle of his old port.

"'And I know you smoke like a furnace, "'and I've got some ripping cigars. "'You will come, won't you? "'I can tell you the pater's booze is first-rate.' He gently declined and went on. "'Kindness and unkindness, pity and contempt, "'had become for him mere phrases. "'He could not have distinctly.

distinguished one from the other. Hebrew and Chinese, Hungarian and Pushtu, would be pretty much alike to an agricultural laborer. If he cared to listen, he might detect some general differences in sound, but all four tongues would be equally devoid of significance. To Lucian, entranced in the Garden of Volonius, it seemed very strange that he had once been so ignorant of all the exquisite meanings of life. Now, beneath him, the violet sky, looking through the brilliant trellis of the vines, he saw the picture. Before he had gazed in sad astonishment at the squalid rag which was wrapped about it. End of Chapter 4. Chapter 5. Of the Hill of Dreams by Arthur Mackin. This Libervox

recording is in the public domain. The Hill of Dreams. Chapter 5. And he was at last in the city of the unending murmuring streets, a part of the stirring shadow of the amber-lighted gloom. It seemed a long time since he had knelt before his sweetheart in the lane, the moon-fire streaming upon them from the dark circle of the fort, the air and the light and his soul full of haunting, the touch of the unimaginable thrilling his heart, and he now sat in a terrible bed-sitting-room in a western suburb, confronted by a heap and litter of papers on the desk of a battered old bureau. He had put his breakfast tray out on the landing

and was thinking of the morning's work and of some very dubious pages that he had blackened the night before. But when he had lit his disreputable briar, he remembered there was an unopened letter waiting for him on the table. He had recognized the vague, staggering script of Miss Deacon, his cousin.

There was not much news. His father was just the same as usual. There had been a good deal of rain. The farmers expected to make a lot of cider and so forth. But at the close of the letter, Miss Deacon became useful for reproof and admonition. I was at Carmen on Tuesday, she said, and called on the Gervaises and the Dixons. Mr. Gervais smiled when I told him you were a literary man, living in London, and he said he was afraid you wouldn't find it a very practical career.

Mrs. Gervais was very proud of Henry's success. He passed fifth for some examination, and will begin with nearly four hundred a year. I don't wonder the Gervaises are delighted. Then I went to the Dixon's and had tea. Mrs. Dixon wanted to know if you had published anything yet, and I said I thought not. She showed me a book everybody is talking about, called The Dog and the Doctor. She says it's selling by thousands, and that one can't take up a paper without seeing the author's name. She told me to tell you that you ought to try to write something like that.

Then Mr. Dixon came in from the study, and your name was mentioned again. He said he was afraid you had made rather a mistake in trying to take up literature as if it were a profession, and seemed to think that a place in a house of business would be more suitable and more practical. He pointed out that you had not had the advantages of a university training, and said that you would find men who had made good friends, and had the tone of the university, would be before you at every step. He said Edward was doing very well at Oxford. He writes to them that he knows several noblemen, and that young Philip Bullingham, son of Sir John Bullingham, is his

most intimate friend. Of course, this is very satisfactory for the Dixons. I am afraid, my dear Lucian, you have rather overrated your powers. Wouldn't it be better even now to look out for some real work to do, instead of wasting your time over those silly old books? I know quite well how the Gervaises and the Dixons feel. They think idleness is so injurious for a young man and likely to lead to bad habits. You know, my dear Lucian, I am only writing like this because of my affection for you, so I am sure, my dear boy, you won't be offended." Lucian pigeonholed the letter solemnly in the receptacle. lettered barbarians. He felt that he ought to ask himself some serious questions.

Why haven't I passed fifth? Why isn't Philip, son of Sir John, my most intimate friend? Why am I an idler, liable to fall into bad habits? But he was eager to get to his work, a curious and intricate piece of analysis. So the battered bureau, the litter of papers, and the thick fume of his pipe, engulfed him and absorbed him, for the rest of the morning. Outside were the dim October mists, the dreary and languid life of a side street, and beyond, on the main road,

the hum and jangle of the gliding trains. But he heard none of the uneasy noises of the quarter, not even the shriek of the garden gates, nor the yelp of the butcher on his round, for delight in his great task made him unconscious of the world outside. He had come by curious paths to this calm hermitage between Shepard's bush and Acton Vale. The golden weeks of the summer passed on in their enchanted procession, and Annie had not returned, neither had she written.

Lucian, on his side, sat apart, wondering why his longing for her were not sharper. As he thought of his raptures, he would smile faintly to himself, and wonder whether he had not lost the world and Annie with it. In the Garden of Avalonius his sense of external things had grown dim and indistinct. The actual material life seemed every day to become a show, a fleeting of shadows across a great white light. At last the news came that Annie Morgan had been married from her sister's house to a young farmer, to whom it appeared she had been long engaged, and Lucian was ashamed to find himself only conscious of amusement, mingled with gratitude. She had been the key that opened the shut palace, and he was now secure on the throne of ivory and

gold. A few days after he had heard the news, he repeated the adventure of his boyhood. For the second time he scaled the steep hillside, and penetrated the matted break. He expected violent disillusion, but his feeling was rather astonishment. at the activity of boyish imagination. There was no terror nor amazement now in the green bulwarks, and the stunted undergrowth did not seem in any way extraordinary. Yet he did not laugh at the memory of his sensations. He was not angry at the cheat. Certainly it had been all illusion, all the heats and chills of boyhood. Its thoughts of terror were without significance. But he recognized that the illusions of the child only differed from those of the man

in that they were more picturesque. Belief in fairies and belief in the stock exchange as bestowers of happiness were equally vain. But the latter form of faith was ugly as well as inept. It was better, he knew, and wiser, to wish for a fairy coach than to cherish longings for a well-appointed brougham and liveried servants. He turned his back on the way-appointed, and liveried servants. He turned his back on the green walls and the dark oaks without any feeling of regret or resentment. After a little while he began to think of his adventures with pleasure. The latter by which he had mounted had disappeared, but he was safe on the height. By the chance fancy of a beautiful girl he had been redeemed from a world of misery and torture,

the world of external things into which he had become a stranger by which he had been tormented. He looked back at a kind of vision of himself, seen as he was a year before, a pitiable creature burning and twisting on the hot coals of the pit, crying lamentably to the laughing bystanders for but one drop of cold water wherewith to cool his tongue. He confessed to himself, with some contempt, that he had been a social being, depending for his happiness on the goodwill of others. He had tried hard to write, chiefly it was true, from the love of the art, but a little from a social motive. He had imagined that a written book and the praise of responsible journals would ensure him the respect of the county people. It was a quaint idea, and he saw the lamentable fallacies naked.

In the first place, a painstaking artist in words was not respected by the respectable. Secondly, books should not be written with the object of gaining the good will of the landed and commercial interests. Thirdly, and chiefly, no man should in any way depend on another. From this utter darkness, from danger of madness the ever-deer and sweet Annie had rescued him. Very beautifully and fitly, as Lucian thought, she had done her work without any desire to benefit him. She had simply willed to gratify her own passion, and in doing this had handed to him the priceless secret. And he, on his side, had reversed the process, merely to make himself a splendid offering for the acceptance of his sweetheart. He had cast aside the vain world

and had found the truth, which now remained with him precious and enduring. And since the news of the marriage he found that his worship of her had by no means. vanished. Rather, in his heart was the eternal treasure of a happy love, untarnished and spotless. It would be like a mirror of gold without alloy, bright and lustrous forever. For Lucian, it was no defect in the woman that she was desirous and faithless. He had not conceived an affection for certain moral or intellectual accidents, but for the very woman. guided by the self-evident axiom that humanity is to be judged by literature and not literature by humanity, he detected the analogy between Licitus and Annie.

Only the dullard would object to the nauseous cant of the one, or to the indiscretions of the other. A sober critic might say that the man who could generalize Herbert and Laude, Don and Herrick, Sanderson and Juxon, Hammond and Lancelot Andrews, into our corrupted clergy, Must be either an imbecile or a scoundrel, or probably both. The judgment would be perfectly true, but as a criticism of Licitis would be a piece of folly. In the case of the woman one could imagine the attitude of the conventional lover, of the chevalier, who, with his tongue in cheek,

reverences and respects all women, and coming home early in the morning, writes a leading article on St. English girl. Lucian, on the other hand, felt profoundly grateful to the delicious Annie because she had at precisely the right moment voluntarily removed her image from his way. He confessed to himself that, latterly, he had a little dreaded her return as an interruption. He had shivered at the thought that their relations would become what was so terribly called an intrigue or affair. There would be all the threadbare and common stratagems. The vulgarious.

of secret assignations, and an atmosphere suggesting the period of Mr. Thomas More and Lord Byron and cigars. Lucian had been afraid of all this. He had feared, lest love itself should destroy love. He considered that now, freed from the torment of the body, leaving untasted the green water that makes thirst more burning, he was perfectly initiated in the true knowledge of the splendid and glorious love. There seemed to him a monstrous paradox in the assertion that there could be no true love without a corporeal presence of the beloved. Even the popular sayings of,

absence makes the heart grow fonder, and familiarity breeds contempt, witness to the contrary. He thought, sighing, and with compassion, of the manner in which men are continually led astray by the cheat of their senses. In order that the unborn might still be added to the born, nature had inspired men with the wild delusion that the bodily companionship of the lover and the beloved was desirable above all things. And so, by the false show of pleasure, the human race was chained to vanity and

doomed to an eternal thirst for the non-existent. Again and again he gave thanks for his own escape. He had been set free from a life of vice and sin and folly, from all the dangers and illusions that are most dreaded by the wise. He laughed as he remembered what would be the common view of the situation. An ordinary lover would suffer all the sting of sorrow and contempt. There would be grief for a lost mistress and rage at her faithlessness and hate in the heart. one foolish passion driving on another and driving the man to ruin. For what would be commonly called the real woman, he cared nothing. If he had heard that she had died in her farm in utter Gwent,

he would have experienced only a passing sorrow, such as he might feel at the death of anyone he had once known. But he did not think of the young farmer's wife as the real Annie. He did not think of the frost-bitten leaves in winter as the real rose. Indeed, the life of many reminded him of the flowers, perhaps more especially of those flowers which to all appearance are for many years but dull and dusty clumps of green, and suddenly in one night burst into the flame of blossom and fill all the misty lawns with odor. Till the morning. It was in that night that the flower lived, not through the long, unprofitable

years. And in like manner, many human lives, he thought, were born in the evening and dead before the coming of day. But he had preserved the precious flower in all its glory, not suffering it to wither in the hard light, but keeping it in a secret place, where it could never be destroyed. Truly now, and for the first time, he possessed Annie, as a man possesses the gold which he has dug from the rock and purged of its baseness. He was musing over these things when a piece of news, very strange and unexpected, arrived at the rectory. A distant, almost a mythical relative, known from childhood as Cousin Edward in the Isle of White, had died, and by some strange freak had left Lucian two thousand pounds.

It was a pleasure to give his father five hundred pounds, and the rector on his side forgot for a couple of days to lean his head on his hand. For the rest of the capital, which was well invested, Lucian found he would derive something between sixty and seventy pounds a year, and his old desires for literature and a refuge in the murmuring streets returned to him. He longed to be free from the incantations that surrounded him in the country, to work and live in a new atmosphere, and so, with many good wishes from his father, he came to the retreat in the waste places of London. He was in high spirits when he found the square, clean room, horribly furnished, in the by-street

that branched from the main road and advanced in an unlovely sweep to the mud pits and the desolation that was neither town nor country. On every side, monotonous gray streets, each house the replica of its neighbor, to the east an unexplored wilderness, north and west and south the brick fields and market gardens, everywhere the ruins of the country, the tracks where sweet lanes had been, gangreneed stumps of trees, the relics of hedges, here and there an oak stripped of its bark, white and haggard and leprous like a corpse, and the air seemed always gray, and the smoke from the brickfields was gray. At first he scarcely realized the quarter into which chance had led him.

His only thought was of the great adventure of letters in which he proposed to engage, and his first glance round his bed-sitting-room showed him that there was no piece of furniture suitable for his purpose. The table, like the rest of the suite, was of bird's-eye maple, but the makers seemed to have penetrated the druidic secret of the rocking-stone. The thing was in a state of unstable equilibrium perpetually. For some days he wandered through the streets, inspecting the second hand furniture shops, and at last, in a forlorn byway, found an old Japanese bureau,

dishonored and forlorn standing against rusty bedsteads, sorry China and all the refuse of homes dead and desolate. The bureau pleased him in spite of its grime and grease and dirt. Inlaid Mother of Pearl, the gleam of lacquer dragons in red gold, and hints of curious design shone through the film of neglect and ill-usage. and when the woman of the shop showed him the drawers and well and pigeonholes, he saw that it would be an apt instrument for his studies. The Bureau was carried to his room and replaced the bird's-eye table under the gas-jet.

As Lucene arranged what papers he had accumulated, the sketches of hopeless experiments, shreds and tatters of stories begun but never completed, outlines of plots, two or three notebooks scribbled, through and through with impressions of the abandoned hills, he felt a thrill of exultation at the prospect of work to be accomplished, of a new world all open before him. He set out on the adventure with a fury of enthusiasm. His last thought at night, when all the maze of streets was empty and silent, was of the problem, and his dreams ran on phrases, and when he awoke in the morning he was eager to get back to his desk.

He immersed himself in a minute, almost a microscopic analysis of fine literature. It was no longer enough, as in the old days, to feel the charm and incantation of a line or a word. He wished to penetrate the secret, to understand something of the wonderful suggestion, all apart from the sense that seemed to him the differentiia of literature, as distinguished from the long follies of character drawing,

psychological analysis, and all the stuff that went to make the three-volume novel of commerce. He found himself curiously strengthened by the change from the hills to the streets. There could be no doubt, he thought, that living a lonely life, interested only in himself and his own thoughts, he had become in a measure inhuman. The form of external things, black depths in woods, pools in lonely places, those still valleys curtained by hills on every side, sounding always with the ripple of their brooks, had become to him an influence like that of a drug, giving a certain peculiar color and outline to his thoughts. And from early boyhood there had been another strange flavor in his life, the dream of the old Roman world,

those curious impressions that he had gathered from the white walls of Carmen, and from the looming bastions of the fort. It was, in reality, the subconscious fancies of many years that had rebuilt the golden city, and had shown him the vine trellis and the marbles and the sunlight in the garden of Avalonius, and the rapture of love had made it all so vivid and warm with life that even now, when he had let his pen drop, the rich noise of the tavern and the chant of the theater sounded above the murmur of the streets. Looking back, it was as much a part of his life as his school days, and the tessellated pavements were as real as the square of faded carpet beneath his feet. But he felt that he had escaped. He could now survey those splendid and

lovely visions from without, as if he read of opium dreams, and he no longer dreaded a weird suggestion that had once beset him, that his very soul was being molded into the hills, and passing into the black mirror of still water-pools. He had taken refuge in the streets, in the harbor of a modern suburb, from the vague, dreaded magic that had charmed his life. Whenever he felt inclined to listen to the old wood-whisper or to the singing of the fawns, he bent more earnestly to his work, turning a deaf ear to the incantation. In the curious labor of the Bureau, he found refreshment that was continually renewed. He experienced again, and with a far more violent impulse, the enthusiasm that had attended

the writing of his book a year or two before, and so perhaps passed from one drug to another. It was, indeed, with something of rapture, that he imagined the great procession of years, all to be devoted to the intimate analysis of words. to the construction of the sentence, as if it were a piece of jewelry or mosaic. Sometimes, in the pauses of the work, he would pace up and down his cell, looking out of the window now and again and gazing for an instant into the melancholy street. As the year advanced, the days grew more and more misty, and he found himself the inhabitant of a little island,

reed about with the waves of a white and solemn sea. In the afternoon the fog would grow denser, shutting out not only sight but sound. The shriek of the garden gates, the jangling of the tram bell, echoed as if from a far way. Then there were days of heavy incessant rain. He could see a gray drifting sky and the drops plashing in the street, and the houses all dripping and saddened with wet. He cured himself of one great aversion. He was no longer nauseated at the sight of a story begun and left unfinished.

Formerly, even when an idea rose in his mind bright and wonderful, he had always approached the paper with a feeling of sickness and dislike, remembering all the hopeless beginnings he had made. But now he understood that to begin a romance was almost a separate and special art, a thing apart from the story to be practiced with sedulous care. Whenever an opening scene occurred to him, he noted it roughly in a book, and he devoted many long winter evenings to the elaboration of these beginnings. Sometimes the first impression would yield only a paragraph or a sentence, and once or twice

but a splendid and sonorous word, which seemed to Lucian all dim and rich with unsurmised adventure. But often he was able to write three or four vivid pages, studying above all things the hint and significance of the words and actions, striving to work into the lines the atmosphere of the expectation and promise, and the murmur of wonderful events to come. In this one department of his task, the labor seemed almost endless. He would finish a few pages and then rewrite them, using the same incident and nearly the same words, but altering that indefinite something which is scarcely so much style as manner or atmosphere.

He was astonished at the enormous change that was thus affected, and often, though he himself had done the work, he could scarcely describe in words how it was done. But it was clear that in this art of manner or suggestion lay all the chief secrets of literature, that by it all the great miracles were performed. Clearly it was not style, for style in itself was untranslatable, but it was that high-theurgic magic that made the English Don Quixote, roughly produced by some Jervas, perhaps the best of all English books. And it was the same element that made the journey of Roderick Random to London, so ostensibly a narrative of coarse

jokes and common experiences and burlesque manners, told in no very choice diction, essentially a wonderful vision of the 18th century, carrying to one's very nostrils the aroma of of the Great North Road, iron-bound under black frost, darkened beneath shuddering woods, haunted by highwaymen, with an adventure waiting beyond every turn, and great old echoing ends in the midst of lonely winter lands. It was this magic that Lucian sought for his opening chapters. He tried to find that quality that gives to words something beyond their sound and beyond their meaning, that in the first lines of a book that he had been in the first lines of a book that he

should whisper things unintelligible, but all significant. Often he worked for many hours without success, and the grim wet dawn once found him still searching for hieroglyphic sentences, for words mystical, symbolic. On the shelves, in the upper part of his bureau, he had placed the books which, however various as to matter, seemed to have a part in this curious quality of suggestion, and in that sphere which might almost be called supernatural. To these books he had often had recourse, when further effort appeared altogether hopeless, and certain pages in Coleridge and Edgar Allan Poe

had the power of holding him in a trance of delight, subject to emotions and impressions which he knew to transcend altogether the realm of the formal understanding. Such lines as, bottomless veils and boundless floods and chasms and caves and Titan woods, with forms that no man can discover for the dews that drip all over. Had for Lucian more than the potency of a drug, lulling him into a splendid waking sleep, every word being a supreme incantation. And it was not only his mind that was charmed by such passages, for he felt at the same time a

strange and delicious bodily languor that held him motionless, without the desire or power to stir him from his seat. And there were certain phrases in Kubla Khan that had such a magic that he would sometimes wake up, as it were, to the consciousness that he had been lying on the bed or sitting in the chair by the bureau, repeating a single line over and over again for two or three hours. Yet he knew perfectly well that he had not been really asleep. A little effort recalled a constant impression of the wallpaper, with its pink flowers on a buff ground, and of the muslin-curtained window letting in the grey winter light. He had been some seven months in London when this odd experience first

occurred to him. The day opened dreary and cold and clear, with a gusty and restless wind whirling round the corner of the street, and lifting the dead leaves and scraps of paper that littered the roadway into eddying mounting circles, as if a storm of black rain were to come. Lucian had sat late the night before, and rose in the morning feeling weary and listless and heavy-headed. While he dressed, his legs dragged him as with weights, and he staggered and nearly fell in bending down to the mat outside for his tea-tray. He lit the spirit-lamp on the hearth with shaking, unsteady hands, and could scarcely pour out the tea when it was ready. A delicate cup of tea was one of his few luxuries.

He was fond of the strange flavor of the green leaf, and this morning he drank the straw-colored liquid eagerly, hoping it would disperse the cloud of languor. He tried his best to course himself into the sense of vigor and enjoyment with which he usually began the day, walking briskly up and down and arranging his papers in order. But he could not free himself from depression. Even as he opened the dear bureau, a wave of melancholy came upon him,

and he began to ask himself whether he were not pursuing a vain dream, searching for treasures that had no existence. He drew out his cousin's letter and read it again, sadly enough. After all, there was a good deal of truth in what she said, He had overrated his powers. He had no friends, no real education. He began to count up the months since he had come to London. He had received his two thousand pounds in March, and in May he had said goodbye to the woods and to the dear and friendly paths. May, June, July, August, September, October, November, and half of December had gone by.

And what had he to show? Nothing but the experiment. the attempt, futile scribblings which had no end nor shining purpose. There was nothing in his desk that he could produce as evidence of his capacity, no fragment even of accomplishment. It was a thought of intense bitterness, but it seemed as if the barbarians were in the right. A place in a house of business would have been more suitable. He leaned his head on his desk, overwhelmed with the severity of his own judgment,

He tried to comfort himself again by the thought of all the hours of happy enthusiasm he had spent amongst his papers, working for a great idea with infinite patience. He recalled to mind something that he had always tried to keep in the background of his hopes, the foundation stone of his life, which he had hidden out of sight. Deep in his heart was the hope that he might one day write a valiant book. He scarcely dared to entertain the aspiration. He felt his incapacity too deeply, but yet his longing was the foundation of all his painful and patient effort.

This he had proposed in secret to himself, that if he labored without ceasing, without tiring, he might produce something which would at all events be art, which would stand wholly apart from the objects shaped like books, printed with printer's ink, and called by the name of books that he had read. Giotto, he knew, was a painter, and the man who imitated walnut wood on the deal doors opposite was a painter, and he wished to be a very humble pupil in the class of the former. It was better, he thought, to fail in attempting exquisite things than to succeed in the department of the utterly contemptible. He had vowed he would be the dunce of Servantes'

school rather than top boy in the academy of a bad-and-de-beat, and Millicent's marriage, and with this purpose he had devoted himself to laborious and joyous years, so that, however mean his capacity, the pain should not be wanting. He tried now to rouse himself from a growing misery by the recollection of this high aim, but it all seemed hopeless vanity. He looked out into the gray street, and it stood a symbol of his life, chill and dreary and gray and vexed with a horrible wind. There were the dull inhabitants of the quarter going about their common business.

A man was crying, mackerel in a doleful voice, slowly passing up the street and staring into the white-curtain parlors, searching for the face of a purchaser behind the India rubber plants, stuffed birds, and piles of gaudy guilt books that adorned the windows. One of the blistered doors over the way banged, and a woman came scurring out on some errand, And the garden-gate shrieked two melancholy notes as she opened it and let it swing back after her. The little patches called gardens were mostly untilled, uncared for, squares of slimy moss, dotted with clumps of coarse ugly grass.

But here and there were the blackened and rotting remains of sunflowers and merry-golds. And beyond, he knew, stretched the labyrinth of streets, more or less squalid, but all gray and dull, and behind were the mud pits and the steaming heaps of yellowish bricks, and to the north was a great wide, cold waste, treeless, desolate, swept by bitter wind. It was all like his own life, he said again to himself, a maze of unprofitable dreariness and desolation, and his mind grew as black and hopeless as the winter sky. The morning went thus dismally till twelve o'clock, and he put on his hat and great-coat. He always went out for an hour every day between twelve and one. The exercise was a necessity, and the landlady made his bed

in the interval. The wind blew the smoke from the chimneys into his face as he shut the door, and with the acrid smoke came the prevailing odor of the street, a blend of cabbage water and burnt bones, and the faint sickly vapor from the brick fields. Lucian walked mechanically for the hour, going eastward along the main road. The wind pierced him, and the dust was blinding, and the dreariness of the street increased his misery. The row of common shops, full of common things, the blatant public houses, the independent chapel, a horrible stucco parody of a Greek temple with a facade of hideous columns

that was a nightmare. Villas like smug Pharisees, shops again, a church in cheap Gothic, an old garden blasted and riven by the builder. These were the pictures of the way. When he got home again, he flung himself on the bed and lay there stupidly till sheer hunger roused him. He ate a hunch of bread and drank some water, and began to pace up and down the room, wondering whether there were no escape from despair. Writing seemed quite impossible, and hardly knowing what he did, he opened his bureau and took out a book from the shelves. As his eyes fell on the page, and the air grew dark and heavy as night, and the wind wailed suddenly, loudly, terribly. By woman wailing for her demon lover!

The words were on his lips when he raised his eyes again. A broadband of pale, clear light was shining into the room. And when he looked out of the window, he saw the road all brightened by glittering pools of water, and, as the last drops of the rainstorm starred these mirrors, the sun sank into the rack. Lucian gazed about him, perplexed, till his eyes fell on the clock above his empty hearth. He had been sitting, motionless, for nearly two hours, without any sense of the passage of time, and without ceasing he had murmured those words as he dreamed and endless wonderful story. He experienced somewhat the sensations of Coleridge himself. Strange, amazing, ineffable things seemed to have been presented to him, not in the form of the idea,

but actually and materially, but he was less fortunate than Coleridge and that he could not, even vaguely, image to himself what he had seen. Yet, when he searched his mind, he knew that the consciousness of the room in which he sat had never left. him. He had seen the thick darkness gather, and had heard the whirl of rain hissing through the air. Windows had been shut down with a crash. He had noted the pattering of footsteps of people running to shelter, the landlady's voice crying to someone to look at the rain coming in under the door. It was like peering into some old bituminous picture. One could see at last that the mere blackness resolved itself into the likeness of trees and rocks and travelers.

And against this background of his room, and the storm and the noises of the street, his vision stood out illuminated. He felt he had descended to the very depths, into the caverns that are hollowed beneath the soul. He tried vainly to record the history of his impressions. The symbols remained in his memory, but the meaning was all conjecture. The next morning, when he awoke, he could scarcely understand or realize the bitter depression of the preceding day. He found it had all vanished away

and had been succeeded by an intense exultation. Afterwards, when at rare intervals he experienced the same strange possession of the consciousness, he found this to be the invariable result. The hour of vision was always succeeded by a feeling of delight, by sensations of brightened and intensified powers.

On that bright December day, after the storm, he rose joyously, and set about the labor of the Bureau with the assurance of success, almost with the hope of formidable difficulties to be overcome. He had long busied himself with those curious researches which Poe had indicated in the philosophy of composition, and many hours had been spent in analyzing the singular effects which may be produced by the sound and resonance of words.

But he had been struck by the thought that in the finest literature there were more subtle tones than the loud and insistent music of Nevermore, and he endeavored to find the secret of those pages and sentences which spoke less directly and less obviously to the soul rather than to the ear, being filled with a certain grave melody and the sensation of singing voices. It was admirable, no doubt, to write phrases that showed at a glance their designed rhythm and rang with sonorous words. But he dreamed of a prose in which the music should be less explicit,

of names rather than notes. He was astonished that morning at his own fortune and facility. He succeeded in covering a page of ruled paper wholly to his satisfaction, and the sentences, when he read them out, appeared to suggest a weird, elusive chanting, exquisite but almost imperceptible, like the echo of the plain song reverberated from the vault of a monastic church. He thought that such happy mornings will repay him for the anguish of depression which he

sometimes had to suffer, and for the strange experience of possession recurring at rare intervals, and usually after many weeks of severe diet. His income, he found, amounted to 65 pounds a year, and he lived for weeks at a time on 15 shillings a week. During these austere periods, his only food was bred at the rate of a loaf a day, but he drank huge drafts of green tea and smoked a black tobacco, which seemed to him a more potent mother of thought than any drug from the scented east. "'I hope you go to some nice place for dinner,' wrote his cousin. There used to be some excellent eating-houses in London

where one could get a good cut from the joint with plenty of gravy, and a boiled potato for a shilling. Aunt Mary writes that you should try Mr. Jones's in Water Street, Islington, whose father came from near Carmen and was always most comfortable in her day. I dare say the walk there would do you good. It is such a pity you smoke that horrid tobacco. I had a letter from Mrs. Dolly,

Jane Diggs, who married your cousin John Dolly, the other day, and she said they would have been delighted to take you for only 25 shillings a week for the sake of the family if you had not been a smoker. She told me to ask you if you had ever seen a horse or a dog smoking tobacco. They're such nice, comfortable people, and the children would have been company for you. Johnny, who used to be such a dear little fellow, has just gone into an office in the city and seems to have excellent prospects. How I wish, my dear Lucian, that you could do something in the same way. Don't forget Mr. Jones is in Water Street, and you might mention your name to him. Lucian never troubled Mr. Jones, but these letters of his cousins always refreshed him by the force of contrast. He tried to

imagine himself a part of the Dolly family, going dutifully every morning to the city on the bus, and returning in the evening for high tea. He could consider it. conceive the fine odor of hot roast beef hanging about the decorous house on Sunday afternoons, Papa asleep in the dining-room, Mama lying down, and the children quite good and happy with their Sunday's books. In the evening, after supper, one read the quiver till bedtime. Such pictures as these were to Lucian a comfort and a help, a remedy against despair. Often when he felt overwhelmed by the difficulty of the work he had undertaken. He thought of the alternative career and was strengthened.

He returned again and again to that desire of a prose, which should sound faintly, not so much with an audible music, but with the memory and echo of it. In the night, when the last tram had gone jangling by and he had looked out and seen the street all wrapped about in heavy folds of the mist, he conducted some of his most delicate experiments. In that white and solitary midnight of the suburban street, he experienced the curious sense of being on a tower,

remote and apart and high above all the troubles of the earth. The gas-lamp, which was nearly opposite, shone in a pale halo of light, and the houses themselves were merely indistinct marks and shadows amidst that palpable whiteness, shutting out the world and its noises. The knowledge of the swarming life that was so still, though it surrounded him, made the silence seem deeper than that of the mountains before the dawn.

It was as if he alone stirred and looked out amidst a host sleeping at his feet. The fog came in by the open window in freezing puffs, and as Lucian watched he noticed that it shook and wavered like the sea, tossing up wreaths and drifts across the pale halo of the lamp, and these vanishing, others succeeded. It was as if the mist passed by from the river to the north, as if it still passed by in the silence. He would shut his window gently and sit down in his lighted room with all the consciousness of the white advancing shroud upon him. It was then that he found himself in the mood for curious labors, and able to handle with some touch of confidence the more exquisite instruments of the

craft. He sought for that magic by which all the glory and glamour of mystic chivalry were made to shine through the burlesque and gross adventures of Don Quixote, by which Hawthorne had lit his infernal Sabbath fires, and fashioned a burning oriole about the village tragedy of the scarlet letter. In Hawthorne the story and the suggestion though quite distinct and of different worlds, were rather parallel than opposed to one another. But Servantes had done a stranger thing. One reed of Don Quixote, beaten, dirty, and ridiculous,

mistaking windmills for giants, sheep for an army, but the impression was of the enchanted forest, of Avalon, of the Sangral, far in the spiritual city. And Rebellé showed him beneath the letter the Turanian sun shining on the hot rock above Shinnon, on the maze of narrow, climbing streets, on the high-pitched gabled roofs, on the gray-blue turel,

pricking upward from the fantastic labyrinth of walls. He heard the sound of sonorous plain-song from the monastic choir, of gross exuberant gaiety from the rich vineyards. He listened to the eternal mystic mirth of those that halted in the purple shadow of the Sorbier by the white steep road. The gracious and ornate chate chateau on the Lois and the Vienne

rose fair and shining to confront the incredible secrets of vast, dim, far-lifted Gothic knaves, that seemed ready to take the great deep and float away from the mist and dust of earthly streets to anchor in the haven of the clear city that hath foundations. The rank tail of the garterobe of the farm kitchen mingled with the reasoned, endless legend of the schools, with luminous platonic argument.

The old pomp of the Middle Ages put on the robe of a fresh life. There was a smell of wine and of incense, of June Meadows, and of ancient books, and through it all he hearkened intent to the exultation of chiming bells ringing for a new feast in a new land. He would cover pages with the analysis of these marvels, tracking the suggestion concealed beneath the words, and yet glowing like the golden threads in a robe of Samite, or like that device of the old binders by which a vivid picture appeared

on the shut edges of a book. He tried to imitate this art, to summon even the faint shadow of the great effect, rewriting a page of Hawthorne, experimenting and changing an epithet here and there, noting how sometimes the alteration of a trifling word would plunge a whole scene into darkness, as if one of those blood-red fires had instantly been extinguished. Sometimes, for severe practice, he attempted to construct short tales in the manner of this or that master. He sighed over these desperate attempts, over the clattering pieces of mechanism which would not even simulate life. but he urged himself to an infinite perseverance.

Through the white hours he worked on amidst the heap and litter of papers. Books and manuscripts overflowed from the bureau to the floor, and if he looked out he saw the mist still pass by, still passing from the river to the north. It was not till the winter was well advanced that he began at all to explore the region in which he lived. Soon after his arrival in the gray street, he had taken one or two vague walks, hardly noticing where he went or what he saw.

But for all the summer he had shut himself in his room, beholding nothing but the form and color of words. For his morning walk he almost invariably chose the one direction, going along the Uxbridge road towards Notting Hill and returning by the same monotonous thoroughfare. Now, however, when the new year was beginning its dull days, he began to diverge occasionally to right and left, sometimes eating his luncheon in odd corners, in the bulging parlors of 18th-century taverns that still fronted the surging sea of modern streets, or perhaps in brand-new publics on the broken borders of the brick-fields, smelling of the clay from which

they had swollen. He found waste by-places behind rail-place. railway embankments where he could smoke his pipe sheltered from the wind. Sometimes there was a wooden fence by an old pear orchard where he sat and gazed at the wet desolation of the market gardens, munching a few current biscuits by way of dinner. As he went farther afield, a sense of immensity slowly grew upon him. It was as if, from the little island of his room, that one friendly place he pushed out into the gray unknown, into a city of the city of the little island that for him was uninhabited as the desert.

He came back to his cell, after these purposeless wanderings, always with a sense of relief, with the thought of taking refuge from gray. As he lit the gas and opened the desk of his bureau and saw the pile of papers awaiting him, it was as if he had passed from the black skies and the stinging wind and the dull maze of the suburb into all the warmth and sunlight and violent color

of the South. End of Chapter 5. Chapter 6. Of the Hill of Dreams by Arthur Macon. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. The Hill of Dreams, Chapter 6. It was in this winter after his coming to the gray street that Lucian first experienced the pains of desolation.

He had all his life known the delights of solitude, and had acquired that habit of mind, which makes a man find. find rich company on the bare hillside, and leads him into the heart of the wood to meditate by the dark water-pools. But now, in the blank interval when he was forced to shut up his desk, the sense of loneliness overwhelmed him and filled him with unutterable melancholy. On such days he carried about with him an unceasing gnawing torment in his breast, the anguish of the empty page awaiting him in his bureau, and the knowledge that it was worse than useless to attempt the work.

He had fallen into the habit of always using this phrase, the work, to denote the adventure of literature. It had grown in his mind to all the austere and grave significance of the great work on the lips of the alchemists. It included every trifling and laborious page and the vague, magnificent fancies that sometimes hovered below him. All else had become mere by-play, unimportant, trivial. The work was the end, and the means and the food of his life. It raised him up in the morning

to renew the struggle. It was the symbol which charmed him as he lay down at night. All through the hours of toil at the bureau he was enchanted, and when he went out and explored the unknown coasts, the one thought alert him, and was the colored glass between his eyes and the world. Then, as he drew nearer home, his steps would quicken. And the more weary and gray the walk, the more he rejoiced as he thought of his hermitage and of the curious difficulties that awaited him there. But when suddenly and without warning the faculty disappeared, when his mind seemed a hopeless waste from which nothing could arise,

then he became subject to a misery so piteous that the barbarians themselves would have been sorry for him. He had known some foretaste of these bitter and inexpressible griefs in the old country, country days. But then he had immediately taken refuge in the hills. He had rushed to the dark woods to an anodyne, letting his heart drink in all the wonder and magic of the wild land. Now, in these days of January, in the suburban street, there was no such refuge. He had been working steadily for some weeks, well enough satisfied on the whole with the daily progress, glad to awake in the morning and to read over what he had written on the night before. The New Year opened with faint and heavy weather and a breathless silence in the air,

but in a few days the great frost set in. Soon the streets began to suggest the appearance of a beleaguered city. The silence that had preceded the frost deepened, and the mist hung over the earth like a dense white smoke. Night after night the cold increased, and people seemed unwilling to go abroad, till even the main thorough affairs were empty and deserted, as if the inhabitants were lying close in hiding. It was at this dismal time that Lucian found himself reduced to impotence. There was a sudden break in his thought, and when he rode on valiantly, hoping against hope, he only grew more aghast on the discovery of the imbecilities he had committed to paper. He ground his teeth together

and persevered, sick at heart, feeling as if all the world were fallen from under his feet, driving his pen on mechanically till he was overwhelmed. He saw the stuff he had done, without veil or possible concealment, a lamentable and wretched sheaf of verbiage. Worse, it seemed, than the efforts of his boyhood. He was no longer tautological. He avoided tautology with the infernal art of a leader-writer, filling his windbags and mincing words

as if he had been a trained journalist on the staff of the Daily Post, There seemed all the matter of an insufferable tragedy in these thoughts, that his patient and enduring toil was in vain, that practice went for nothing, and that he had wasted the labor of Milton to accomplish the tenth rate. Unhappily, he could not give in. The longing, the fury for the work burnt within him like a burning fire. He lifted up his eyes in despair. It was then, while he knew that no one could help him,

that he languished for help. And then, though he was aware that no comfort was possible, he fervently wished to be comforted. The only friend he had was his father, and he knew that his father would not even understand his distress. For him, always, the printed book was the beginning and end of literature. The agony of the maker, his despair and sickness, were as cursed as the pains of labor. He was ready to read and admire the work of the great smith, but he did not wish to hear of the period when the great smith had writhed and twisted like a scotched worm,

only hoping to be put out of his misery, to go mad or die, to escape somehow from the bitter pains. And Lucian knew no one else. Now and then he read in the paper the fame of the great literature the churs, the gypsies who were entertaining the Prince of Wales, the jolly beggars were dining with the Lord Mayor, the old mumpers were mingling amicably and gorgeously with the leading members of the Stock Exchange. He was so unfortunate as to know none of these gentlemen, but it hardly seemed likely

that they could have done much for him in any case. Indeed, in his heart, he was certain that help and comfort from without were in the nature of things utterly impossible. His ruin and grief were within, and only his own assistance could avail. He tried to reassure himself, to believe that his torments were a proof of his vocation, that the facility of the novelist

who stood six years deep in contracts to produce romances was a thing wholly undesirable, but all the while he longed for but a drop of that inexhaustible fluency, which he professed to despise. He drove himself out from that dreary contemplation of the white paper and the idle pen. He went into the frozen and deserted streets, hoping that he might pluck the burning coal from his heart.

But the fire was not quenched. As he walked furiously along the grim iron roads, he fancied that those persons who passed him cheerfully on their way to friends and friendly hearts shrank from him into the mists as they went by. Lucian imagined that the fire of his torment and anguish must in some way glow visibly about him. He moved, perhaps, in a nimbus that proclaimed the blackness and the flames within. He knew, of course, that in misery he had grown delirious, that the well-coated, smooth-headed personages who loomed out of the fog upon him

were in reality shuddering only with cold. But in spite of common sense, he still could, conceived that he saw on their faces an evident horror and disgust, and something of the repugnance that one feels at the sight of a venomous snake half-killed, trailing its bleeding vileness out of sight. By design, Lucian tried to make for remote and desolate places, and yet, when he had succeeded in touching on the open country and knew that the icy shadow hovering through the mist was a field, he longed for some sound and murmur of life, and turn to him. turned again to roads where pale lamps were glimmering,

and the dancing flame of firelight shone across the frozen shrubs. And the sight of these homely fires, the thought of affection and consolation waiting by them, stung him the more sharply, perhaps because of the contrast with his own chills and weariness and helpless sickness, and chiefly because he knew that he had long closed an everlasting door between his heart and such felicities. If those within had come out and had called him by his name to enter and be comforted,

it would have been quite unavailing, since between them and him there was a great gulf fixed. Perhaps for the first time he realized that he had lost the art of humanity forever. He had thought, when he closed his ears to the wood whisper and changed the fawn singing for the murmur of the streets, the black pools for the shadows and amber light of London, that he had put off the old life and had turned his soul to healthy activities, but the truth was that he had merely exchanged one drug for another.

He could not be human, and he wondered whether there were some drop of the fairy blood in his body that made him foreign and a stranger in the world. He did not surrender to desolation without repeated struggles. He strove to allure himself to his desk by the promise of some easy task. He would not attempt invention, but he had memoranda and rough jottings of ideas in his notebooks, and he would merely amplify the suggestions ready to his hand. But it was hopeless, again and again it was hopeless. As he read over his notes, trusting that he would find some hint that might light up the dead fires,

and kindle again that pure flame of enthusiasm, he found how desperately his fortune had fallen. He could see no light, no color in the lines he had scribbled with eager, trembling fingers. He remembered how splendid all these things had been when he wrote them down, but now they were meaningless, faded into gray. The few words he had dashed onto the paper, and raptured at the thought of the happy hours they promised, had become mere jargon, and when he understood the idea it seemed foolish, dull, unoriginal.

He discovered something at like, that appeared to have a grain of promise and determined to do his best to put it into shape, but the first paragraph appalled him. It might have been written by an unintelligent schoolboy. He tore the paper in pieces and shut and locked his desk, heavy despair sinking like lead into his heart. For the rest of that day he lay motionless on the bed, smoking pipe after pipe in the hope of stupefying himself with tobacco fumes.

The air in the room became blue and thick with smoke. It was bitterly cold, and he wrapped himself up in his gray coat and drew the counterpane over him. The night came on, and the window darkened, and at last he fell asleep. He renewed the effort at intervals, only to plunge deeper into misery. He felt the approaches of madness, and knew that his only hope was to walk till he was physically exhausted,

so that he might come home almost fainting with fatigue, but ready to fall asleep the moment he got into bed. He passed the mornings in a kind of torpor, endeavoring to avoid thought, to occupy his mind with the pattern of the paper, with the advertisements at the end of a book, with the curious grayness of the light that glimmered through the mist into his room,

with the muffled voices that rumbled now and then from the street. He tried to make out the design that had once colored, the faded carpet on the floor, and wondered about the dead artist in Japan, the adorner of his bureau. He speculated as to what his thoughts had been as he inserted the rainbow mother-of-pearl and made that great flight of shining birds, dipping their wings as they rose from the reeds, or how he had conceived the lacquer dragons in red gold, and the fantastic houses in the garden of peach-trees. But sooner or later the oppression of his grids, but sooner or later the oppression of his grief returned. The loud shriek and clang of the garden gate, the warning bell of some passing

bicyclist steering through the fog, the noise of his pipe falling to the floor would suddenly awaken him to the sense of misery. He knew that it was time to go out. He could not bear to sit still and suffer. Sometimes he cut a slice of bread and put it in his pocket. Sometimes he trusted to the chance of finding a public house, where he could have a sandwich. and a glass of beer. He turned always from the main streets and lost himself in the intricate suburban byways, willing to be engulfed in the infinite whiteness of the mist. The roads had stiffened into iron ridges. The fences and trees were glittering with frost crystals. Everything was of strange and altered aspect. Lucian walked on and on through the maze, now in a circle of

shadowy villas, awful as the buried streets of Herculaneum, now in lanes dipping onto open country, that led him past great elm trees, whose white boughs were all still, and past the bitter, lonely fields where the mist seemed to fade away into gray darkness. As he wandered along these unfamiliar and ghastly paths, he became the more convinced of his utter remoteness from all humanity. He allowed that grotesque suggestion, of there being something visibly amiss in his outer appearance to grow upon him. And often he looked with a horrible expectation into the faces of those who passed by, afraid, lest his own senses gave him false intelligence,

and that he had really assumed some frightful and revolting shape. It was curious that, partly by his own faults, and largely, no doubt through the operation of mere coincidence, he was once or twice strongly confirmed in this fantastic delusion. He came one day into a lonely, an unfrequented byway, a country lane falling into ruin, but still fringed with elms that had formed an avenue leading to the old manor house. It was now the road of communication between two far outlying suburbs,

and on these winter nights lay as black, dreary, and desolate as a mountain track. Soon after the frost began, a gentleman had been set upon in this lane as he picked his way between the corner where the bus had set him down and his home where the fire was blazing, and his wife watched the clock. He was stumbling uncertainly through the gloom, growing a little nervous because the walk seemed so long, and peering anxiously for the lamp at the end of his street, when the two footpads rushed at him out of the fog. One caught him from behind, the other struck him with a heavy bludgeon, and as he lay senseless they robbed him of his watch and money, and vanished across the fields. The next morning all the suburb rang with the story.

The unfortunate merchant had been grievously hurt, and wives watched their husbands go out in the morning with sickening apprehension, not knowing what might happen at night. Lucian, of course, was ignorant of all these rumors, and struck into the gloomy by-road without caring where he was or whither the way would lead him. He had been driven out that day, as with whips. Another hopeless attempt to return to the work had agonized him, and existence seemed an intolerable pain. As he entered the deeper gloom, where the fog hung heavily,

he began, half-consciously, to gesticulate. He felt convulsed with torment and shame, and it was a sorry relief to clench his nails into his palm and strike the air as he stumbled heavily along, bruising his feet against the frozen ruts and ridges. His impotence was hideous, he said to himself, and he cursed himself and his life, breaking out into a loud oath and stamping on the ground. Suddenly he was shocked at a scream of terror. It seemed in his very ear, and looking up, he saw for a moment a woman gazing at him out of the mist, her features distorted and stiff

with fear. A momentary convulsion twitched her arms into the ugly mimicry of a beckoning gesture, and she turned and ran for dear life, howling like a beast. Lucian still stood in the road while the woman's cries grew faint and died away. His heart was chilled within him as the significance of this strange incident became clear. He remembered nothing of his violent gestures. He had not known at the time that he had sworn out loud, or that he was grinding his teeth with impotent rage. He only thought of that ringing scream, of the horrible fear on the white face that had looked upon him, of the woman's headlong flight from his presence. He stood trembling and shuddering, and in a little while he

was feeling his face, searching for some loathsome mark, for the stigmata of evil branding his forehead. He staggered homewards like a drunken man, and when he came into the Uxbridge Road, some children saw him and called after him as he swayed and caught at the lamppost. When he got to his room, he sat down at first in the dark. He did not dare to light the gas. Everything in the room was indistinct, but he shut his eyes as he passed the dressing-table, and sat in a corner, his face turned to the wall. And when at last he gathered courage, and the flame leapt hissing from the jet, he crept piteously towards the glass. and ducked his head, crouching miserably, and struggling with his terrors before he could look at his own image.

To the best of his power, he tried to deliver himself from these more grotesque fantasies. He assured himself that there was nothing terrific in his countenance, but sadness, that his face was like the face of other men. Yet he could not forget that reflection he had seen in the woman's eyes, how the surest mirrors had showed him a horrible dread, her soul itself quailing and shuddering at an awful sight. Her scream rang and rang in his ears. She had fled away from him as if he offered some fate darker than death.

He looked again and again into the glass, tortured by a hideous uncertainty. His senses told him there was nothing amiss, yet he had a proof, and yet, as he was a proof, and yet, as he peered most earnestly, there was, it seemed, something strange and not altogether usual in the expression of the eyes. Perhaps it might be the unsteady flare of the gas, or perhaps a flaw in the cheap looking-glass, that gave some slight distortion to the image. He walked briskly up and down the room, and tried to gaze steadily, indifferently, into his own face.

He would not allow himself to be misguided by a word. When he had pronounced himself incapable of humanity, he had only meant that he could not enjoy the simple things of common life. A man was not necessarily monstrous, merely because he did not appreciate high tea, a quiet chat about the neighbors, and a happy, noisy evening with the children. But with what message then did he appear charged

that the woman's mouth grew so stark. Her hands had jerked up as if they had been pulled with frantic wires. She seemed for the instant like a horrible puppet. Her scream was a thing from the nocturnal Sabbath. He lit a candle and held it close up to the glass, so that his own face glared white at him and the reflection of the room became an indistinct darkness. He saw nothing but the candle flame and his own shining,

eyes, and surely they were not as the eyes of common men. As he put down the light, a sudden suggestion entered his mind, and he drew a quick breath, amazed at the thought. He hardly knew whether to rejoice or to shudder, for the thought he conceived was this, that he had mistaken all the circumstances of the adventure, and had perhaps repulsed a sister who would have welcomed him to the Sabbath. He lay awake all night, turning from one dreary and frightful thought to the other, scarcely dozing for a few hours when the dawn came. He tried for a moment to argue with himself when he got up.

Knowing that his true life was locked up in the bureau, he made a desperate attempt to drive the phantoms and hideous shapes from his mind. He was assured that his salvation was in the work, and he drew the key from his pocket. and made as if he would have opened the desk. But the nausea, the remembrances of repeated and utter failure were too powerful. For many days he hung about the manor lane, half-dreading, half-desiring another meeting, and he swore he would not again mistake the cry of rapture, nor repulse the arms extended in a frenzy of delight. In those days he dreamed of some dark place where they might celebrate and make the marriage of the Sabbath,

with such rights as he had dared to imagine. It was perhaps only the shock of a letter from his father that rescued him from these evident approaches to madness. Mr. Taylor wrote how they had missed him at Christmas, how the farmers had inquired after him, of the homely familiar things that recalled his boyhood, his mother's voice, the friendly fireside, in the good old fashions that had nurtured,

He remembered that he had once been a boy, loving the cake and puddings and the radiant holly and all the seventeenth-century mirth that lingered on in the ancient farmhouses. And there came to him the more holy memory of Mass on Christmas morning. How sweet the dark and frosty earth-head smelt as he walked beside his mother down the winding lane. And from the style near the church they had seen the world glimmering to the dawn, and the wandering lanterns advancing across the fields. Then he had come into the church

and seen it shining with candles and holly, and his father, in pure vestments of white linen, sang the longing music of the liturgy at the altar, and the people answered him till the sun rose with the grave notes of the paternoster, and a red beam stole through the chancel window. The worst horror left him, as he recalled the memory of these deals,

and holy things. He cast away the frightful fancy that the scream he had heard was a shriek of joy, that the arms rigidly jerked out invited him to an embrace. Indeed, the thought that he had longed for such an obscene illusion that he had gloated over the recollection of that stark mouth filled him with disgust. He resolved that his senses were deceived, that he had neither seen nor heard, but had for a moment externalized his own slumbering and morbid dreams. It was perhaps necessary that he should be wretched, that his effort should be discouraged, but he would not yield utterly to madness. Yet when he went abroad with such good resolutions, it was hard to resist an influence

that seemed to come from without and within. He did not know it, but people were everywhere talking of the Great Frost, of the fog that lay heavy on London, making the streets dark and terrible, of strange birds that came fluttering about the windows in the silent squares. The Thames rolled out duskily, bearing down the jarring ice-blocks, and as one looked on the black water from the bridges, it was like a river in a northern tail. To Lucian, it all seemed mythical, of the same substance as his own fantastical thoughts. He rarely saw a newspaper and did not follow from day to day the systematic readings of the thermometer,

the reports of ice-fares, of coaches driven across the river at Hampton, of the skating on the fens, and hence the Iron Roads, the beleaguered silence, and the heavy folds of mist, appeared as amazing as a picture, significant, appalling. He could not look out and see a common suburban street foggy and dull, nor think of the inhabitants as at work or sitting cheerfully eating nuts about their fires. He saw a vision of gray road vanishing, of dim houses all empty and deserted, and the silence seemed eternal. And when he went out and passed through street after street,

all void by the vague shapes of houses that appeared for a moment and were then instantly swallowed up, it seemed to him as if he had strayed into a city that had suffered some inconceivable doom, that he alone wandered where myriads had once dwelt. It was a town as great as Babylon, terrible as Rome, marvelous as lost Atlantis, set in the midst of a white wilderness surrounded by waste places. It was impossible to escape from it.

If he skulked between hedges and crept away beyond the frozen pools, presently the serried stony lines confronted him like an army, And far and far they swept away into the night, as some fabled wall that guards an empire in the vast, dim east. Or in that distorting medium of the mist, changing all things, he imagined that he trod an infinite desolate plain, abandoned from ages, but circled and encircled with Dolman and Men Here that loomed out at him gigantic, terrible. All London was one gray temple of an awful rite.

ring within ring of wizard stones circled about some central place. Every circle was an initiation, every initiation eternal loss. Or perhaps he was astray forever in a land of gray rocks. He had seen the light of home, the flicker of the fire on the walls. Close at hand, it seemed, was the open door, and he had heard dear voices calling to him across the gloom, but he had just missed the path. The lamps vanished, the voices sounded thin and died away, and yet he knew that those within were waiting,

that they could not bear to close the door, but waited, calling his name, while he had missed the way and wandered in the pathless desert of the gray rocks. Fantastic, hideous, they beset him wherever he turned, piled up into strange shapes, pricked with sharp peaks, assuming the appearance of goblin towers, swelling into a vague dome, like a fairy wrath, huge and terrible. And as one dream faded into another, so these last fancies were perhaps the most tormenting and persistent. The rocky avenues became the camp and fortiless of some half-human, malignant race, who swarmed in hiding, ready to bury him away into the heart of their

horrible hills. It was awful to think that all his goings were surrounded, that in the dark he was watched and surveyed, that every step but led him deeper and deeper into the labyrinth. When, of an evening, he was secure in his room, the blind drawn down and the gas flaring, he made vigorous efforts towards sanity. It was not of his free will that he allowed terror to overmaster him, and he desired nothing better than a placid and harmless life, full of work and clear thinking. He knew that he deluded himself with imagination, that he had been walking through London suburbs, and not through pandemonium, and that if he could but unlock his bureau,

all those ugly forms would be resolved into the mist. But it was hard to say if he consoled himself effectually with such reflections, for the return to common sense meant also the return to the sharp pangs of defeat. It recalled him to the bitter theme of his own inefficiency, to the thought that he only desired one thing of life, and that this was denied him. He was willing to endure the austerities of a monk in a severe cloister, to suffer cold, to be hungry, to be lonely and friendless, to forbear all the consolation of friendly speech,

and to be glad of all these things, if only, he might be allowed to illuminate the manuscript in quietness. It seemed a hideous, insufferable cruelty that he should so fervently desire that which he could never gain. He was led back to the old conclusion. He had lost the sense of humanity. He was wretched because he was an alien and a stranger amongst citizens. It seemed probable that the enthusiasm of literature, as he understood it, the fervent desire for the fine art, had in it something of the inhuman and dissoned. severed the enthusiast from his fellow creatures. It was possible that the barbarians suspected as much, that by some slow process of rumination he had arrived at his fixed and invetered impression,

by no means a clear reasoned conviction. The average Philistine, if pressed for the reasons of his dislike, would either become inarticulate, ejaculating faugh and pa, like an old-fashioned Scots magazine, Or else he would give some imaginary and absurd reason, alleging that all literary men are poor, that composers never cut their hair,

that painters were rarely public schoolmen, that sculptors couldn't ride straight to hounds to save their lives, but clearly these imbecilities were mere afterthoughts. The average man hated the artist from a deep, instinctive dread of all that was strange, uncanny, alien to his nature. He gibbered, uttered his harsh, semi-beastial faugh, and dismissed Keats to his gallipots from much the same motives, as usually impelled the black savages to dismiss the white man on an even longer journey.

Lucian was not especially interested in this hatred of the barbarian for the maker, except from this point, that it confirmed him in his belief that the love of art dissociated the man from the race. One touch of art made the whole world alien, but surely miseries of the civilized man cast amongst savages were not so much caused by dread of their ferocity as by the terror of his own thoughts. He would perhaps, in his last despair, leave his retreat and go forth to perish at their hands, so that he might at least die in company, and hear the sound of speech before death. And Lucian felt most keenly that, in his case, there was a double curse. He was as isolated as Keats and as inarticulate as his reviewers.

The consolation of the work had failed him, and he was suspended in the void between two worlds. It was no doubt the composite effect of his failures, his loneliness of soul, and solitude of life that had made him invest those common streets with such green. and persistent terrors. He had perhaps yielded to a temptation without knowing that he had been tempted, and, in the manner of de Quincey, had chosen the subtle in exchange for the more tangible pains. Unconsciously, but still of free will, he had preferred the splendor and the gloom of a malignant vision before his corporal pains, before the hard reality of his own impotence. It was better to dwell in vague melancholy,

to stray in the forsaken streets of a city doomed from ages, to wander amidst forlorn and desperate rocks, than to awake to a gnawing and ignomal torment, to confess that a house of business would have been more suitable and more practical, that he had promised what he could never perform. Even as he struggled to beat back the phantasmagoria of the mist, and resolved that he would no longer make all the streets a stage of apparitions.

He hardly realized what he had done, or that the ghosts he had called might depart and return again. He continued his long walks, always with the object of producing a physical weariness and exhaustion that would enable him to sleep of nights. But even when he saw the foggy and deserted avenues in their proper shape and allowed his eyes to catch the pale glimmer of the lamps and the dancing flame of the firelight. He could not rid himself of the impression that he stood afar off,

that between those hearths and himself there was a great gulf fixed. As he paced down the footpath, he could often see plainly across the frozen shrubs into the homely and cheerful rooms. Sometimes, late in the evening, he caught a passing glimpse of the family at tea. Father, mother, and children laughing, and talking together, well pleased with each other's company. Sometimes a wife or a child was standing by the garden gate, peering anxiously through the fog, and the sight of it all, all the little details, the hideous but comfortable armchairs

turned ready to the fire, maroon red curtains being drawn close to shut out the ugly night. The sudden blaze and illumination as the fire was poked up so that it might be changed, cheerful for father. These trivial and common things were acutely significant. They brought back to him the image of a dead boy, himself. They recalled the shabby old parlor in the country, with its shabby old furniture and fading carpet, and renewed a whole atmosphere of affection and homely comfort. His mother would walk to the end of the drive and look out for him when he was late, wandering then about the dark woodlands. On winter evenings she would make the fire blaze, and have his slippers warming by the hearth, and there was probably buttered toast as a treat. He dwelt on all

these insignificant, petty circumstances, on the genial glow and light after the muddy winter lanes, on the relish of the buttered toast and the smell of the hot tea, on the two old cats curled fast asleep before the fender, and made them instruments of exquisite pain and regret. Each of these strange houses that he passed was identified in his mind with his own vanished home. All was prepared and ready as in the old days, but he was shut out, judged and condemned to wander in the frozen mist with weary feet, anguished and forlorn, and they that would pass from within to help him could not. Neither could he pass to them. Again, for the hundredth time, he came back to the sentence. He could not gain the art of letters, and he had lost the art of humanity.

He saw the vanity of all his thoughts. He was an ascetic, caring nothing for warmth and cheerfulness, and the small comforts of life, and yet he allowed his mind to dwell on such things. If one of those passers-by, who walked briskly, eager for home, should have pitied him by some miracle and asked him to come in, it would have been worse than useless. Yet he longed for pleasures that he could not have enjoyed. It was as if he were come to a place of torment, where they who could not drink longed for water, where they who could feel no warmth shuddered in the eternal cold. He was oppressed by the grim conceit that he himself still slept within the matted thicket,

imprisoned by the green bastions of the Roman fort. He had never come out, but a changeling had gone down the hill, and now stirred about the earth. Beset by such ingenious terrors, it was not wonderful that outward events and common incidents should abet his fancies. He had succeeded one day in a skin. from the mesh of the streets, and fell on a rough and narrow lane that stole into a little valley. For the moment he was in a somewhat happier mood. The afternoon sun glowed through the rolling mist and the air grew clearer. He saw quiet and peaceful fields, and a wood descending in a gentle slope from an old farmstead of warm red brick. The farmer was driving the slow

cattle home from the hill, and his loud hello to his dog came across the land a cheerful mellow note. From another side a cart was approaching the clustered barns, hesitating, pausing while the great horses rested, and then starting again into lazy motion. In the well of the valley a wandering line of bushes showed where a brook crept in and out amongst the meadows, and as Lucian stood lingering on the bridge, a soft and idle breath ruffled through the boughs of a great elm. He felt soothed, as by calm music, and wondered whether it would not be better for him to live in some such quiet place, within reach of the streets and yet remote from them. It seemed a refuge for still thoughts. He could imagine himself

sitting at rest beneath the black yew tree in the farm garden, at the close of a summer day. He had almost determined that he would knock at the door and ask if they would take him to the take him as a lodger, when he saw a child running towards him down the lane. It was a little girl, with bright curls tossing about her head, and as she came on, the sunlight glowed upon her, illuminating her brick-red frock and the yellow king-cups in her hat. She had run with her eyes on the ground, chirping and laughing to herself, and did not see Lucian till she was quite near him. She started and glanced into his eyes for a moment, and began to her eyes. began to cry. He stretched out his hand, and she ran from him screaming, frightened no doubt

by what was to her a sudden and strange apparition. He turned back towards London, and the mist folded him in its thick darkness, for on that evening it was tinged with black. It was only by the intensest strain of resolution that he did not yield utterly to the poisonous anodyne which was always at hand. had been a difficult struggle to escape from the mesh of the hills, from the music of the fauns, and even now he was drawn by the memory of those old allurements. But he felt that here, in his loneliness, he was in greater danger and beset by a blacker magic. Horrible fancies rushed wantonly into his mind. He was not only ready to believe that something in his soul

sent a shudder through all that was simple and innocent, but he came trance. He was trying to trembling home one Saturday night, believing, or half-believing, that he was in communion with evil. He had passed through the clamorous and blatant crowd of the High Street, where, as one climbed the hill, the shop seemed all aflame, and the black night air glowed with the flaring gas jets and the naphtha lamps, hissing and wavering before the February wind. Voices, raucous, clament, abominable, were belched out of the blazing public-houses as the door swung to and fro, and above these doors were hideous, brassy lamps, very slowly swinging in a violent blast of air, so that they might have been infernal thuribles, sensing the people.

Some man was calling his wares in one long, continuous shriek that never stopped or paused, and as a respond, a deeper, louder voice roared to him from across the road. An Italian whirled the handle of his piano organ in a fury, and a ring of imps danced mad figures around him, danced and flung up their legs till the rags dropped from some of them, and they still danced on. A flare of Naphtha, burning with a rushing noise, threw a light on one point of the circle, and Lucian watched a lank girl, of fifteen as she came round and round to the flash. She was quite drunk and had kicked her petticoats away, and the crowd howled laughter and applause at her. Her black hair poured down and leapt on her

scarlet bodice. She sprang and leapt around the ring, laughing in a bacchic frenzy, and led the orgy to triumph. People were crossing to and fro, jostling against each other, swarming about certain shops and stalls in a dense, dark mass that quivered and sent out feelers, as if it were one writhing organism. A little farther, a group of young men, arm in arm, were marching down the roadway, chanting some music-hall verse in full chorus, so that it sounded like plain song. An impossible hubbub, a hum of voices, angry as swarming bees, the squeals of five or six girls who ran in and out and dived up dark passages and darted back into the crowd.

All these mingled together till his ears quivered. A young fellow was playing the concertina, and he touched the keys with such slow fingers that the tune wailed solemn into a dirge. But there was nothing so strange as the burst of sound that swelled out when the public-house doors were opened. He walked amongst these people, looked at their faces, and looked at the children amongst them. He had come out thinking that he would see the English working class, the best-behaved and best-tempered crowd in the world,

enjoying the simple pleasure of the Saturday night shopping. Mother bought the joint for Sunday's dinner, and perhaps a pair of boots for father. Father had an honest glass of beer, and the children were given bags of sweets, and then all these worthy people went decently home to their well-earned rest. To Quincy had enjoyed the sight in his day and had studied the rise and fall of onions and potatoes. Lucian, indeed, had desired to take these simple emotions as an opiate, to forget the fine fret and fantastic trouble of his own existence

in plain things and the palpable joy of rest after labor. He was only afraid, lest he should be too sharply reproached by the sight of these men who fought bravely year after year against starvation, who knew nothing of intricate and imagined grief, but only the weariness of relentless labor, of the long battle for their wives and children. It would be pathetic, he thought, to see them content with so little, brightened by the expectation of a day's rest and a good dinner, forced even then to be. to reckon every penny and to make their children laugh with halfpence. Either he would be ashamed before so much content,

or else he would be again touched by the sense of his inhumanity, which could take no interest in the common things of life. But still he went to be at least taken out of himself, to be forced to look at another side of the world, so that he might perhaps forget a little while his own sorrows. He was fascinated by what he saw and heard. He wondered whether De Quincey also had seen the same spectacle, and had concealed his impressions out of reverence for the average reader. Here there were no simple joys of Anna's toilers, but wonderful orgies that drew out his

heart to horrible music. At first, the violence of sound and sight had overwhelmed him. The lights flaring in the night wind, the array of naphtha lamps, the black shadows, the roar of voices. The dance about the piano organ had been the first sign of an inner meaning, and the face of the dark girl as she came round and round to the flame had been amazing in its utter furious abandon. And what songs they were singing all around him, and what terrible words rang out only to excite peals of laughter. In the public houses, the workmen's wives, the wives of small tradesmen, decently dressed in black, were drinking their faces to a flaming red, and urging their husbands

to drink more. Beautiful young women, flushed and laughing, put their arms round the men's necks and kissed them, and then held up the glass to their lips. In the dark corners, at the openings of side streets, the children were talking together, instructing each other, whispering what they had seen. A boy of fifteen was plying a girl of twelve with whiskey, and presently they crept away. Lucian passed them as they turned to go, and both looked at him.

The boy laughed, and the girl smiled quietly. It was above all in the faces around him that he saw the most astounding things, the Bacic fury unveiled and unashamed. To his eyes, it seemed as if these revelers recognized him as a fellow, and smiled up in his face, aware, that he was in the secret. Every instinct of religion, of civilization even, was swept away. They gazed at one another and at him, absolved of all scruples, children of the earth, and nothing more. Now and then a couple detached themselves from the swarm, and went away into the darkness,

answering the jeers and laughter of their friends as they vanished. On the edge of the pavement, not far from where he was standing, Lucian noticed a tall and lovely young woman who seemed to be alone. She was in the full light of a napht of flame, and her bronze hair and flushed cheeks shown illuminate as she viewed the orgy. She had dark brown eyes and a strange look as of an old picture in her face, and her eyes brightened with an urgent gleam. He saw the revelers nudging each other and glancing at her, and two or three young men

went up and asked her to come for a walk. She shook her head and said, No, thank you, again and again, and seemed as if she were looking for somebody in the crowd. "'I'm expecting a friend,' she said at last to a man who proposed a drink and a walk afterwards, and Lucian wondered what kind of friend would ultimately appear. Suddenly she turned to him as she was about to pass on and said in a low voice, I'll go for a walk with you, if you like. You just go on and I'll follow in a minute. For a moment he looked steadily at her. He saw that the first glance had misled him. Her face was not flushed with drink as he had supposed, but it was radiant with the most

exquisite color. A red flame glowed and dyed on her cheek. and seemed to palpitate as she spoke. The head was set on the neck nobly, as in a statue, and about the ears the bronze hair strayed into little curls. She was smiling and waiting for his answer. He muttered something about being very sorry and fled down the hill out of the orgy, from the noise of roaring voices and the glitter of the great lamps very slowly swinging in the blast of wind. He knew that he had touched the brink of utter desolation. There was death in the woman's face, and she had indeed summoned him to the Sabbath. Somehow he had been able to refuse on the instant, but if he had delayed, he knew he would have abandoned himself to her body and soul.

He locked himself in his room and lay trembling on the bed, wondering if some subtle sympathy had shown the woman her perfect companion. He looked in the glass, not expecting now to see certain visible and outward signs, but searching for the meaning of that strange glance that lit up his eyes. He had grown even thinner than before in the last few months, and his cheeks were wasted with hunger and sorrow, but there were still about his features the suggestion of a curious classic grace, and the look as of a fawn who has strayed from his own.

the vineyards and olive gardens. He had broken away, but now he felt the mesh of her net about him, a desire for her that was a madness, as if she held every nerve in his body and drew him to her, to her mystic world, to the rose-bush where every flower was aflame. He dreamed all night of the perilous things he had refused, and it was lost to awake in the morning, pain to return to the world. The frost had broken and the fog had rolled away, and the gray street was filled with a clear gray light. Again, he looked out on the long, dull sweep of the monotonous houses, hidden for the past weeks by a curtain of mist. Heavy rain had fallen in the night, and the garden rails were still dripping,

the roof still dark with wet, all down the line the dingy white blinds were drawn in the upper windows. Not a soul walked the street. Everyone was asleep after the exertions of the night before. Even on the main road, it was only at intervals that some straggler paddled by. Presently, a woman in a brown ulster shuffled off on some errand, then a man in shirt-sleeves poked out his head, holding the door half open, and stared up at a window opposite. it. After a few minutes he slunk in again, and three loafers came slouching down the street, eager for mischief or beastliness of some sort. They chose a house that seemed rather smarter than the rest, and irritated by the neat curtains, the little grass plot with its dwarf

shrub, one of the ruffians drew out a piece of chalk and wrote some words on the front door. His friends kept watch for him, and the adventure achieved, all three bolted. bellowing Yahoo laughter. Then a bell began, tang, tang, tang, and here and there children appeared on their way to Sunday school, and the chapel teachers went by with virgeous eyes and lips, scowling at the little boy who cried, Piper! Piper! On the main road, many respectable people, the men shining and ill-fitted, the women, hideously bedizened, passed in the direction of the independent nightmare.

stuccoed thing with the Doric columns, but on the whole life was stagnant. Presently, Lucian smelt the horrid fumes of roast beef and cabbage. The early risers were preparing the one o'clock meal, but many lay in bed and put off dinner till three, with the effect of prolonging the cabbage atmosphere into the late afternoon. A drizzly reen began as the people were coming out of church, and the mothers of little boys in velvet and little girls in fooling foolishness of every kind were impelled to slap their offspring and to threaten them with father. Then the torpor of beef and beer and cabbage settled down on the street. In some houses they snorted and read the parish magazine.

In some they snored and read the murders and collected filth of the week. But the only movement of the afternoon was a second procession of children, now bloated and distended with food, again answering the summons of Tang Tang Tang. On the main road, the trams, laden with impossible people, went humming to and fro, and young men who wore bright blue ties cheerfully haw-hawed and smoked penny cigars. They annoyed the shiny and respectable and ver-juiced lipped, but not by the frightful stench of the cigars, but because they were cheerful on Sunday.

By and by, the children, having heard about Moses in the Bullrushes and Daniel in the lion's den, came straggling home in an evil humor. And all the day it was as if on a gray sheet, gray shadows flickered, passing by. And in the rose garden every flower was aflame. He thought in symbols, using the Persian imagery of a dusky court, surrounded by white cloisters, gilded by gates of bronze. The stars came out. The sky glowed a darker violet, but the cloistered wall, the fantastic trellises in stone, shown whiter.

It was like a hedge of may blossom, like a lily within a cup of lapis lazuli, like seafone tossed on the heaving sea at dawn. Always those white cloisters trembled with the lute music, always the garden sang with the clear fountain, rising and falling in the mysterious dusk. And there was a singing voice stealing through the white lattices and the bronze gates, a soft voice chanting of the lover and the beloved, of the vineyard of the gate and the way. Oh, the language was unknown, but the music of the refrain returned again and again,

swelling and trembling through the white nets of the latticed cloisters, and every rose in the dusky air was aflame. He had seen the life which he expressed by these symbols offered to him, and he had refused it, and he was alone in the gray street, with its lamps just twinkling through the dreary twilight, the blast of a ribald chorus sounding from the main road, a doggerel hymn whining from some parlor to the accompaniment of the harmonium. He wondered why he had turned away from that woman who knew all secrets,

in whose eyes were all the mysteries. He opened the desk of his bureau and was confronted by the heap and litter of papers, lying in confusion as he had left them. He knew that there was the motive of his refusal. He had been unwilling to abetive. and all hope of the work. The glory and the torment of his ambition glowed upon him as he looked at the manuscript. It seemed so pitiful that such a single desire should be thwarted. He was aware that if he chose to sit down now before the desk, he could, in a manner, write easily enough. He could produce

a tale which would be formally well-constructed and certain of favorable reception, and it would not be the utterly commonplace, entirely hopeless favorite of the circulating library. It would stand in those ranks where the real thing is skillfully counterfeited, amongst the books which give the reader his orgy of emotions, and yet contrived to be superior and art in his opinion. Lucian had often observed this species of triumph and had noted the acclamation that never failed the clever sham. Ramola, for example, had made the great host of the Sirius, the portentous, shout for joy, while the real book, the cloister and the hearth, was a comparative failure. He knew that he could write a Ramola, but he thought the art of counterfeiting half-crowns

less detestable than this shabby trick of imitating literature. He had refused definitely to enter the of the gentleman who pleased his clients by ingeniously simulating the grain of walnut. And though he had seen the old oaken ambray kicked out contemptuously into the farmyard, serving perhaps the necessities of hens or pigs, he would not apprentice himself to the masters of veneer. He paced up and down the room, glancing now and again at his papers, and wondering if there were not hope for him. A great thing he could never do. But he had longed to do a true thing, to imagine sincere and genuine pages. He was stirred again to this fury for the work by the event of the evening before,

by all that had passed through his mind since the melancholy dawn. The lurid picture of that fiery street, the flaming shops and flaming glances, all its wonders and horrors, lit by the napht of flares and by the burning souls, had possessed him. And the noises, the shriek and the whisper, the jangling rattle of the piano organ, the long-continued scream of the butcher as he dabbled in the blood, the lewd litany of the singers. These seemed to be resolved into an infernal overture, loud with the expectation of lust and death. And how the spectacle was said in the cloud of dark night,

a phantom play acted on that fiery stage, beneath those hideous brats. glassy lamps, very slowly swinging in a violent blast. As all the medley of outrageous sights and sounds now fuse themselves within his brain into one clear impression, it seemed that he had indeed witnessed and acted in a drama, that all the scene had been prepared and vested for him, and that the Corrick songs he had heard were but preludes to a greater act. For in that woman was the consummation and catastrophe of it all, and the whole stage waited for their meeting. He fancied that after this the voices and the lights died away, that the crowd sank swiftly into the darkness, and that the street was at

once denuded of the great lamps and of all its awful scenic apparatus. Again he thought the same mystery would be represented before him. Suddenly, on some dark and gloomy night as he wandered lonely on a deserted road, the wind hurrying before him, suddenly a turn would bring him again upon the fiery stage, and the antique drama would be reenacted. He would be drawn to the same place, to find that woman still standing there. Again, he would watch the room. rose radiant and palpitating upon her cheek, the argent gleam in her brown eyes, the bronze curls

gilding the white splendor of her neck. And for the second time she would freely offer herself. He could hear the wail of the singer swelling to a shriek, and see the dusky dancers whirling round in a faster frenzy, and the naphtha flares tinged with red as the woman and he went away into the dark, into the cloistered court where every flower was aflame, whence he would never come out. His only escape was in the desk. He might find salvation if he could again hide his heart in the heap and litter of papers, and again be wrapped by the cadence of a phrase. He threw open his window and looked out on the dim world and the glimmering amber lights. He resolved that he would rise early in the morning and seek once more for his true life in the work.

But there was a strange thing. There was a little bottle on the mantelpiece, a bottle of dark blue glass, and he trembled and shuddered before it as if it were a fetish. End of Chapter 6. Chapter 7 Part 1 Of the Hill of Dreams by Arthur Mackon. This Librevox recording is in the public, domain. The Hill of Dreams. Chapter 7. Part 1.

It was very dark in the room. He seemed by slow degrees to awake from a long and heavy torpor, from an utter forgetfulness, and as he raised his eyes he could scarcely discern the pale whiteness of the paper on the desk before him. He remembered something of a gloomy winter afternoon, of driving rain, of gusty wind. He had fallen asleep over his work, no doubt. and the night had come down. He lay back in his chair, wondering whether it were late.

His eyes were half closed, and he did not make the effort and rouse himself. He could hear the stormy noise of the wind, and the sound reminded him of the half-forgotten days. He thought of his boyhood and the old rectory, and the great elms that surrounded it. There was something pleasant in the consciousness that he was still half-dreaming. He knew he could wake up when he was. whenever he pleased. But for the moment he amused himself by the pretense that he was a little boy again, tired with his rambles and the keen air of the hills. He remembered how he would sometimes wake up in the dark at midnight, and listen sleepily for a moment to the rush of the wind

straining and crying against the trees, and here it beat upon the walls, and then he would fall to dreams again, happy in his warm, snug bed. The wind grew louder, and the windows rattled. He half opened his eyes and shut them again, determined to cherish that sensation of long ago. He felt tired and heavy with sleep. He imagined that he was exhausted by some effort. He had perhaps been writing furiously without rest. He could not recollect at the instant what the work had been. It would be delightful to read the pages when he had made up his mind to bestir himself. Surely that was the noise of bows, swore. and grinding in the wind.

He remembered one night at home when such a sound had roused him suddenly from a deep, sweet sleep. There was a rushing and beating as of wings upon the air, and a heavy, dreary noise, like thunder far away upon the mountain. He had got out of the bed and looked from behind the blind to see what was abroad.

He remembered the strange sight he had seen, and he pretended it would be just the same if he cared to look out now. There were clouds flying awfully from before the moon, and a pale light that made the familiar land look strange and terrible. The blast of wind came with a great shriek, and the trees tossed and bowed and quivered. The wood was scourged and horrible, and the night air was ghastly with a confused tumult, and voices as of a host.

A huge black cloud rolled across the heaven from the west, and covered up the moon, and there came a torrent of bitter hissing rain. It was all a vivid picture to him as he sat in his chair, unwilling to wake. Even as he led his mind stray back to that night of the past years, the rain beat sharply on the window panes, and though there were no trees in the gray suburban street, he heard distinctly the crash of boughs. He wondered vaguely from thought to thought,

groping indistinctly amongst memories, like a man trying to cross from door to door in a darkened, unfamiliar room. But no doubt, if he were to look out, by some magic the whole scene would be displayed before him. He would not see the curve of monotonous two-storied houses, with here and there a white blind, a patch of light, and shadows appearing and vanishing. Not the rain plashing in the muddy road, not the amber of the gas-lamp opposite. But the wild moonlight poured on the deer. loved country, far away the dim circle of the hills and woods, and beneath him the tossing

trees about the lawn, and the wood heaving under the fury of the wind. He smiled to himself, amidst his lazy meditations, to think how real it seemed, and yet it was all far away, the scenery of an old play long-ended and forgotten. It was strange that, after all these years of trouble and work and change, he should be in any sense the same person as that little boy peeping out, half-frightened, from the rectory window. It was as if looking in the glass one should see a stranger, and yet know that the image was a true reflection. The memory of the old home recalled his father and mother to him, and he wondered whether his mother would come if he were to cry out suddenly. One night, on just such a night as this, when a great storm

blue from the mountain, a tree had fallen with a crash and a bow had struck the roof, and he awoke in a fright calling for his mother. She had come and had comforted him, soothing him to sleep, and now he shut his eyes, seeing her face shining in the uncertain flickering candlelight as she bent over his bed. He could not think she had died. The memory was but a part of the evil dreams that had come afterwards. He said to himself that he had been. He said to himself that he he had fallen asleep and dreamed sorrow and agony, and he wished to forget all the things of trouble. He would return to happy days, to the beloved land, to the dear and friendly pass across the fields. There was the paper white before him, and when he chose to stir, he would

have the pleasure of reading his work. He could not quite recollect what he had been about, but he was somehow conscious that he had been successful and had brought some of the some long labor to a worthy ending. Presently he would light the gas and enjoy the satisfaction that only the work could give him. But for the time he preferred to linger in the darkness and to think of himself as straying from style to style through the scented meadows, listening to the bright brook

that sang to the alders. It was winter now, for he heard the rain and the wind and the swaying of the trees. But in those old days how simple things how simple sweet the summer had been. The great hawthorn bush in blossom, like a white cloud upon the earth, had appeared to him in twilight. He had lingered in the enclosed valley to hear the nightingale, a voice swelling out from the rich gloom from the trees that grew around the well. The scent of the meadow-sweet was

blown to him across the bridge of years, and with it came the dream and the hope and the longing, and the afterglow red in the sky and the marvel of the earth. There was a quiet walk that he knew so well. One went up from a little green brirode, following an unnamed brooklet, scarce a foot wide, but yet wandering like a river, gurgling over its pebbles, with its dwarf bushes shading the pouring water. One went through the meadow grass and came to the larch wood

that grew from hill to hill across the stream, and shone a brilliant, tender green, and sent vague sweet spires to the flushing sky. Through the wood the path wound, turning and dipping, and beneath the brown fallen needles of last year were soft and thick, and the resinous cones gave out their odor as the warm night advanced, and the shadows darkened. It was quite still, but he stayed, and the faint song of the brooklet sounded like the echo of a river beyond the mountains.

How strange it was to look into the wood, to see the tall straight stems rising, pillar-like, and then the dusk, uncertain, and then the blackness. So he came out from the larch wood, from the green cloud and the vague shadow, into the dearest of all hollows, shut in on one side by the larches, and before him by high violent walls of turf, like the slopes of a fort, with a clear line dark against the twilight sky, and a weird thorn-bush that grew large, mysterious on the summit, beneath the glean of the evening star.

And he retraced his wanderings in those deep old lanes that began from the common road and went away towards the unknown, climbing steep hills and piercing the woods of shadows, and dipping down into valleys that seemed virgin, unexplored, secret for the foot of man. He entered such a lane not knowing where it might bring him, hoping he had found the way to Fairyland, to the woods beyond the world, to that vague territory that haunts all the dreams of a boy. boy. He could not tell where he might be, for the high banks rose steep and the great hedges made a green vault above. Marvelous ferns grew rich and thick in the dark red earth,

fastening their roots about the roots of hazel and beech and maple, clustering like the carven capitals of a cathedral pillar. Down, like a dark shaft, the lane dipped to the well of the hills, and came amongst the limestone rocks. He climbed the bank at last. He climbed the at last and looked out into a country that seemed for a moment the land he sought, a mysterious realm with unfamiliar hills and valleys and fair plains all golden, and white houses radiant in the sunset light. And he thought of the steep hillsides where the bracken was like a wood, and of bare places where the west wing sang over the golden gorse, of still circles in mid-lake, of the poisonous

yew-tree in the middle of the wood, shedding its crimson cups on the dank earth. How he lingered by certain black water-pools hedged on every side by drooping witch-elms and black-stemmed alders, watching the faint waves widening to the banks as a leaf or a twig dropped from the trees. And the whole air and wonder of the ancient forest came back to him. He had found his way to the river valley, to the long, lovely hollow between the hills. and went up and up beneath the leaves in the warm hush of mid-summer, glancing back now and again through the green valleys, to the river winding in mysticesses beneath,

passing hidden glens, receiving the streams that rushed down the hillside, ice-cold from the rock, passing the immemorial tumulus, the graves where the legionaries waited for the trumpet, the gray farmhouses, sending the blue wreaths of wood-smoke into the still air. He went higher and higher, till at last he entered the long passage of the Roman road. And from this, the ridge and summit of the wood,

he saw the waves of green swell and dip and sink towards the marshy level in the gleaming yellow sea. He looked on the surging forest and thought of the strange deserted city moldering into a petty village on its verge, of its encircling walls melting into the turf, of vestiges of an older temple which the earth had buried utterly.

It was winter now, for he heard the wail of the wind, and a sudden gust drove the rain against the pains. But he thought of the bees' song in the clover, of the foxgloves and full blossom, of the wild roses, delicate, enchanting, swaying on a long stem above the hedge. He had been in strange places, he had known sorrow and desolation, and had grown gray and weary in the work of letters, but he lived in the same. again in the sweetness, in the clear bright air of early morning, when the sky was blue in June, and the mist rolled like a white sea in the valley. He laughed when he recollected that he had

sometimes fancied himself unhappy in those days. In those days when he could be glad because the sun shone, because the wind blew fresh on the mountain. On those bright days he had been glad, looking at the fleeting and passing of the clouds upon the hills, and had gone up higher to the broad dome of the mountain, feeling that joy went up before him. He remembered how, a boy, he had dreamed of love of an adorable and ineffable mystery which transcended all longing and desire. The time had come when all the wonder of the earth seemed to prefigure this alone, when he found the symbol of the beloved in hill and wood and stream, and every flower and every dark pool discoursed a pure ecstasy.

It was the longing for longing, the love of love, that had come to him when he awoke one morning just before the dawn, and for the first time felt the sharp thrill of passion. He tried in vain to express to himself the exquisite joys of innocent desire. Even now, after troubled years, in spite of some dark cloud that overshadowed the background of his thought, the sweetness of the boy's imagined pleasure came like a perfume into his reverie.

It was no love of a woman, but the desire of womanhood, the eros of the unknown, that made the heart tremble. He hardly dreamed that such a love could ever be satisfied, that the thirst of beauty could be slaked. He shrank from all contact of actuality, not venturing so much as to imagine the inner place and sanctuary of the mysteries. It was enough for him to adore in the outer court, to know that within, in the sweet gloom, were the vision and the rapture, the altar, and the sacrifice. He remembered, dimly, the passage of many heavy years since that time of hope and passion, but perhaps the vague shadow

would pass away, and he could renew the boy's thoughts, the unformed fancies that were part of the bright day, of the wild roses in the hedgerow. All other things should be laid aside. He would let them trouble him no more, after this winter night. He saw now that from the first he had allowed his imagination to bewilder him, to create a fantastic world in which he suffered, molding innocent forms into terror and dismay. Vividly he saw again the black circle of oaks, growing in a haggard

ring upon the bastions of the Roman fort. The noise of the storm without grew louder, and he thought how the wind had come up the valley with the sound of a scream, how a great tree had ground its boughs together, shuddering before the violent blast. Clear and distinct, as if he were standing now in the lane, he saw the steep slopes surging from the valley, and the black crown of the oaks set against the flaming sky, against a blaze and glow of light, as if great furnace doors were opened. He saw the fire, as it were, smitten about the bastions, about the heaped mounds that guarded the fort, and the crooked evil boughs seemed to writhe in the blast of the flame that beat from heaven.

Strangely, with the sight of the burning fort mingled the impression of a dim white shape floating up the dusk of the lane towards him, and he saw across the valley of years a girl's face, a momentary apparition that shone and vanished away. Then there was a memory of another day, a violent summer, of white farmhouse walls blazing in the sun. and a far call from the reapers in the cornfields. He had climbed the steep slope and penetrated the matted thicket and lay in the heat, alone on the soft short grass that grew within the fort.

There was a cloud of madness and confusion of broken dreams that had no meaning or clue, but only an indefinable horror and defilement. He had fallen asleep as he gazed at the nodded, fantastic boughs of the stunted break about him, and when he woke he was ashamed, and fled away, fearing that they would pursue him. He did not know who they were, but it seemed as if a woman's face watched him from between the matted boughs, and that she summoned to her side awful companions who had never grown old through all the ages. He looked up, it seemed, at a smiling face that bent over him, as he sat in the cool, dark kitchen of the old farmhouse, and wondered why the sweetness of those red lips

and the kindness of the eyes mingled with the nightmare in the fort, with the horrible Sabbath he had imagined as he lay sleeping on the hot, soft turf. He had allowed these disturbed fancies, all this mad wreck of terror and shame that he had gathered in his mind to trouble him for too long a time. Presently he would light up the room and leave all the old darkness of his life behind him, and from henceforth he would walk in the day. He could still distinguish, though very vaguely, the pile of papers beside him, and he remembered now that he had finished a long task that afternoon before he fell asleep. He could not trouble himself to recollect the exact nature of the work,

but he was sure that he had done well. In a few minutes, perhaps, he would strike a match and read the title, and amuse himself with his own forgetfulness. But the sight of the papers lying there, in order, made him think of his beginnings, of those first unhappy efforts which were so impossible and so hopeless. He saw himself bending over the table in the old familiar room, desperately scribbling, and then laying down his pen, dismayed at the sad results on the page. It was late at night.

His father had been long in bed, and the house was still. The fire was almost out. with only a dim glow here and there amongst the cinders, and the room was growing chilly. He rose at last from his work and looked out on a dim earth and a dark and cloudy sky. Night after night he had labored on, persevering in his effort, even through the cold sickness of despair when every line was doomed as it was made. Now, with the consciousness that he knew at least the conditions of literature, and that many years of thought and practice had given him some sense of language. He found these early struggles both pathetic and astonishing.

He could not understand how he had persevered so stubbornly, how he had had the heart to begin a fresh page when so many folios of blotted, painful effort lay torn, derided, impossible in their utter failure. It seemed to him that it must have been a miracle or an infernal possession, a species of madness that had driven him on, every day disappointed. pointed, an everyday hopeful. And yet there was a joyous side to the illusion. In these dry days that he lived in, when he had bought, by a long experience and by countless hours of misery, a knowledge of his limitations, of the vast gulf that yawned between the

conception and the work, it was pleasant to think of a time when all things were possible, when the most splendid design seemed an affair of a few weeks. Now he had come to a frank acknowledgment. So far as he was concerned, he judged every book wholly impossible till the last line of it was written, and he had learnt patience, the art of sighing and putting the fine scheme away in the pigeon-hole of what could never be. But to think of those days! Then what could plot out a book that should be more curious than Rabelais,

and jot down the outlines of a romance to surpass Servantes, and design Renaissance tragedies and volumes of Contes and comedies of the Restoration. Everything was to be done, and the masterpiece was always the rainbow cup a little way before him. He touched the manuscript on his desk, and the feeling of the pages seemed to restore all the papers

that had been torn so long ago. It was the atmosphere of the silent room that returned, the light of the shaded candle falling on the abandoned leaves. This had been painfully excogitated while the snowstorm rolled about the lawn and filled the lanes. This was of the summer night, this of the harvest moon rising like a fire from the tithe barn on the hill. How well he remembered those half-dozen pages of which he had once been so proud. He had thought out the sentences one evening, while he leaned on the footbridge and watched the brook swim across the road. Every word smelt of the meadow-sweet that grew thick upon the banks. Now, as he

recalled the cadence and the phrase that seemed so charming, he saw again the ferns beneath the vaulted roots of the beach and the green light of the glow-worm in the hedge. And in the west the mountains swell to a great dome, and on the dome was a mound, the memorial of some forgotten race, that grew dark and large against the red sky when the sun set. He had lingered below it in the solitude amongst the winds at evening, far away from home. And, oh, the labor and the vain efforts to make the form of it and the awe of it in prose, to write the hush of the vast hill, and the sadness of the world below sinking into the night, and the mystery, the suggestion of the rounded hillock, huge against the magic,

sky. He had tried to sing in words the music that the brook sang, and the sound of the October wind rustling through the brown bracken on the hill. How many pages he had covered in the effort to show a white winter world, a sun without warmth in a gray-blue sky, all the fields, all the land white and shining, and one high summit were the dark pines towered, still in the still afternoon, in the pale violet air. To win the secret of words, to make a phrase that would murmur of summer and the bee, to summon the wind into a sentence, to conjure the odor of the night into the surge and fall in harmony of a line. This was the tale of the long evenings, of the candle flame white

upon the paper and the eager pen. He remembered that in some fantastic book he had seen a bar or two of music, and beneath the inscription that here was the musical expression of Westminster Abbey. His boyish effort seemed hardly less ambitious, and he no longer believed that language could present the melody and the awe and the loveliness of the earth. He had long known that he, at all events, would have to be content with a far approach, with a few broken notes that might suggest perhaps the magistral everlasting song of the hill and the streams. But in those far days the impossible was but a part of the wonderland that lay before him, of the world beyond the wood and the mountain.

All was to be conquered, all was to be achieved. He had but to make the journey, and he would find the golden world and the golden word, and hear those songs that the siren sang. He touched the manuscript. Whatever it was, it was the result of painful labor and disappointment, not of the old flush of hope, but it came of weary days of correction and recorrection. It might be good in its measure, but afterwards he would write no more for a time. He would go back again to the happy world of masterpieces, to the dreams of great and perfect books

written in an ecstasy. Like a dark cloud from the sea came the memory of the attempt he had made, of the poor piteous history, that had once embittered his life. He sighed, and said, alas, thinking of his folly, of the hours when he was shaken with futile, miserable rage. Some silly person in London had made his manuscript more saleable, and had sold it without rendering an account of the prophets, and for that he had been ready to curse humanity. Black, horrible, as the memory of a stormy day, the rage of his heart returned to his mind, and he covered his eyes. endeavoring to darken the picture of terror and hate that shone before him.

He tried to drive it all out of his thought. It vexed him to remember these foolish trifles. The trick of a publisher, the small pomposities and malignancies of the country folk, the cruelty of a village boy, had inflamed him almost to the pitch of madness. His heart had burnt with fury, and when he looked up the sky was blotched and scarlet as if he was, it rained blood. Indeed, he had almost believed that blood had rained upon him, and cold blood from a sacrifice in heaven. His face was wet and chill and dripping, and he had passed

his hand across his forehead and looked at it. A red cloud had seemed to swell over the hill, and grow great and come near to him. He was but an ace removed from raging madness. It had almost come to that. The drift and the breath of a scarlet cloud had well nigh touched him. It was strange that he had been so deeply troubled by such little things, and strange how, after all the years, he could still recall the anguish and rage and hate that shook his soul, as with a spiritual tempest. The memory of all that evening was wild and troubled. He resolved that it should vex him no more, that now, for the last time, he would let himself be troubled. tormented by the past. In a few minutes he would rise to a new life and forget all the storms

that had gone over him. Curiously, every detail was distinct and clear in his brain. The figure of the doctor driving home and the sound of the few words he had spoken came to him in the darkness through the noise of the storm and the pattering of the rain. Then he stood upon the ridge of the hill and saw the smoke drifting up from the ragged roofs of Carmen in the evening calm. He listened to the voices mounting thin and clear, in a weird tone, as if some outland folk were speaking in an unknown tongue of awful things. He saw the gathering darkness, the mystery of twilight changing the huddled, squalid village into an unearthly city,

into some dreadful Atlantis, inhabited by a ruined race. The mist falling fast, the gloom that seemed to issue from the black depths of the forest to advance palpably towards the walls, were shaped before him. And beneath the river wound, snake-like, about the town, swimming to the flood and glowing in its still pools like molten brass. And as the water mirrored the afterglow and sent ripples and gouts of blood against the shuddering reeds, there came suddenly the piercing trumpet call, the loud reiterated summons that rose and fell, that called and recalled, echoing through

all the valley, crying to the dead as the last note rang. It summoned the legion from the river and the graves in the battlefield. The host floated up from the sea, the centuries swarmed about the eagles, the array was set for the last great battle behind the leaguer of the mist. He could imagine himself still wandering through the dim, unknown, terrible country, gazing affrighted at the hills and woods that seemed to have put on an unearthly shape, stumbling against the briars that caught his feet. He lost his way in a wild country, and the red light that blazed up from the furnace on the mountains only showed him

a mysterious land, in which he strayed aghast, with the sense of doom weighing upon him. The dry mutter of the trees, the sound of an unseen brook, made him afraid as if the earth spoke of his sin, and presently he was fleeing through a desolate shadowy wood where a pale light flowed from the mouldering stumps, a dream of light that shed a ghostly radiance. And then again the dark summit of the Roman fort, the black sheer height rising above the valley, and the moonfire streaming around the ring of oaks, glowing about the green bastions that guarded the thicket and the inner peace. The room in which he sat appeared the vision, the trouble of the wind and rain without was but illusion, the noise of the waves in the

seashell. Passion and tears and adoration and the glories of the summer night returned, and the calm, sweet face of the woman appeared, and he thrilled at the soft touch of her hand on his flesh. She shone as if she had floated down into the lane from the moon that swam between the films of cloud above the black circle of the oaks. She led him away from all terror and despair and hate, and gave herself to him with rapture, showing him love, kissing his tears away, pillowing his cheek upon her breast. His lips dwelt on her lips, his mouth upon the breath of her mouth, her arms were strained about him, and oh, she charmed him with her voice, with sweet, kind words, as she offered her sacrifice. How her scented hair fell

down and floated over his eyes, and there was a marvelous fire called the moon, and her lips were aflame, and her eyes shone like a light on the hills. All beautiful womanhood had come to him in the lane. Love had touched him in the dusk and had flown away, but he had seen the splendor and the glory, and his eyes had seen the enchanted light. Avay Atque Valé. The old words sounded in his ears like the ending of a chant, and he heard the music's close. Once only in his weary hapless life, once the world had passed away, and he had known her, the dear, dear Annie, the symbol of all mystic womanhood. The heaviness of languor still oppressed him, holding him back amongst these old memories, so that he could not stir from his place. Oddly, there seemed something unaccustomed

about the darkness of the room, as if the shadows he had summoned had changed the aspect of the walls. He was conscious that, on this night, he was not altogether himself. Fatigue and the weariness of sleep and the waking vision had perplexed him. He remembered how once or twice

when he was a little boy, startled by an uneasy dream, and had stared with a frightened gaze into nothingness, not knowing where he was, all trembling and breathing quick, till he touched the rail of his bed, and the familiar outlines of the looking-glass and the chiffonier began to glimmer out of the gloom. So now he touched the pile of manuscript and the desk at which he had worked so many hours,

and felt reassured, though he smiled at himself, and he felt the old childish dread, the longing to cry out for someone to bring a candle and show him that he really was in his own room. He glanced up for an instant, expecting to see perhaps the glitter of the brass gas jet that was fixed on the wall, just beside his bureau, but it was too dark, and he could not rouse himself and make the effort that would drive the cloud and the muttering thoughts away. He leant back again, picturing the wet street without,

the rain driving like fountain spray against the gas-lamp, the shrilling of the wind on those waste places to the north. It was strange how in the brick and stucco desert, where no trees were, all the time imagined the noise of tossing boughs, the grinding of boughs together. There was a great storm and tumult in this wilderness of London, and for the sound of the rain and the wind he could not hear the hum and jangle of the trams, and the jar and shriek of the garden gates as they opened and shut. But he could imagine his street. The rain swept desolate curve of it, as it turned northward and beyond the empty suburban roads, the twinkling villa windows, the ruined field, the broken lane, and then yet another suburb rising, a solitary

gas-lamp glimmering at a corner, and the plain tree lashing its boughs and driving great showers against the glass. It was wonderful to think of. For when these remote roads were ended, one dipped down the hill into the open country, into the dim world beyond the glint of friendly fires. Tonight, how waste they were, these wet roads edged with red brick houses, with shrubs whipped by the wind against one another, against the paling and the wall. There the wind swayed the great elms scattered on the sidewalk, the remnants of the old stately fields, and beneath each tree was a pool of wet, and a torment of raindrops fell with every gust. And one passed through the Red Avenues, perhaps by a little settlement of flickering shops, and passed the last

sentinel, wavering lamp, and the road became a ragged lane, and the storm screamed from hedge to hedge across the open fields. And then, beyond, one touched again upon a still remoter avant-garde of London, an island amidst the darkness, surrounded by its pale of twinkling, starry lights. He remembered his wanderings amongst these outposts of the town, and thought how desolate all their ways must be tonight. They were solitary and wet and wind, and only at long intervals someone pattered and hurried along them, bending his eyes down to escape the drift of rain. Within the villas, behind the close-drawn curtains, they drew about the fire, and wondered at the violence of the storm, listening for each great gust as it gathered far away and rocked the trees,

and at last rushed with a huge shock against their walls as if it were the coming of the sea. He thought of himself walking, as he had often walked, from lamp to lamp on such a night, treasuring his lonely thoughts and weighing the hard task awaiting him in his room. Often in the evening, after a long day's labor, he had thrown down his pen, in utter listlessness, feeling that he could struggle no more with ideas and words, and he had gone out into driving rain and darkness, seeking the word of the enigma as he tramped on and on beneath these outer battlements of London. Or, on some gray afternoon in March or November, he had sickened of the dull monotony and

the stagnant life that he saw from his window, and had taken his design with him to the lonely places, halting now and again by a gate, and pausing in the shelter of a hedge, through which the austere wind shivered, while perhaps he dreamed of Sicily, or of sunlight on the province all olives. Often as he strayed solitary from street to field and passed the Syrian fig tree imprisoned in Britain, nailed to an ungenial wall, the solution of the puzzle became evident, and he laughed and hurried home, eager to make the page speak, to note the song he had heard on his way. Sometimes he had spent many hours treading this edge in brim of London,

now lost amidst the dun fields, watching the bushes shaken by the wind, and now looking down from a height whence he could see the dim waves of the town, and a barbaric water-tower rising from a hill, and the snuff-coloured cloud of smoke that seemed to blown up from the streets into the sky. There were certain ways and places that he had cherished. He loved a great old common that stood on high ground,

curtained about with ancient spacious houses of red brick, and their cedern gardens. And there was on the road that led to this common a space of ragged, uneven ground, with a pool and a twisted oak, and here he had often stayed in autumn and looked across the mist and the valley at the great theater of the sunset, where a red cloud, like a charging night shone and conquered a purple dragon shape, and golden lances glittered in a field of fairy green.

Or sometimes, when the unending prospect of trim, monotonous modern streets had wearied him, he had found an immense refreshment in the discovery of a forgotten hamlet, left in a hollow while all New London pressed and surged on every side, threatening the rest of the red roofs with its vulgar growth. These little peaceful houses huddled together beneath the shelter of trees, with their bulging leaded windows and uneven roofs, somehow brought back to him the sense of the country, and soothed him with the thoughts of the old farmhouses, white or gray, the homes of quiet lives, harbors where, perhaps, no tormenting thoughts ever broke in.

For he had instinctively determined that there was neither rest nor health in all the world. the arid waste of streets about him. It seemed as if in those dull rows of dwellings, in the prim new villas, red and white and staring, there must be a leaven-working, which transformed all to base vulgarity. Beneath the dull sad slates, behind the blistered doors, love turned to squalid intrigue, mirth to drunken clamor, and the mystery of life became a common thing. Religion was sought for in the greasy pie. and flatulent oratory of the independent chapel, the stuccoed nightmare of the Doric columns.

Nothing fine, nothing rare, nothing exquisite, it seemed, could exist in the weltering suburban sea, in the habitations which had risen from the stench and slime of the brick fields. It was as if the sickening fumes that steamed from the burning bricks had been sublimed into these shape of houses, and those who lived in these gray places, could also claim kinship with the putrid mud. Hence he had delighted in the few remains of the past

that he could find still surviving on the suburb's edge, in the grave old houses that stood apart from the road, in the moldering taverns of the 18th century, in the huddled hamlets that had preserved only the glow and the sunlight of all the years that had passed over them. It appeared to him that vulgarity and greasy, and squalor had come with a flood, that not only the good but also the evil in man's heart had been made common and ugly, that assorted scum was mingled with all the springs

of death as of life. It would be alike futile to search amongst these mean two-stroyed houses for a splendid sinner as for a splendid saint. The very vices of these people smelt of cabbage water and a pothouse vomit. And so he had often fled away from the serried maze that encircled him, seeking for the old and worn and significant as an antiquary looks for the fragments of the Roman temple amidst the modern shops. In some way the gusts of wind and the beating rain of the night reminded him of an old house

that had often attracted him with a strange, indefinable curiosity. He had found it on a grim gray day in March. He had gone out under a leaden-molded sky, cowering from a dry freezing wind that brought with it the gloom and the doom of a far, unhappy Siberian plains. More than ever that day the suburb had oppressed him. Insignificant, detestable, repulsive to body and mind. It was the only hell that a vulgar age could conceive or make, an inferno created not by Dante, but by the gerry-builder.

He had gone out to the north, and when he lifted up his eyes again, he found that he had chanced to turn up by one of the little lanes that still strayed across the broken fields. He had never chosen this path before, because the lane at its outlet was so wholly degraded and offensive, littered with rusty tins and broken crockery, and hedged in with a paling fashioned out of scraps of wire, rotting timber, and bending worn-out rails.

But on this day, by happy chance, he had fled from the high road by the first opening that offered, and he no longer groped his way amongst obscene refuse, sickened by the bloated bodies of dead dogs, and fetid odors from unclean decay, but the Mal Passage had become a peaceful winding lane, with warm shelter beneath its banks from the dismal wind. For a mile he had walked quietly, and then a turn in the road should be able to be able to be. showed him a little glen or hollow, watered by such a tiny rushing brooklet as his own woods knew, and beyond, alas, the glaring foreguard of a new neighborhood, raw red villas, semi-detached, and then a row of lamentable shops.

But as he was about to turn back, in the hope of finding some other outlet, his attention was charmed by a small house that stood back a little from the road on his right hand. There had been a white gait, but the paint had long faded to gray and black, and the wood crumbled under the touch, and only moss marked out the lines of the drive. The iron railing round the lawn had fallen, and the poor flower-beds were choked with grass and a faded growth of weeds. But here and there a rose-bush lingered amidst suckers that had sprung grossly from the root, and on each side of the hall-door were box-trees, untrimmed,

ragged, but still green. The slate roof was all stained and livid, blotched with the drippings of a great elm that stood at one corner of the neglected lawn, and marks of damp and decay were thick on the uneven walls, which had been washed yellow many years before. There was a porch of trellis-work before the door, and Lucian had seen it rock in the wind,

swaying as if every gust must drive it down. There were two windows on the ground floor, one on each side of the door, and two above with a blind space where a central window had been blocked up. This poor and desolate house had fascinated him. Ancient and poor and fallen, disfigured by the slate roof and the yellow wash that had replaced the old mellow dipping tiles and warm red walls, and disfigured again by spots and patches of decay. It seemed as if its happy days were forever ended. To Lucian, it appealed with a sense of doom and horror. The black streaks that crept upon the walls, and the green drift upon the roof, appeared not so much the work of foul weather and dripping boughs,

as the outward signs of evil working and creeping in the lives of those within. The stage seemed to him decked for doom, painted with the symbols of tragedy, and he wondered as he looked whether anyone were so unhappy as to live there still. There were torn blinds in the windows, but he had asked himself who could be so brave as to sit in that room, darkened by the dreary box, and listen of winter nights to the rain upon the window,

and the moaning of wind against the tossing boughs that beat against the roof. He could not imagine that any chamber in such a house was habitable. Here the dead had lain, through the white blind the thin light had filtered on the rigid mouth, and still the floor must be wet with tears, and still that great rocking elm echoed the groaning and the sobs of those who watched. No doubt the damp was rising, in the odor of the earth filled the house, and made such as enter drawback, foreseeing the hour of death. Often the thought of this strange old house had haunted him. He had imagined the empty rooms where a heavy paper peeled from the walls and hung in dark

strips, and he could not believe that a light ever shone from those windows that stared black and glittering on the neglected lawn. But tonight the wet and the storm seemed curiously to bring the image of the place before him, and as the wind sounded, he thought how unhappy those must be able to be. must be, if any there were, who sat in the musty chambers by a flickering light, and listened to the elm-tree moaning and beating and weeping on the walls. And to-night was Saturday night, and there was about that phrase something that muttered of the condemned cell, of the agony of a doomed man.

Gassley to his eyes was the conception of anyone sitting in that room to the right of the door behind the larger box-tree, where the wall was cracked above the room. above the window and smeared with a black stain in an ugly shape. He knew how foolish it had been in the first place to trouble his mind with such conceits of a dreary cottage on the outskirts of London. And it was more foolish now to meditate these things, fantasies, feigned forms, the issue of a sad mood and a bleak day of spring. For soon, in a few moments, he was to rise to a new life.

He was but reckoning up the account of, of his past, and when the light came he was to think no more of sorrow and heaviness, of real or imagined terrors. He had stayed too long in London, and he would once more taste the breath of the hills and see the river winding in the long, lovely valley. Ah, he would go home. Something like a thrill. The thrill of fear passed over him as he remembered that there was no way home.

It was in the winter, a year and a half after his arrival in town, that he had suffered the loss of his father. He lay for many days prostrate, overwhelmed with sorrow and with the thought that now indeed he was utterly alone in the world. Miss Deacon was to live with another cousin in Yorkshire. The old home was at last ended and done. He felt sorry that he had not written more frequently to his father. There were things in his cousin's letters that had made his heart.

sore. "'Your poor father was always looking for your letters,' she wrote. They used to cheer him so much. He nearly broke down when you sent him that money last Christmas. He got it into his head that you were starving yourself to send it him. He was hoping so much that you would have come down this Christmas and kept asking me about the plum-puddings months ago.' It was not only his father that had died, but with him the last strong link was broken, and the past life, the days of his boyhood grew faint as a dream. With his father, his mother died again, and the long years died, the time of his innocence, the memory of affection.

He was sorry that his letters had gone home so rarely. It hurt him to imagine his father looking out when the post came in the morning, and forced to be sad because there was nothing. But he had never thought that his father valued the few. few lines that he wrote, and indeed it was often difficult to know what to say. It would have been useless to write of those agonizing nights when the pen seemed an awkward and outlandish instrument, when every effort ended in shameful defeat, or of the happier hours, when at last wonder appeared, and the line glowed, crowned, and exalted. To poor Mr. Taylor, such tales would

have seemed but trivial histories of some oriental game, like an odd story from a land where men have time for the infinitely little, and can seriously make a science of arranging blossoms in a jar, and discuss perfumes instead of politics. It would have been useless to write to the rectory of his only interest, and so he wrote seldom. And then he had been sorry, because he could never write again and never see his home. He had wondered whether he would have gone down to the old place at Christmas if his father had lived. It was curious how common things evoked the bitterest griefs, but his father's anxiety that the plum pudding should be good and ready for him

had brought the tears into his eyes. He could hear him saying in a nervous voice that attempted to be cheerful, "'I suppose you'll be thinking of the Christmas pudding soon, Jane. You remember how fond Lucian used to be of plum-pubes. pudding. I hope we shall see him this December." No doubt poor Miss Deacon paled with rage at the suggestion that she should make Christmas pudding in July, and returned a sharp answer, but it was pathetic. The wind wailed and the rain dashed and beat again and again upon the window. He imagined that all his thoughts of home, of the

old rectory amongst the elms, had conjured into his mind the sound of the storm upon the trees, for tonight very clearly he heard the creaking of the boughs, the noise of boughs moaning and beating and weeping on the walls, and even a pattering of wet on wet earth, as if there were a shrub near the window that shook off the raindrops before the gust. That thrill, as it were a shudder of fear, passed over him again, and he knew not what had made him afraid. There were some dark shadow on his mind that saw him. saddened him. It seemed as if a vague memory of terrible days hung like a cloud over his thought,

but it was all indefinite, perhaps the last grim and ragged edge of the melancholy rack that had swelled over his life and the bygone years. He shivered and tried to rouse himself and drive away the sense of dread and shame that seemed so real and so awful, and yet he could not grasp it. But the torpor of sleep, the burden of the work that he had ended a few hours before, still weighed down his limb and bound his thoughts. He could scarcely believe that he had been busy at his desk a little while ago, and that just before the winter day closed it and the rain began to fall, he had laid down the pen with a sigh of relief and had slept in his chair. It was rather as if he had slumbered deeply through a long and weary night, as if he had slumbered deeply

through a long and weary night, as if an awful vision of flame and darkness and the worm that dieth not had come to him sleeping. But he would dwell no more on the darkness. He went back to the early days in London when he had said farewell to the hills and to the water-pools, and had set to work in this little room in the dingy street. End of Chapter 7, Part 1. Chapter 7 Part 2 Of the Hill of Dreams by Arthur Macon

This Librevox recording is in the public domain The Hill of Dreams Chapter 7 Part 2 How he had toiled and labored at the desk before him He had put away the old wild hopes of the masterpiece and executed in a fury of inspiration wrought out in one white heat of creative joy It was enough if by dint of long perseverance and singleness of desire he could at last, in pain

and agony and despair, after failure and disappointment and effort constantly renewed, fashioned something of which he need not be ashamed. He had put himself to school again, and had, with what patience he could command, ground his teeth into the rudiments, resolved that at last he would test out the heart of the mystery. They were good night to remember these. He was glad to think of the little ugly room, with its silly wallpaper and its bird's-eye furniture, lighted up, while he sat at the bureau and rode on into the cold stillness of the London morning, when the flickering lamplight and the day-star shone together.

It was an interminable labor, and he had always known it to be as hopeless as alchemy. The gold, the great and glowing masterpiece, would never shine amongst the dead ashes and smoking efforts of the crucible. But in the course of the life, in the interval between the failures, he might possibly discover curious things. These were the good nights that he could look back on without any fear or shame, when he had been happy and content on a diet of bread and tea and tobacco, and could hear of some imbecility passing into its hundred thousandth, and laugh cheerfully,

if only that last page had been imagined aright, if the phrases noted in the still hours rang out their music when he read them in the morning. He remembered the drolleries and fantasies that the worthy Miss Deacon used to write to him, and how he had grinned at her words of reproof, admonition, and advice. She had once instigated Dolly Fields to pay him. him a visit, and that young prop of respectability had talked about the extraordinary running of Bolter at the Scura meeting in Ireland, and then, glancing at Lucian's books, had inquired whether any of them had warm bits. He had been kind, though patronizing, and seemed to have

moved freely in the most brilliant society of Stoke-Newington. He had not been able to give any information as to the present condition of Edgar Allan Poe's old school. It appeared eventually that his report at home had not been a very favorable one, for no invitation to high tea had followed, as Miss Deacon had hoped. The Dolly's knew many nice people, who were well off, and Lucian's cousin, as she afterwards said, had done her best to introduce him to the Beaumont of those northern suburbs. But after the visit of the young Dolly,

with what joy he had returned to the treasure which he had concealed from profane eyes. He had looked out and seen his visitor on board the tram at the street corner, and he laughed out loud and locked his door. There had been moments when he was lonely and wished to hear again the sound of friendly speech, but after such an eruption of suburban futility,

it was a keen delight to feel that he was secure on his tower, that he could absorb himself in his wonderful task as safe and silent as if he were in mid-desert. But there was one period that he dared not revive. He could not bear to think of those weeks of desolation and terror in the winter after his coming to London. His mind was sluggish, and he could not quite remember how many years had passed

since that dismal experience. It sounded all an old story, but yet it was still vivid, a flaming scroll of terror from which he turned his eyes away. One awful scene glowed into his memory, and he could not shut out the sight of an orgy, of dusky figures whirling in a ring, of lurid nap the flares blazing in the darkness,

of great glittering lamps like infernal thurables, very slowly swaying in a violent blast of air. And there was something else, something which he could not remember, but it filled him with terror, but it slunk in the dark places of his soul, as a wild beast crouches in the depths of a cave. Again, and without reason,

he began to image to himself that old moldering house in the field. With what a loud, incessant noise, the wind must be clamoring about on this fearful night, how the great elm swayed and cried in the storm, and the rain dashed and pattered on the windows, and dripped on the sodden earth from the shaking shrubs beside the door. He moved uneasily on his chair and struggled to put the picture out of his thoughts. But in spite of himself he saw the stained uneven walls, that ugly blood of mildew above the window, and perhaps a feeble gleam of light filtered through the blind, and

someone, unhappy above all and forever lost, sat within the dismal room. Or rather, every window was black, without a glimmer of hope, and he who was shut in thick darkness heard the wind and the rain, and the noise of the elm tree moaning and beating and weeping on the walls. For all his effort the impression would not leave him, and as he sat before his desk looking into the vague darkness he could almost see that chamber which he had so often imagined, the low, whitewashed ceiling held up by a heavy beam, the smears of smoke and long usage, the cracks and fissures of the plaster. Old furniture, shabby, deplorable, battered, stood about the room. There was a horsehair sofa, worn and tottering, and a dismal paper patterned in a livid red.

blackened and moldered near the floor, and peeled off and hung in strips from the dank walls. And there was that odor of decay, of the rank soil steaming, of rotting wood, a vapor that choked the breath and made the heart full of fear and heaviness. Lucene again shivered with a thrill of dread. He was afraid that he had overworked himself and that he was suffering from the first symptoms of grave illness. His mind dwelt on confused and terrible recollections, and with a mad ingenuity gave form and substance to phantoms. And even now he drew a long breath, almost imagining that the air in his room was heavy and noisome, that it entered his nostrils with some taint of the crypt.

And his body was still languid, and though he made a half-motion to rise, he could not find enough energy for the effort, and he sank again into the chair. At all events, he would think no more of that sad house in the field. He would return to those long struggles with letters, to the happy nights when he had gained victories. He remembered something of his escape from the desolation and the worse than desolation that had obsessed him during that first winter in London. He had gone free one bleak morning in February, and after those dreary terrible weeks the desk and the heap and and litter of papers had once more engulfed and absorbed him. And in the succeeding summer of a night when he lay awake and listened to the birds, shining images came wantonly to him. For an hour,

while the dawn brightened, he had felt the presence of an age, the resurrection of the life that the green fields had hidden, and his heart was. stirred for joy when he knew that he held and possessed all the loveliness that had so long moldered. He could scarcely fall asleep for eager and leaping thoughts, and as soon as his breakfast was over, he went out and bought paper and pens of a certain celestial stationer in Notting Hill. The street was not changed as he passed to and fro on his errand. The rattling wagons jostled by at intervals. A rare handsome came spinning down from from London. There sounded the same hum and jangle of the gliding trams. The languid

life of the pavement was unaltered. A few people, unclassed, without salience or possible description, lounged and walked from east to west and from west to east, or slowly dropped into the byways to wander in the black ways to the north, or perhaps go astray in the systems that stretched towards the river. He glanced down these by-roads as he passed, and was astonished, as always, at their mysterious and dessert aspect. Some were utterly empty, lines of neat, appalling residences, trim and garnished as if for occupation edging the white glaring road. And not a soul was abroad, and not a sound broke their stillness.

It was a picture of the desolation of midnight lighted up, but empty and waste as the most profound and solemn hours before the day. Other of these byroads of older settlement were furnished with more important houses, standing far back from the pavement, each in a little wood of greenery, and thus one might look down as through a forest vista, and see a way smooth and guarded with low walls and yet untrodden, and all a leafy silence. Here and there, in some of these echoing russes,

echoing roads, a figure seemed laxily advancing in the distance, hesitating and delaying, as if lost in the labyrinth. It was difficult to say which were the more dismal, these deserted streets that wandered away to right and left, or the great main thoroughfare with its narcotic and shadowy life. For the latter appeared vast, interminable, gray, and those who traveled by it were scarcely real, the bodies of the living, but rather the uncertain and misty shapes that come and go across the desert in an eastern tail, when men look up from the sand and see a caravan past them, all in silence, without a cry or a greeting. So they passed and repassed each other on those pavements, appearing and vanishing, each intent on his own secrets and wrapped in obscurity.

One might have sworn that not a man saw his neighbor who met him or jostled him, that here everyone was a phantom for the other, though the lines of their paths crossed and recrossed, and their eyes stared like the eyes of live men. When two went by together, they mumbled and cast distrustful glances behind them, as though afraid all the world was an enemy, and the pattering of feet was like the noise of a shower of rain. Curious appearances and simulations of life gathered at points in the road. For at intervals the villas ended and shops began in a dismal row, and looked so hopeless that one wondered who could buy. There were women fluttering uneasily about the greengrocers, and shabby things in rusty black

touched and retouched the red lumps that an unshaven butcher offered, and already in the corner-pubes there was a confused noise, with the tossing of voices that rose and fell like a Jewish chant, with the senseless stir of marionettes jerked into an imitation of gaiety. Then, in crossing a side street that seemed like gray midwinter in stone, he trespassed from one world to another, for an old decayed house amidst its garden held the opposite corner. The laurels had grown into black skeletons, patched with green drift. The isylics gloomed over the porch. The deodor had blighted the flower beds.

Dark ivy swarmed over an elm tree, and a brown clustering fungus sprang in gross masses on the lawn, showing where the roots of dead trees moldered. The blue veranda, the blue balcony over the door, had faded to gray, and the stucco was blotched with ugly marks. of weather, and a dank smell of decay, that vapor of black rotten earth in old town gardens, hung heavy about the gates. And then a row of musty villas had pushed out in shops to the pavement, and the things in faded black buzzed and stirred about the limp cabbages and the red lumps of

meat. It was the same terrible street, whose pavements he had trodden so often, where sunshine seemed but a gaudy light, where the fume of burning bricks always drifted. On black winter nights he had seen the sparse lights glimmering through the rain and drawing close together, as the dreary road vanished in long perspective. Perhaps this was its most appropriate moment, when nothing of its smug villas and skeleton shops remained but the bright patches of their windows, when the old house amongst its moldering shrubs was but a dark cloud, and the streets to the north and south seemed like starry wastes, beyond them the blackness of infinity.

Always in the daylight it had been to him abhorred and abominable, and its grey houses and perlures had been fungus-like sproutings and efflorescence of horrible decay. But on that bright morning, neither the day dreadful street, nor those who moved about it appalled him. He returned joyously to his den, and reverently laid out the paper on his desk. The world about him was but a gray shadow hovering on a shining wall. Its noises were faint as the rustling of trees in a distant wood. The lovely and exquisite forms of those who served the amber Venus were his distinct, clear, and manifest visions.

And for one amongst them, who came to him in a fire of bronze hair, his heart stirred with the adoration of love. She it was, who stood forth from all the rest, and fell down prostrate before the radiant form in amber, drawing out her pins in curious gold, her glowing brooches of enamel, and pouring from a silver box all her treasures of jewels and precious stones, Chrysoboral and Sardonyx, opal and diamond, topaz and pearl. And then she stripped from her body her precious robes and stood before the goddess in the glowing mist of her hair, praying that to her who had given all and came naked to the shrine love might be given, and the grace of Venus. And when at last, after strange adventures,

her prayer was granted. Then when the sweet light came from the sea and her lover turned at dawn to that bronze glory, he saw beside him a little statuette of amber. And in the shrine, far in Britain where the black rain stained the marble, they found the splendid and sumptuous statue of the golden Venus, the last fine robe of silk that the lady had dedicated falling from her fingers, and the jewels lying at her feet. And her face was like the lady's face when the sun had brightened it on that day of her devotion. The bronze mist glimmered before Lucian's eyes. He felt as though the soft floating hair touched his forehead

and his lips and his hands. The fume of burning bricks, the reek of cabbage water, never reached his nostrils that were filled with the perfume of rare unguents, with the breath of the violent sea in Italy. His pleasure was an inebriation, an ecstasy. of joy that destroyed all the vile hotentot crawls and mud avenues, as with one white lightning flash.

And through the hours of that day, he sat enthralled, not contriving a story with patient art, but wrapped into another time and entranced by the urgent gleam in the lady's eyes. The little tale of the amber statuette had at last issued from a humble office in the spring after his father's death. The author was utterly unknown.

The author's Murray was a wholesale stationer and printer in process of development, so that Lucian was astonished when the book became a moderate success. The reviewers have been sadly irritated, and even now he recollected with cheerfulness an article in an influential daily paper, an article pleasantly headed, Where are the disinfectants? And then, but all the months afterwards seemed doubtful.

There were only broken revelations of the laborious hours renewed, and the white nights when he had seen the moonlight fade and the gaslight grow wan at the approach of dawn. He listened. Surely that was the sound of rain falling on sodden ground, the heavy sound of great swollen drops driven down from wet leaves by the gust of wind, and then again the strain of bow sang above,

the tumult of the air. There was a doleful noise as if the storm shook the masts of a ship. He had only to get up and look out of the window, and he would see the treeless empty street, and the rain starring the puddles under the gas-lap, but he would wait a little while. He tried to think why, in spite of all his resolutions, a dark horror seemed to brood more and more over all his mind. How often he had sat and worked, on just such nights as this, contented if the words were in accord, though the wind might wail, though the air were black with rain. Even about the little book that he had made, there seemed some taint, some shuddering memory that came to him across the Gulf of forgetfulness. Somehow,

the remembrance of the offering to Venus, of the phrases that he had so lovingly invented, brought back again the dusky figures that danced in the orgy, beneath the brassy glittering lamps. And again the naphtha flares showed the way to the sad house in the fields, and the red glare lit up the mildewed walls and the black hopeless windows. He gasped for breath,

he seemed to inhale a heavy air that reeked of decay and rottenness, and the odor of the clay was in his nostrils. That unknown cloud that had darkened his thoughts grew blacker and engulfed him, despair was heavy upon him. His heart fainted with a horrible dread. In a moment it seemed a veil would be drawn away

and certain awful things would appear. He strove to rise from his chair, to cry out, but he could not. Deep, deep the darkness closed upon him, and the storm sounded far away. The Roman fort surged up, terrific, and he saw the writhing boughs in a ring, and behind them a glow and heat of fire. There were hideous shapes that swarmed in the thicket of the oaks.

They called and beckoned to him and rose into the air, into the flame that was smitten from heaven about the walls. And amongst them was the form of the beloved, but jets of flame issued from her breasts, and beside her was a horrible old woman naked, and they too summoned him to mount the hill. He heard Dr. Burroughs, whispering of the strange things that had been found in old Mrs. Gibbons's cottage,

obscene figures and unknown contrivances. She was a witch, he said, and the mistress of witches. He fought against the nightmare, against the illusion that bewildered him. All his life, he thought, had been an evil dream, and for the common world he had fashioned an unreal red garment that burned in his eyes. Truth and the dream were so mingled. that now he could not divide one from the other. He had let Annie drink his soul beneath the hill, on the night when the moonfire shone, but he had not surely seen her exalted in the flame,

the queen of the Sabbath. Dimly he remembered Dr. Burroughs coming to see him in London, but had he not imagined all the rest? Again he found himself in the dusky lane, and Annie floated down to him from the moon above the hill. His head sank upon her breast again, but alas, it was a flame. And he looked down and saw that his own flesh was a flame, and he knew that the fire could never be quenched. There was a heavy weight upon his head, his feet were nailed to the floor, and his arms

bound tight beside him. He seemed to himself to rage and struggle with the strength of a madman, but his hand only stirred and quivered a little as it lay upon the desk. Again he was astray in the mist, wandering through the waste avenues of a city that had been ruined from ages. It had been splendid as Rome, terrible as Babylon, and forever the darkness had covered it, and it lay desolate forever in the accursed plain. And far and far the gray passages stretched into the night,

into the icy fields, into the place of eternal gloom. Ring within ring the awful temple closed around him, unending circles of vast stones, circle within circle, and every circle less throughout all ages. In the center was the sanctuary of the infernal rite, and he was born thither as in the eddies of a whirlpool, to consummate his ruin, to celebrate the wedding of the Sabbath. He flung up his arms and beat the air, resisting with all his strength, with muscles that

could throw down mountains, and this time his little finger stirred for an instant, and his foot twitched upon the floor. Then suddenly a flaring street shone before him. There was darkness round about him, but it flamed with hissing jets of light and naphther fires, and great glittering lamps swayed very slowly in a violent blast of air. A horrible music, and the exultation of discordant voices swelled in his ears, and he saw an uncertain tossing crowd of dusky figures that circled and leapt before him. There was a noise like the chant of the lost, and then there appeared in the midst of the orgy beneath a red flame, the figure of a woman. Her bronze hair and flushed cheeks were illuminate,

and an argent light shone from her eyes, and with a smile that froze his heart, her lips open to speak to him. The tossing crowd faded away, falling into a gulf of darkness, and then she drew out from her hair pins of curious gold and glowing brooches in enamel, and poured out jewels before him from a silver box,

and then she stripped from her body her precious robes, and stood in the glowing mist of her hair, and held out her arms to him. But he raised his eyes and saw the mold and decay gaining on the walls of a dismal room, and a gloomy paper was dropping to the rotting floor. A vapor of the grave entered his nostrils,

and he cried out with a loud scream. But there was only an indistinct guttural murmur in his throat. And presently the woman fled away from him, and he pursued her. She fled away before him through midnight country, and he followed after her, chasing her from thicket to thicket, from valley to valley. And at last he captured her and won her with horrible caresses, and they went up to celebrate and make the marriage of the Sabbath.

They were within the matted thicket, and they writhed in the flames, insatiable forever. They were tortured and tortured one another, in the sight of thousands who gathered thick about them, and their desire rose up like a black smoke. Without, the storm swelled to the roaring of an awful sea. The wind grew to a shrill, long scream. The elm tree was riven and split with the crash of a thunder-clap. To Lucian, the tumult and the shock, came as a gentle murmur,

as if a break stirred before a sudden breeze in summer. And then a vast silence overwhelmed him. A few minutes later there was a shuffling of feet in the passage, and the door was softly opened. A woman came in, holding a light, and she peered curiously at the figure sitting quite still in the chair before the desk. The woman was half-dressed,

and she let her splendid bronze hair flow down. Her cheeks were flushed, and as she advanced into the shabby room, the lamp she carried cast quaking shadows on the moldering paper, patched with marks of rising damp, and hanging in strips from the wet, dripping wall. The blind had not been drawn, but no light or glimmer of light filtered through the window, for a great straggling box-tree that beat the rain upon the panes shut

out even the night. The woman came softly, and as she bent down over Lucian, an argent gleam shone from her brown eyes, and the little curls upon her neck were like golden work upon marble. She put her hand to his heart and looked up. and beckoned to someone who was waiting by the door. "'Come in, Joe,' she said. "'It's just as I thought it would be. "'Death by misadventure.' And she held up a little empty bottle of dark blue glass

that was standing on the desk. "'He would take it, and I always knew he would take a drop too much one of these days. "'What's all those papers that he's got there?' "'Didn't I tell you? It was cruel to see him. He got into his head. He could write a book. He's been at it for the last six months. Look here. She spread the neat pile of manuscript broadcast over the desk and took a sheet at haphazard. It was all covered with illegible, hopeless scribblings. Only here and there it was possible to recognize a word. Why, nobody could read it if they wanted to. It's all like that.

He thought it was beautiful. I used to hear him jabbering to himself about it. it. Dreadful nonsense it was he used to talk. I did my best to tongue him out of it, but it wasn't any good. He must have been a bit doughty. He's left you everything. Yes. You'll have to say about the funeral. It'll be the inquest and all that first. You've got evidence to show he took the stuff? Yes, to be sure I have. The doctor told him he would be certain to do for himself, and he was found two or three times quite silly in the streets. They had to drag him away from a house in Haldon Road. He was carrying on dreadful, shaking at the gate,

and calling out it was his home, and they wouldn't let him in. I heard Dr. Manning himself tell him in this very room that he'd kill himself one of these days. Joe, aren't you ashamed of yourself? I declare you're quite rude, and it's almost Sunday, too. Bring the light over here, can't you? The man took up the blazing paraffin lamp and set it on the desk, beside the scattered heap of that terrible manuscript. The flaring light shone through the dead eyes into the dying brain,

and there was a glow within, as if great furnace doors were opened. The End of the Hill of Dreams by Arthur Mackin.