dered, in the after years (for she continued to produce and publish) by what desperate and heroic process she dragged them out of the soil. I remember asking her on that occasion what had become of Leolin, and how much longer she intended to allow him to amuse himself at her cost. She rejoined with spirit, wiping her eyes, that he was down at Brighton hard at work

10

crimson, in blue, on the book-table that groaned with light literature. Once I met her at the Academy soirée, where you meet people you thought were dead, and she 5 vouchsafed the information, as if she owed it to me in candor, that Leolin had been obliged to recognize insuperable difficulties in the question of form, he was so fastidious; so that she had now arrived at a definite understanding with him (it was such a comfort) that she would do the form if he would bring home the substance. That was now his position - he foraged for her in the great world at a

he was in the midst of a novel — and that he felt life so, in all its misery and mystery, that it was cruel to speak of such experiences as a pleasure. He goes beneath the surface,' she said, ' and he forces himself to look at things from which he 15 salary. He's my "devil," don't you see?

would rather turn away. Do you call that
amusing yourself? You should see his
face sometimes! And he does it for me
as much as for himself. He tells me
everything he comes home to me with 20
his trouvailles. We are artists together,
and to the artist all things are pure. I've
often heard you say so yourself.' The
novel that Leolin was engaged in at Brigh-
ton was never published, but a friend of 25
mine and of Mrs. Stormer's who was stay-
ing there happened to mention to me later
that he had seen the young apprentice to
fiction driving, in a dogcart, a young lady
with a very pink face. When I suggested 30
that she was perhaps a woman of title with
whom he was conscientiously flirting my
informant replied: She is indeed, but do
you know what her title is?' He pro-
nounced it - it was familiar and descrip-35
tive but I won't reproduce it here. I
don't know whether Leolin mentioned it
to his mother: she would have needed all
the purity of the artist to forgive him. I
hated so to come across him that in 40
the very last years I went rarely to see
her, though I knew that she had come
pretty well to the end of her rope.
did n't want her to tell me that she had
fairly to give her books away- I did n't 45
want to see her cry. She kept it up amaz-
ingly, and every few months, at my club,
I saw three new volumes, in green, in

I

as if I were a great lawyer: he gets up the case and I argue it.' She mentioned further that in addition to his salary he was paid by the piece: he got so much for a striking character, so much for a pretty name, so much for a plot, so much for an incident, and had so much promised him if he would invent a new crime.

'He has invented one,' I said, ' and he's paid every day of his life.'

'What is it?' she asked, looking hard at the picture of the year, Baby's Tub,' near which we happened to be standing. I hesitated a moment. I myself will write a little story about it, and then you'll see.'

But she never saw; she had never seen anything, and she passed away with her fine blindness unimpaired. Her son published every scrap of scribbled paper that could be extracted from her table-drawers, and his sister quarreled with him mortally about the proceeds, which showed that she only wanted a pretext, for they cannot have been great. I don't know what Leolin lives upon, unless it be on a queer lady many years older than himself, whom he lately married. The last time I met him he said to me with his infuriating smile: Don't you think we can go a little further still just a little?' He really goes too far. From The Real Thing, 1893.

CONSTANCE FENIMORE WOOLSON (1840-1894)

Constance Fenimore Woolson, a grand-niece of James Fenimore Cooper, was one of the most promising of the later school of American novelists. Henry James wrote an appreciative study of her work for his Partial Portraits, and for a time she was compared even with George Eliot. She began, like Rose Terry Cooke and others of her generation, as a poet, then as a suort story writer of the mid century type, but in the early seventies she caught the spirit of the times and her strong studies of life in the upper lake region, issued in 1875 as Castle Nowhere, were decidedly a force in the shaping of the new fiction. Later she removed to the South and for a period worked strongly with Southern materials, first for short stories, like those in Rodman the Keeper, and then for novels like East Angels and Jupiter Lights. Her last literary period was spent in Italy writing short stories of Italian life, the best of which were published in 1895 with the title The Front Yard and Other Italian Stories. Strong as her work was, it somehow has failed to hold the place it once was supposed to have won. She must be ranked, however, with the pioneers of a vital era, and, judged by her best work, she may still be rated with the select few who have produced notable fiction in a period that was distinctive in its fictional product.

THE OLD AGENCY 1

The buildings of the United States Indian Agency on the Island of Mackinac were destroyed by fire December 31, at midnight.Western Newspaper item.

The old house is gone then! But it shall not depart into oblivion unchronicled. One who has sat under its roof-tree, one 10 who remembers well its rambling rooms and wild garden, will take the pen to write down a page of its story. It is only an episode, one of many; but the others are fading away, or already buried in dead 15 memories under the sod. It was a quaint, picturesque old place, stretching back from the white limestone road that bordered the little port, its overgrown garden sur

But the Indian warriors could not return, the United States agent had long ago moved to Lake Superior, and the deserted residence, having only a mythical owner, 5 left without repairs year after year, and under a cloud of confusion as regarded taxes, titles, and boundaries, became a sort of flotsam property, used by various persons, but belonging legally to no one. Some tenant, tired of swinging the great gate back and forth, had made a little sally port alongside, but otherwise the place remained unaltered; a broad garden with a central avenue of cherry trees, on each side dilapidated arbors, overgrown paths, and heart-shaped beds, where the first agents had tried to cultivate flowers, and behind the limestone cliffs crowned with cedars. The house was large on the

rounded by an ancient stockade ten feet in 20 ground, with wings and various additions height, with a massive, slow-swinging gate in front, defended by loopholes. This stockade bulged out in some places and leaned in at others; but the veteran posts, each a tree sharpened to a point, did not 25 break their ranks in spite of decrepitude, and the Indian warriors, could they have returned from from their happy hunting grounds, would have found the brave old fence of the Agency a sturdy barrier still. 30 1 Copyright by Houghton, Mifflin & Co., in Castle Nowhere, 1875.

built out as if at random; on each side and behind were rough outside chimneys, clamped to the wall, in the roof over the central part dormer windows showed a low second story, and here and there at irregular intervals were outside doors, in some cases opening out into space, since the high steps which once led up to them had fallen down, and remained as they fell, heaps of stone on the ground below. Within were suites of rooms, large and small, showing traces of workmanship

5

Americans who, dressed in cheap imitations of fine clothes, are forever traveling traveling - taking the steamers not from preference, but because they are less costly than an all-rail route. The thin, listless men, in ill-fitting black clothes and shining tall hats, sat on the deck in tilted chairs, hour after hour, silent and dreary; the thin, listless women, clad in raiment of many colors, remained upon the fixed sofas in the cabin hour after hour silent and weary. At meals they ate indiscriminately everything within range, but continued the same, a weary, dreary, silent band. The one exception was an old man, tall and majestic, with silvery hair and bright, dark eyes, dressed in the garb of a Roman Catholic priest, albeit slightly tinged with frontier innovations. He came on board at Detroit, and as soon as we were under way he exchanged his hat for a cloth cap embroidered with Indian bead work, and when the cold air, precursor of the gale, struck us on Huron, he wrapped himself in a large capote made of skins, with the fur inward.

elaborate for such a remote locality; the ceilings, patched with rough mortar, had been originally decorated with molding, the doors were ornamented with scroll work, and the two large apartments on each side of the entrance hall possessed chimney-pieces and central hooks for chandeliers. Beyond and behind stretched out the wings; coming to what appeared to be the end of the house on the west, 10 there unexpectedly began a new series of rooms turning toward the north, each with its outside door; looking for a corresponding labyrinth on the eastern side, there was nothing but a blank wall. The blind stair- 15 way went up in a kind of dark well, and once up it was a difficult matter to get down without a plunge from top to bottom, since the undefended opening was just where no one would expect to find it. 20 Sometimes an angle was so arbitrarily walled up that you felt sure there must be a secret chamber there, and furtively rapped on the wall to catch the hollow echo within. Then again you opened a door, 25 expecting to step out into the wilderness of a garden, and found yourself in a set of little rooms running off on a tangent, one after the other, and ending in a windowless closet and an open cistern. But 30 this old man and I were together; and the Agency gloried in its irregularities, and defied criticism. The original idea of its architect-if there was any had vanished; but his work remained, a not unpleasant variety to summer visitors accus- 35 tomed to city houses, all built with a definite purpose, and one front door.

After some years of wandering in foreign lands, I returned to my country, and took up the burden of old associations 40 whose sadness time had mercifully softened. The summer was over; September had begun, but there came to me a great wish to see Mackinac once more; to walk through the aisles of its pines, among its 45 spicy cedars and blue-green spruces; to breathe its exhilarating air; to look again upon the little white fort where I had lived with Archie, my soldier nephew, killed at Shiloh. The steamer took me safely 50 across Erie, up the brimming Detroit River, through the enchanted region of the St. Clair flats, and out into broad Lake Huron; there, off Thunder bay, a gale met us, and for hours we swayed between life and death. The season for pleasure traveling was over: my fellow passengers, with one exception, were of that class of

5

In times of danger formality drops from us. During those long hours, when the next moment might have brought death,

when at last the cold dawn came, and the disabled steamer slowly plowed through the angry water around the point, and showed us Mackinac in the distance, we discovered that the island was a mutual friend, and that we knew each other, at least by name; for the silver-haired priest was Father Piret, the hermit of the Chenaux. In the old days, when I was living at the little white fort, I had known Father Piret by reputation, and he had heard of me from the French half-breeds around the point. We landed. The summer hotels were closed, and I was directed to the old Agency, where occasionally a boarder was received by the family then in possession. The air was chilly, and a fine rain was falling, the afterpiece of the equinoctial; the wet storm flag hung heavily down over the fort on the height, and the waves came in sullenly. All was in sad accordance with my feelings as I thought of the past and its dead, while the slow tears of age moistened my eyes. But the next morning Mackinac awoke, robed in autumn splendor; the sunshine poured down, the straits sparkled back, the forest glowed in scarlet, the larches waved their

wild, green hands, the fair-weather flag floated over the little fort, and all was as joyous as though no one had ever died; and indeed it is in glorious days like these that we best realize immortality.

I wandered abroad through the gay forest to the Arch, the Lover's Leap, and old Fort Holmes, whose British walls had been battered down for pastime, so that only a caved-in British cellar remained to mark 10 the spot. Returning to the Agency I learned that Father Piret had called to see

me.

'I am sorry that I missed him,' I said, 'he is a remarkable old man.'

The circle at the dinner table glanced up with one accord. The little Methodist minister with the surprised eyes looked at me more surprised than ever; his large wife groaned audibly. The Baptist col- 20 porteur peppered his potatoes until they and the plate were black; the Presbyterian doctor, who was the champion of the Protestant party on the island, wished to know if I was acquainted with the latest 25 devices of the Scarlet Woman in relation to the county school fund.

ants of a chief factor of the fur trade. There has been some feeling lately against the Catholics -'

Roman Catholics, my dear,' I said with 5 Anglican particularity.

'But we all love and respect the dear old man as a father.'

'When I was living at the fort, fifteen years ago, I heard occasionally of Father Piret,' I said, but he seemed to be almost a mythic personage. What is his history?

No one knows. He came here fifty years ago, and after officiating on the is15 land a few years, he retired to a little Indian farm in the Chenaux, where he has lived ever since. Occasionally he holds a service for the half-breeds at Point St. Ignace, but the parish of Mackinac proper has its regular priest, and Father Piret apparently does not hold even the appointment of missionary. Why he remains here a man educated, refined, and even aristocratic is a mystery. He seems to be well provided with money; his little house in the Chenaux contains foreign books and pictures, and he is very charitable to the poor Indians. But he keeps himself aloof, and seems to desire no intercourse with the world beyond his letters and papers, which come regularly, some of them from France. He seldom leaves the straits; he never speaks of himself; always he appears as you saw him, carefully dressed and stately. Each summer when he is seen on the street, there is more or less curiosity about him among the summer visitors, for he is quite unlike the rest of us Mackinac people. But no one can discover anything more than I have told you, and those who have persisted so far as to sail over to the Chenaux either lose their way among the channels, or if they find the house, they never find him; the door is locked and no one answers.'

'But, my friends,' I replied, 'Father Piret and I both belong to the past. We discuss not religion, but Mackinac; not the 30 school fund, but the old associations of the island, which is dear to both of us.'

The four looked at me with distrust; they saw nothing dear about the island unless it was the price of fresh meat, and 35 as to old associations, they held themselves above such nonsense. So, one and all, they took beef and enjoyed a season of well-regulated conversation, leaving me to silence and my broiled white fish; as it 40 was Friday, no doubt they thought the latter a rag of popery.

Very good rags.

But my hostess, a gentle little woman, stole away from these bulwarks of Protest- 45 antism in the late afternoon, and sought me in my room, or rather series of rooms, since there were five opening one out of the other, the last three unfurnished, and all the doorless doorways staring at me 50 like so many fixed eyes, until, oppressed by their silent watchfulness, I hung a shawl over the first opening and shut out the whole gazing suite.

You must not think, Mrs. Corlyne, that 55 we islanders do not appreciate Father Piret,' said the little woman, who belonged to one of the old island families, descend

Singular,' I said. He has nothing of the hermit about him. He has what I should call a courtly manner.'

That is it,' replied my hostess, taking up the word; 'some say he came from the French court - a nobleman exiled for political offenses. Others think he is a priest under the ban, and there is still a third story to the effect that he is a French count, who, owing to a disappointment in love, took orders and came to this far-away island, so that he might seclude himself forever from the world.'

tree avenue, whose early red fruit the short summer could scarcely ripen, its annual attempts at vegetables, which never came to maturity, formed topics for 5 conversation in court circles. Potatoes then as now were left to the mainland Indians, who came over with their canoes heaped with the fine, large, thinjacketed fellows, bartering them all for a loaf or two of bread and a little whiskey.

At sunset the Father came again to see me; the front door of my room was open, and we seated ourselves on the piazza out- 10 side. The roof of bark thatch had fallen away, leaving the bare beams overhead twined with brier roses; the floor and house side were frescoed with those lichen-colored spots which show that the 15 gray planks have lacked paint for many long years; the windows had wooden shutters fastened back with irons shaped like the letter S, and on the central door was a brass knocker, and a plate bearing 20 the words, United States Agency.'

'When I first came to the island,' said Father Piret, this was the residence par excellence. The old house was brave with green and white then; it had can- 25 delabra on its high mantels, brass andirons on its many hearthstones, curtains for all its little windows, and carpets for all its uneven floors. Much cooking went on, and smoke curled up from all these 30 outside chimneys. Those were the days of the fur trade, and Mackinac was a central mart. Hither twice a year came the bateaux from the northwest, loaded with furs, and in those old, decaying ware- 35 houses on the back street of the village were stored the goods sent out from New York, with which the bateaux were loaded again, and after a few days of revelry, during which the improvident voyagers 40 squandered all their hard-earned gains, the train returned westward into the countries,' as they called the wilderness beyond the lakes, for another six months of toil. The officers of the little fort on 45 the height, the chief factors of the fur company, and the United States Indian agent formed the feudal aristocracy of the island; but the agent had the most imposing mansion, and often have I seen the 50 old house shining with lights across its whole broadside of windows, and gay with the sound of a dozen French violins. The garden, now a wilderness, was the pride of the island; its prim arbors, its 55 spring and spring house, its flower beds, where, with infinite pains, a few hardy plants were induced to blossom, its cherry

'The stockade which surrounds the place was at that day a not unnecessary defense. At the time of the payments the island swarmed with Indians, who came from Lake Superior and the northwest, to receive the government pittance. Camped on the beach as far as the eye could reach, these wild warriors, dressed in all their savage finery, watched the Agency with greedy eyes, as they waited for their turn. The great gate was barred and sentinels stood at the loopholes with loaded muskets; one by one the chiefs were admitted, stalked up to the office - that wing on the right - received the allotted sum, silently selected something from the displayed goods, and as silently departed, watched by quick eyes, until the great gate closed behind them. The guns of the fort were placed so as to command the Agency during payment time, and when, after several anxious, watchful days and nights, the last brave had received his portion, and the last canoe started away toward the north, leaving only the comparatively peaceful mainland Indians behind, the island drew a long breath of relief.'

Was there any real danger?' I asked. 'The Indians are ever treacherous,' replied the father. Then he was silent, and seemed lost in reverie. The pure, ever-present breeze of Mackinac played in his long silvery hair, and his bright eyes roved along the wall of the old house; he had a broad forehead, noble features, and commanding presence, and as he sat there, recluse as he was-aged, alone, without a history, with scarcely a name or a place in the world-he looked, in the power of his native-born dignity, worthy of a royal coronet.

I was thinking of old Jacques,' he said after a long pause. He once lived in these rooms of yours, and died on that bench at the end of the piazza, sitting in the sunshine, with his staff in his hand.'