kindly and thankfully: forever beside you there is bloom, and

ever beside you there is fruit, for which eye, heart, and soul are full of unknown, and unspoken, because unspeakable, thankoffering.

no

And if sickness catches you, binds you, lays you down lonely moanings, and wicked curses at careless-stepping nurses. The step is noiseless, and yet distinct beside you. The white curtains are drawn, or withdrawn by the magic of that other presence; and the soft cool hand is upon your brow.

No cold comfortings of friend-watchers, merely come in to steal a word away from that outer world which is pulling at their skirts; but ever the sad shaded brow of her whose lightest sorrow for your sake is your greatest grief,- if it were not a greater joy.

The blaze was leaping light and high, and the wood falling under the growing heat.

So, continued I, this heart would be at length itself; striving with everything gross, even now as it clings to grossness. Love would make its strength native and progressive. Earth's cares would fly. Joys would double. Susceptibilities be quickened. Love master Self; and having made the mastery, stretch onward and upward toward Infinitude.

And if the end came, and sickness brought that followerGreat Follower-which sooner or later is sure to come after, then the heart and the hand of Love, ever near, are giving to your tired soul, daily and hourly, lessons of that love which consoles, which triumphs, which circleth all and centreth in allLove Infinite and Divine!

Kind hands- none but hers- will smooth the hair upon your brow as the chill grows damp and heavy on it; and her fingers none but hers-will lie in yours as the wasted flesh stiffens and hardens for the ground. Her tears you could feel no others, if oceans fell-will warm your drooping features once more to life; once more your eye, lighted in joyous triumph, kindle in her smile, and then

The fire fell upon the hearth; the blaze gave a last leap-a flicker-then another-caught a little remaining twig-blazed up-wavered — went out.

There was nothing but a bed of glowing embers, over which the white ashes gathered fast. I was alone with only my dog for company.

S. WEIR MITCHELL

(1829-)

WEIR MITCHELL has won distinction in two very different fields. He has international reputation as a specialist in nervous diseases, while as a writer of fiction and poetry he

has done work of dignity and worth.

Silas Weir Mitchell - he has dropped the first baptismal nameis the son of the Rev. Dr. I. K. Mitchell of Philadelphia, in which city Weir was born February 15th, 1829. He was educated at the University of Pennsylvania, and at Jefferson Medical College, whence he was graduated in 1850. He soon did notable work in the study of snake poisons; and as army surgeon in the Philadelphia hospital for injuries to the nerves, his studies of nervous affections gave him a high place in his profession. Besides more technical publications, his medical works include a number of popular treatises.

S. WEIR MITCHELL

In view of his strenuous and successful labor in medicine, Dr. Mitchell has displayed a remarkable activity in pure literature. His works in fiction and poetry count up to a dozen or more volumes. His first fiction, 'Hephzibah Guinness,' a volume containing three short stories, appeared in 1880; and it was followed by 'In War Time' in 1884, 'Roland Blake' in 1886, and Characteristics' in 1893, - the latter not fiction strictly, but rather a series of conversations, full of suggestive ideas, and often brilliant in reflection or characterization. It was not until the novel 'Hugh Wynne, Free Quaker,' in 1897, that Dr. Mitchell revealed his full power as a story-writer, producing a powerful and skillfully wrought art-work. Quaker life and war life have in his earlier fiction been leading themes of interest; and in this fine historical study of Revolutionary times in America, these blended in a story of much picturesqueness, movement, and dramatic force. The book, while full of accurate delineations of the bygone day, is written in a romantic spirit which gives it color and charm. The analysis of human nature is keen,- that of one who knows men and women in their

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normal and morbid manifestations, but who, by force of the poetic imagination, avoids in his treatment the unpleasantly realistic or pessimistic. Hugh Wynne' certainly must be included among the larger works of American historical-romantic fiction.

Dr. Mitchell began to print verse in 1882, with a volume entitled The Hill of Stones'; and the seven books which he has subsequently published were gathered in 1896 into the single volume of his 'Collected Poems.' He demonstrates a genuine gift as a verse-writer; and in a kind less often cultivated with success by modern poets — the dramatic he has done fine things. His historical pieces, 'Francis Drake' and 'Philip Vernon,' are very vigorous and pleasing, and show a sympathetic comprehension of Elizabethan models, a skillful handling of blank verse, and a virile imagination. These poems are dramatic in more than name and aim. The lyrics herewith printed show Dr. Mitchell's happy touch in lighter forms.

A striking figure in the social and intellectual life of his city, a rugged personality impressing those with whom it comes in contact, an American of distinction, Weir Mitchell's contribution to letters is sufficient to give him honorable enrollment among the literary men of his land.

ANDRÉ'S FATE

From Hugh Wynne, Free Quaker.

Company

Copyright 1897, by the Century

N THE 20th of September I was desired by my colonel to conduct two companies from Newark, where we lay, through the gap at Ramapo, New Jersey, to the main army, which at this date was camped, as I have said, about Tappan. Being stout and well, I was glad to move, and glad of a chance to see the great river Hudson. We were assigned camp-ground near to Piermont, on a hill slope, in a long-settled country, where since early in the seventeenth century the Dutch had possessed the land. Having no tents, on arriving we set to work at the old business of hut-building; so that it was not until the 26th of September that I had an idle hour in which to look up Jack, who lay somewhere between Tappan and the river.

It was, as usual, a joyous meeting, and we never did less lack for talk. Jack told me that he was ordered on an unpleasant bit of business, and asked if I could not get leave to go with him. Orders were come from West Point to seize and destroy all periaguas, canoes, and boats in the possession of the few and

often doubtfully loyal people between us and King's Ferry. He had for this duty two sail-rigged dories with slide-keels, and would take two soldiers in each.

Upon his representing my skill as a sailor, and the need for two officers, I was allowed to turn over my command to the junior captain and to join Jack.

We set off on the 27th of September with provender and two small tents, and went away up the river with a fine wind. The water was a dull gray, and the heavens clouded. The far shore of Dobbs' Ferry and Tarrytown was already gayly tinted with the hues of the autumn, and to south the bleak gray lines of the Palisades below Sneedon's Landing lay sombre and stern under a sunless sky. One of my men was a good sailor, and I was thus enabled to spend most of the day in Jack's boat.

I mention all these details because of a curious coincidence. I said to Jack-I was steering that I had had since dawn a feeling that some calamity was about to happen. Now this was, as I recall it, a notion quite new to me, and far more like Jack himself. He laughed and said it was the east wind. Then after a pause he added: "I was trying to recall something I once heard, and now I have it. This waiting for an idea is like fishing in the deep waters of the mind: sometimes one gets only a nibble, and sometimes a bite; but I have my fish. It was Dr. Rush who told me that the liver was the mother of ghosts and presentiments. When I told him I was afflicted with these latter, he put on his glasses, looked at me, and said I was of a presentimental temperament."

"And he was right," said I, laughing. Then Jack declared the weather was sorry enough to account for my notion. I made answer, as I remember, that I was not subject to the rule of the weathercock, like some fellows I knew, nor to thinking I was going to be shot. This shut up Jack for a while, and we got off on to our own wise plans for capturing Sir Henry and all his host.

At last we ran ashore at a settled point, called Nyack, and thence we went to and fro wherever we saw the smoke of men's homes. We broke up or burned many boats and dugouts, amid the lamentations of their owners, because with the aid of these they were enabled to take fish, and were ill off for other diet. We had an ugly task, and could only regret the sad but inexorable necessities of war.

We camped ten miles above Piermont; and next day, near to dusk, got as far as King's Landing, having pretty thoroughly attended to our ungracious task.

As the tall promontory of Stony Point rose before us, dim in the evening light, we talked of Wayne's gallant storming of this formidable fort, and of his affection for the bayonet, which, he said, was to be preferred to the musket because it was always loaded.

"We of our State had most of that glory," said Jack; "and all our best generals, save the great chief, are men of the North," which was true and strange.

We had at this place a strong force of horse and foot; and here we meant to pass the night with some of our officers, friends of Jack's.

It was quite dark, when, running in with a free sheet, we came close to a large barge rowed by six men. As we approached I heard a stern order to keep off; and recognized in the boat, where were also armed men, Major Tallmadge, whom I knew. I called to him, but as he only repeated his order, I answered, “Very well, sir;" and we drew in to the shore some hundred feet away.

Jack said it was queer: what could it mean? We walked toward the small blockhouse in time to see Tallmadge and several soldiers conduct a cloaked prisoner into the fort. A little later the major came out, and at once asked me to excuse his abruptness, saying that he had in charge Sir Henry Clinton's adjutantgeneral, who had been caught acting as a spy, and was now about to be taken to Tappan. I exclaimed, "Not Major André!"

"Yes," he returned, "André. A bad business." And I was hastily told the miserable story of Arnold's treason and flight. I turned to Jack. "There it is,” said I. "What of my presentiment?" He was silent. "You know," I added, "that to this man I owed my life at the Mischianza ball: here he is in the same trap from which his refusal to aid my cousin saved me." I was terribly distressed; and at my urgent desire, in place of remaining at the fort, we set out after supper and pulled down the river against the flood-tide, while my unfortunate friend André was hurried away to Tappan, guarded by a strong escort of light horse.

We reached Sneedon's Landing about 5 A. M., and I went up with Jack to his hut. Here I got a bit of uneasy sleep, and