The Novelist.

New Zealand Mail, Issue 312, 13 April 1878, Page 4

The Novelist.

THE GOLDEN BUTTERFLY. PROLOGUE. 11.

Mr. Gilead P. Beck, partly recovered from the shock caused to his nerves by the revengeful spirit of the bear, and in no way discomfited by any sense of false shame as to his ragged appearance, marched beside the two Englishmen. It was characteristic of his nationality that he regarded the greasers with contempt, and that he joined the two gentlemen as if he belonged to their grade and social rank. An Englishman picked up in such rags and duds would have shrunk abashed to the rear, or he would have apologized for his tattered condition, or he would have begged for some garments—any garments—to replace his own. Mr. Beck had no such feeling. He strode along with swinging slouch, which covered the ground as rapidly as the step of the horsesThe wind blew his rags about his long and lean figure as picturesquely as if he was another Autolycus. He was as full of talk as that worthy, and as lightsome of spirit, despite the solemnity of his face. I once saw a poem—l think in the Spectator —on Artemus Ward, in which the bard apostrophized the light-hearted merriment of the Western American: a very unfortunate thing to say, because the Western American is externally a most serious person, never merry, never witty, but always humorous. Mr. Beck was quite grave, though at the moment as happy as that other grave and thoughtful person who has made a name in the literature of humor—Panurge—when he escaped half roasted from the Turk’s Serai. “ I ought,” he said, “to sit down and cry, like the girl on the prairie.” “ Why ought you to cry ?”

“ I guess I ought to cry because I’ve lost my rifle and everything except my Buck”—here he pulled at the steel chain—“ in that darned long stern chase.” “ You can easily get a new rifle,” said Jack.

“ With dollars,” interrupted Mr. Beck. “ As for them, there’s not a dollar left— nary a red cent ; only my Buck.” “ And what is your Buck ?”

“ That,” said Mr. Beck, “ I will tell you by-and-by. Perhaps it’s your Buck, too, young boss,” he added, thinking of a shot as fortunate to himself as William Toll’s was to his son.

He pulled the box attached to the steel chain round to the front, and looked at it tenderly. It was safe, and he heaved a sigh. The way wound up a valley—a road marked only, as has been said, by deep ruts along its course. Behind the travellers the eveningsun was slowly sinking in the west ; before them the peaks of the Sierra lifted their heads, colored purple in the evening light ; and on either hand rose the hill-sides, with their dark foliage in alternate “ splashes” of golden light and deepest shade. It wanted but a quarter of an hour to sunset when Mr. Gilead P. Beck pointed to a township which suddenly appeared,' lying at their very feet. “Empire City, I reckon.”

A good-sized town of wooden houses. They were all alike, and of the same build as that affected by the architects of dolls’ houses ; that is to say, they were of one story only, had a door in the middle, and a window on either side. They were so small, also, that they looked like veritable dolls’ houses.

There were one or two among them of more pretentious appearance, and of several stories. These were the hotels, billiard-saloons, bars, and gambling houses. “ It’s a place bound to advance, sir,” said Mr. Beck proudly. “ Empire City, when I first saw it, which is two years ago, was only two years old. It is only in our country that a great city springs up in a day. Empire City will be the Chicago of the West.” “ I see a city,” said Captain Badds ; can’t see the people.” It was certainly curious. There was not a soul in the streets ; there was no smoke from the chimneys ; there were neither carts nor horses ; there was not the least sign of occupation.

Mr. Gilead P. Beck whistled. “ All gone,” he said. “ Guess the city’s busted up.” -

He pushed aside the brambles which grew over what had been a path leading to the place, and hurried down. The others followed him, and rode into the town. It was deserted. The doors of the houses were open, and if you looked in you might see the rough furniture which the late occupants disdained to carry away with them. The two Englishmen dismounted, gave their reins to the servants, and began to look about them.

The descendants of Og, king of Bashan, have left their houses in black basalt, dotted about the lava-fields of the Hauran, to witness how they lived. In the outposts of the desert stations of the East, the Roman soldiers have left their barracks and their baths, their jokes written on the wall, and their names, to show how they passed away the weary hours of their garrison duty. So the miners who founded Empire City, and deserted it en masse when the gold gave out, left behind them marks by which future explorers of the ruins should know what manner of men once dwelt there. The billiard-saloon stood open, with swinging doors ; the table was still there ; the balls lay about on the table and the floor ; the cues stood in the rack ; the green cloth, mildewed, covered the table.

“ Tommy,” said the younger, “ we will have a game to-night.”

The largest building in the place had been an hotel. It had two stories, and was, like the rest of the houses, built of wood, with a veran-

dah along the front. 'The upper story looked as if it had been recently inhabited ; that is, the shutters were not dropping off the hinges, nor were they flapping to and fro in the breeze.

But the town was deserted ; the evening breeze blew chilly up its vacant streets ; life and sound had gone out of the place.

“ I feel cold,” said Jack, looking about him. They went round to the back of the hotel. Old iron cog-wheels lay rusting on the ground with remains of pumps. In the heart of the town behind the hotel stretched an open space of ground covered with piles of shingle and intersected with ditches.

Mr. Beck sat down and adjusted one of the thorns which served as a temporary shirt-stud. “ Two years ago,” he said, “ there were ten thousand miners here ; now there isn’t one. I thought we should find a choice hotel, with a little monty or poker afterwards. Now no one left ; nothing but a Chinaman or two.” “How do you know there are Chinamen?” “ See those stones ?”

He pointed to some great boulders, from three to six feet in diameter. Some operation of a mystical kind had been performed upon them, for they were jagged and chipped as if they had been filed and cut into shape by a sculptor who had been once a dentist and still loved the profession. “ The miners picked the bones of those rocks, but they never pick quite clean. Then the Chinamen come and finish off. Gentlemen, it’s a special Providence that you picked me up. I don’t altogether admire the way in which that special Providence was played up to in the matter of the bar ; but a Christian without a revolver alone among twenty Chinamen ” He stopped and shrugged his shoulders. “They’d have got my Buck,” he concluded. “ Chief, I don’t like it,” said the younger man. “ It’s ghostly. It’s a town of dead men. As soon as it is dark the ghosts will rise and walk about—play billiards, I expect. What shall we do ?”

“ Hotel,” growled the chief. “ Sleep on floor—sit on chairs—eat off a table.”

They entered the hotel. A most orderly bar : the glasses there ; the bright-colored bottles ; two or three casks of Bourbon whisky ; the counter ; the very dice on the counter with which the bar-keeper used to “go” the miners for drinks. How things at once so necessary to civilised life and so portable as dice were left behind it is impossible to explain. Eveiqthiug was there except the drink. The greasers tried the casks and examined the bottles. Emptiness. A miner may leave behind him the impedimenta, but the real necessaries of life—rifle, revolver, bowie, and cards—he takes with him. And as for the drink, he carries that away too, for greater safety, inside himself.

The English servant looked round him and smiled superior. “ No tap for beer, us usual, sir,” he said. “These pore Californians has much to learn.”

Mr. Gilead P. Beck looked round mournfully. “ Everything gone but the fixin’s he sighed. “ There used to be good beds, where there wasn’t more’n two at once in them ; and there used to be such a crowd around this bar as you would not find nearer’n St. Bouis City.” “Hush !” said Jack, holding up his hand. There were steps. Mr. Beck pricked up his ears. “ Chinamen, likely. If there’s a row, gentleman, give me something, if it’s only a toothpick, to chime in with. But that’s not a Chinese step ; that’s an Englishman’s. fISe wears boots, but they are not miner’s boots ; he walks firm and slow, like all Englishmen ; he is not in a hurry, like our folk. And who but an Englishman would be found staying behind in the Empir-e City when it’s gone to pot ?” The footsteps came down the stairs. “ Most unhandsome of a ghost,” said the younger man, “ to walk before midnight.” The producer of the footsteps appeared “ Told you he was an Englishman !” cried Mr. Beck.

Indeed, there was no mistaking the nationality of the man, in spite of his dress, which was cosmopolitan. He wore boots, but not, as the quick ear of the American told him, the great boots of the miner ; he had on a flannel shirt with a red-silk belt ; he wore a sort of blanket thrown back from his shoulders ; and he had a broad felt hat. Of course he carried arms, but they were not visible. He was a man of middle height, with clear blue eyes ; the perfect complexion of an Englishman of good stock and in complete health ; a brown beard, long and rather curly, streaked with here and there a grey hair ; square and clear-cut nostrils ; and a mouth which, though not much of it was visible, looked as if°it would easily smile, might readily become tender, and would certainly find it difficult to be stern. He might be any age, from five and thirty to five and forty. The greasers fell back and grouped about the door. The questions which might be raised had no interest for them. The two leaders stood together ; and Mr. Gilead P. Beck, rolling an empty keg to their side, turned it up, and sat down with the air of a judge, looking from one party to the other.

“ Englishmen, I see,” said the stranger. “ Ye-yes,” said Badds, not, as Mr. Beck expected, immediately holding out his hand for the stranger to grasp. “ You have probably lost your way ?” “ Been hunting. Working round—San Francisco. Followed track ; accident ; got here. Your hotel, perhaps ? Fine situation, but lonely.”

“ Not a ghost, then,” murmured the other, with a look of temporary disappointment. “ If you will come upstairs to my quarters, I may be able to make you comfortable for the night. Your party will accomodate themselves without our help.” He referred to the greasers, who had already DOguii their preparations for spending a happy night. When he led the way up the stairs, lie was followed, not only by the two gentlemen he had invited, but also by the ragamuffin hunter, miner, or adventurer, and by the valet,

who conceived it his duty to follow his master. He lived, this hermit, in one of the small bed rooms of the hotel, which he had converted into a sitting-room. It contained a single rocking-chair and a table. There was also a shelf, which served for a sideboard, and a curtain under the shelf, which acted as a cupboard.

“ You see my den,” he said. “ I came here a year or so ago by accident, like yourselves. I found the place deserted. I liked the solitude, the scenery, whatever you like, and I stayed here. You are the only visitors I have had for a year.” “ Chinamen ?” said Mr. Gilead P. Beck.

“ Well, Chinamen, of course. But only two of them. They take turns, at forty dollars a month, to cook my dinners. And there is a half-caste, who does not mind running down to Sacramento when I want anything. And so, you see, I make out pretty well.” He opened the window, and blew a whistle. In two minutes a Chinaman came tumbling up the stairs. His inscrutable face expressed all the conflicting passions of humanity at once —ambition, vanity, self-respect, humor, satire, avarice, resignation, patience, revenge, meekness, long-suffering, remembrance, and a thousand others. No Aryan comes within a hundred miles of it.

“ Dinner as soon as you can,” said his master. “ Ayah ! can do,” replied the Celestial. “ What time you wantchee ?” “As soon as you can. Half an hour.” “ Can do. My no have got cully-powder. Have makee finish. Have got ?” “ Book for some ; make Achow help.” “ How can ? No, b’long his pidgin. He no helpee. B’iong my pidgin makee cook chowchow. Ayah ! Achow have go makee cheat over Mexican man. Makee play cards all same euchre.”

In fact, on looking out of the window, the other Celestial was clearly visible, manipulating a pack of cards and apparently inviting the Mexicans to a friendly game, in which there could be no deception. Then Badds’ conscience smote him. “ Beg pardon. Should have seen. Made remark about hotel. Apologize.” “He means,” said the other, “ that he was a terrible great fool not to see that you are a gentleman.” Badds nodded.

“Bet me introduce our party,” the speaker went on. “ This is our esteemed friend Air. Gilead P. Beck, whom we caught in a bearhunt ”

“ Bar behind,” said Air. Beck. “ This is Capt. Badds, of the 35th Dragoons.” “ Badds,” said Badds. “ Nibbs, cocoa-nibs -—pure aroma—best breakfast-digester—bles-sing to mothers—perfect fragrance.” “ His name is Badds ; and he wishes to communicate to you the fact that he is the son of the man who made an immense fortune —immense, Tommy ?” Badds nodded.

“By a crafty compound known as 4 Badds’ Patent Anti-Dyspeptic Cocoa.’ This is Badds’ servant, John Bolmer, the best servant who ever put his leg across pig skin ; and my name is Roland Dunquerque. People generally call me Jack ; I don’t know why, but they do.” Their host bowed to each, including the servant, who colored with pleasure at Jack’s description of him ; but he shook hands with Badds.

“ One of ours,” he said. “My name is Bawrence Colquhoun. I sold out before you joined. I came here, as you see. And—now, gentlemen, I think I hear the first sounds of dinner. Bolmer—you will allow me, Badds ? —you will find claret and Champagne behind that curtain. Pardon a hermit’s fare. I think they laid out such a table as the wilderness can boast in the next room.”

The dinner was not altogether what a man might order at the Junior United, but it was good. There was venison, there was a curry, there was some mountain quail, there was claret, and there was champagne—both good, especially the claret. Then there was coffee.

The Honorable Ronald Dunquerqe, whom we will call in future, what everybody always called him, Jack, ate and drank like Friar J ohn. The keen mountain air multiplied his normal twist by ten. Mr. Gilead P. Beck, who sat down to dinner pei-fectly unabashed by his rags, was good as a trencherman, but many plates behind the young Englishman. Air. Bawrence Colquhoun, their host, went on talking almost as if they were in Bondon, only now and then he found himself behind the world. It was his ignorance of the last 3.)erby, the allusion to an old and half-forgotten story, perhaps his use of little phrases—not slang phrases, but those delicately-shaded terms which imply knowledge of current things—which showed him to have been out of Bondon and Paris for more than one season. “Four years,” hesaid, “since I left England.” “ But you will come back to it again ?” “ I think not.” “Better 1 ,” said Jack, whose face was a little flushed with the wine. “ Aluch better. Robinson Crusoe always wanted to get home again. So did Selkirk. So did Philip Quarles.” Then the host produced cigars. Bater on, brandy and water. The brandy and water made Air. Gilead P. Beck, who found himself a good deal crowded out of the conversation, insist on having his share. He placed his square box on the table, and loosed the straps. “ Bet me tell you,” he said, “ the story of my Buck. I was in Sonora City,” he began, patting his box affectionately, “ after the worst three months I ever had ; and I went around trying to borrow a-.few dollars. I got no dollars, but I got free drinks—so many free drinks, that at last 1 lay down in the street and went to sleep. Wall, gentlemen, I suppose I walked in that slumber of mine, for when I woke up I was lying a mile outside of the town. I also entertained angels unawares, for at my head there sat an Indian woman. She was as wrinkled an old squaw as ever shrieked at a buryin . But she took an interest in me. She took that amount of interest in me that she told me she knew of gold. An then she led

me by the hand, gentlemen, that aged and affectionate old squaw, to a place not far from the roadside ; and there, lying between two rocks, and hidden in the chaparelle, glittering in the light, was this bauble.” He tapped hi» I wrapped it in my handkerchief and carried it in my hand. Then she led me back to the road again.. ‘ Bad luck you will have,' she said ; 4 but it will lead to good luck so long as that is not broken, sold, given away, or lost.* Then she left me, and here it is.” He opened the little box. There was nothing to be seen but a mass of white wool. “ Bad luck I have had. Book at me, gentlemen. Adam was not more destitute when the ga-rden-gates were shut on him. But the good will come, somehow.”

He removed the wool, and, behold, a miracle of nature ! Two thin plates of gold delicately wrought in lines and curious chasing, like the pattern of a butterfly’s wing, and of the exact shape, but twice as large. They were poised at the angle, always the same, at which the insect balances itself about a flower. They were set in a small piece of quaintly-marked quartz, wnieh represented the body. “ A golden butterfly !” “ A golden butterfly,” said Mr. Beck. “No goldsmith made this batterfly. It came from Nature’s workshop. 1 It is my Buck.” “And if the butterfly fall and break, Farewell the Luck of Gilead Beck,” said Jack. “Thank you, sir. That’s very neat. I’ll take that, sir, if you will allow me, for my motto, unless you want it for yourself.” “No,” said Jack ; “I have one already.” “ If this golden butterfly fall and break. Farewell the Luck of Gilead P. Beck,” repeated the owner of the insect. 44 If you are going on, gentlemen, to Sah Francisco, I hope you will take me with you.” “Colquhoun,” said Badds, “you do not mean to. stay here by yourself ? Much better come with us, unless, of course ”

Uying on the table was a piece of an old newspaper in which Jack had wrapped something. Badds saw Colquhoun mechanically take up the paper, read it, and change color. Then he looked straight before him, seeing nothing, and Badds stopped speaking. Then he smiled in a strange far-off way. “ I think I will go with you,” he said. “ Hear, hear !” cried Jack. 44 Selkirk returns to the sound of the church-going bell.” Badds refrained from looking at the s paper in search of things which did not concern himself, but he perceived that Colquhoun had, like Hamlet, seen Something. There was, in fact, an announcement in the fragment which greatly interested Bawrence Colquhoun : “On April 3, by the Right Rev. the Bord Bishop of 'lurk’s Island, at St. George’s, Hanover Square, Gabriel Cassilis, of, etc., to Victoria, daughter of the late Admiral Sir Benbow Pengelley, K.C.8.”

In. the morning they started, Mr. Beck being provided with a new rig-out of a rough and useful kind.

At the last moment one of the Chinamen, Beeching, the cook, besought from his late master, as a parting favor and for the purpose of self-protection, the gift of a pistol, powder, and ball.

Air. Colquhoun gave them to him, thinking it a small thing after two years of faithful service. Then Beeching, after he loaded his pistol, went to work with his comrade for an hour or so.

Presently, Achow being on his knees in the shingle, the perfidious Beeching suddenly cocked his pistol and fired it into Achow’s right ear, so that he fell dead.

By this lucky accident Beeching became sole possessor of the little pile of gold which he and the defunct Achow had scraped together and placed in a cache.

He proceeded to unearth this treasure, put together his little belongings, and started on the road to San Francisco with a smile of satisfaction.

There was a place in the windings of the road where there was a steep bank. By the worst luck in the word a stone slipped and fell as Beeching passed by. The stone, by itself, would not have mattered much, as it did not fall on Beeching’s head ; but with it fell a rattlesnake, who was sleeping in the warmth of the sun.

Nothing annoys a rattlesnake more than to be disturbed in his sleep. With angry mind he awoke, looked around, and saw the Chinaman. Illogically connecting him with the fall of the stone, he made for him, and, before Beeching knew there was a rattlesnake anywhere near him, bit him in the calf. Beeching sat down on the bank and realized the position. Being a fatalist, he did not murmur ; having no conscience, he did not fear; having no faith, he did not hope ; having very little time, he made no testamentaiy dispositions. In point of fact, he speedily curled up his legs and died. Then the deserted Empire City was deserted indeed, for there was not even a Chinaman left in it. Chapter I.—Joseph and His Brethren. The largest and most solid of all the substantial houses in Carnarvon-square, Bloomsbury, is Number Fifteen, which, by reason of its corner position (Mulgrave-street intersecting it at right angles at this point), has been enabled to stretch itself out at the back. It is a house which a man who wanted to convey the idea of a solid income without ostentation or attempt at fashion would find the very thing to assist his purpose. The ladies of such a house woald not desire to belong to the world farther west ; they would respect the Church, law, and medicine ; they would look on the City with favorable eyes when it was l-epresented by a partner in an old firm ; they would have sound notions of material comfort ; they would read solid books, and would take their pleasure calmly. One always, somehow, in looking at a house, wonders first of what sort its women are. There were, however, no women at Number Fifteen at all, except the maids. Its occupants consisted of three brothers, all unmarried. Fhey were named respectively Cornelius, Humphrey, and Joseph Jagenal, Cornelius

and Humphrey were twins. Joseph was their junior by ten years. Cornelius and Humphrey were fifty—Joseph was forty. People who did not know this thought that Joseph was fifty and his brethren forty. When the Venerable the Archdeacon of Market Basing, the well-known author of “ Sermons on the Duty of Tithe Offerings,” the “ Lesbia of Catullus,” and a “ Treatise on the Right Use of the Anapcest in Greek lambic Verse, died, it was found that he had bequeathed his little savings, worth altogether about £SOO a year, to his three sons in the following proportions : the twins, he said, possessed genius ; they would make their mark in the world, but they must be protected. They received the yearly sum of £2OO a piece, and it was placed in the hands of trustees to prevent their losing it ; the younger was to have the rest, without trustees, because, his father said, “Joseph is a dull boy and will keep it.” It was a wise distribution of the money. Cornelius, then nineteen, left Oxford immediately, and went to Heidelberg, where he called himself a poet, studied metaphysics, drank beer, and learned to fence. Humphrey, for his part, deserted Cambridge their father having chosen that they should not be rivals—and announced his intention of devoting his life to Art. He took up his residence in Rome. Joseph stayed at school, having no other choice. When the boy was sixteen, his guardians articled him to a solicitor. Joseph was dull, but methodical, exact, and endowed with a retentive memory. He had also an excellent manner, and the “appearance of age,” as portwine advertisers say, before he was out of his articles. At twenty-five, Joseph Jagenal was a partner ; at thirty, he was the working partner ; at forty, he was the senior partner in the great liincoln’s-Inn firm of Shaw, Fairlight, and Jagenal, the confidential advisers of as many respectable country people as any firm in London. When he was twenty-five, and became a partner, the brethren returned to England simultaneously, and xvere good enough to live with him and upon him. They had their £2OO a year each, and expensive tastes. Joseph, who made a thousand for his share the first year of his admission to the firm, had no expensive tastes, and a profound respect for genius. He took in the twins joyfully, aud they stayed with him. When his senior partner died, and Mr. Fairlight retired, so that Joseph’s income was largely increased, they made him move from Torrington-square, where the houses are small, to Carnai’von-square, and regulated his household for him on the broadest and most liberal scale. Heedless to say, no part of the little income, which barely served the twins with pocket-money and their menus plaisirs, went towards the housekeeping. Cornelius, poet and philosopher, superintended the dinner and daily interviewed the cook. Humphrey the devotee of art, who fui’nished the rooms according to the latest designs of the most correct taste, was in command of the cellar. Cornelius took the best sitting-room for himself, provided it with books, easy-cliairs, pipes, and an immense study-table with countless drawers. He called it carelessly his Workshop. The room on the first-floor overlooking Mulgrave-street, and consequently with a north aspect, was appropriated by Humphrey. He called it his Studio, and furnished it in character, not forgetting the easy-chairs. Joseph had the back room behind the dining-room for himself ; it was not called a study or a library, but Mr. Joseph’s room. He sat in it alone every evening, at work. There was also a drawingroom, but it was never used. They dined together at half-past six : Cornelius sat at the head, and Humphrey at the foot, Joseph at one side. Art and Intellect, thus happily met together and housed under one roof, talked to each other. Joseph ate his dinner in silence. Art held his glass to the light, and flashed into enthusiasm over the matchless sparkle, the divine hues, the incomparable radiance of the wine. Intellect, with a sigh, as one who regrets the loss of a sense, congratulated his brother on his vivid passion for color, and taking another glass, discoursed on the aesthetic aspects of a vintage wine. Joseph drank one glass of claret, after which he retired to his den, and left the brethren to finish the bottle. After dinner the twins sometimes went to the theatre, or they repaired arm-in-arm to their club—the Renaissance, now past its prime and a little fogyish ; mostly they sat in the Studio or in the Workshop, in two arm-chairs, with a table between them, smoked pipes, and drank brandy and potash-water. They went to-bed at any time they felt sleepy—perhaps at twelve, and perhaps at three. Joseph went to-bed at half-past ten. The brethren genei'ally breakfasted at eleven, J oseph at eight. After breakfast unless on rainy days, a uniform custon was observed. Coi'nelius, poet and phislosopher, went to the window and looked out. Humphrey, artist, and therefore a man of intuitive sympathies, followed him. Then he patted Cornelius on the shoulder, and shook his head. “ Brother, I know your thought. You want to drag me from my work ; you think it has been too much for me lately. You are too anxious about me.” Cornelius smiled. “Hot on my own account too, Humphrey ?” “ True—on your account. Let us go out at once, brother. Ah, why did you chose so vast a subject ?” Coi'nelius wes engaged—had been engaged for twenty years—upon an epic poem, entitled the “ Upheaving of Adlfred.” The school he belonged to would not, of course, demean themselves by speaking of Alfred. To them Edward was Eadxvard, Edgar was Eadgar, and old Canute was Knut. In the same way Cicero became Kikero, Virgil was Vergil, and Socrates was spelt, as by the illiterate bargee, with a k. So the French prigs of the anteBoileau period sought to make their trumpery pedantries pass for current coin. So, too, Chapelainwas in labor with the “Pucelle” for thirty yeax-3 ; and when it came But Cornelius Jagenal could not be compared with Chapelain, because he had as yet brought forth nothing. He sat with what he aud his called

“ English” books all round him ; in other words, he had all the Anglo-Saxon litei’ature on his shelves, and was amassing, as he said, material. Humphrey, on the other hand, was engaged on a paintiug, the composition of which offered difficulties which, for nearly twenty yeai-s, had proved insuperable. He was painting, he said, the “ Birth of the Renaissance.” It was a subject which requii'ed a great outlay in properties. Venetian glass, Italian jewelry, mediaeval furniture, copies of paintings everything necessax'y to make this work a masterpiece—he bought at Joseph’s expense. Up to the present no one had been allowed to see the first rough drawings. “ Where’s Ciesar ?” Humphrey would say, leading the way to the hall. “ Caesar ! Why, here he is. Caesar must actxxally have heard us proposing to go out.” Cornelius called the dog Kaysar, and he refused to answer to it ; so that conversation between him and Cornelius was impossible. There never was a pair more attached to each other than these twin brethren. They sallied forth each moi'ning at twelve, ai-m-in-arm, with an open aud undisguised admiration for each other which was touching. Before them marched Caesar, who was of mastiff breed, leading the way. Cornelius, the poet, was dressed with as much care as if he were still a young man of five-and-twenty, in a semi-youthful and wholly aesthetic costume, in which only the general air, and not the coloi’, revealed the man of delicate perceptions. Humphrey, the artist, greatly daring, affected a warm brown velvet with a crimson-purple ribbon. Both carried flowers. Cornelius had gloves ; Humphrey a cigar. Cornelius was smoothfaced, save for a light fringe on the upper lip. Humphrey xvore a heavy moustache and a full long silldy beard of a delicately-shaded bx'own, inclining Avlien the sun shone upon it to a suspicion of auburn. Both Avei'e of the same height, rather below the middle ; they had features so much alike that, but for the hair on the face of one, it would have been difficult to distinguish between them. Both Avere thin, pale of face, and both had, by some fatality, the end of their delicately-carved noses slightly tipped Avitlx red. Perhaps this was due to. the daily and nightly bi'andy aud Avater. And in the airy careless carnage of the tAvo men, their sunny faces and elastic tread, it Avas impossible to suppose that they Avere fifty and Joseph only forty. To be sui’e, Joseph Avas a keax r y man, stout of build, broad in frame, sturdy in the underjaAV ; Avhile his bi’others Avere slight shadoxvy men. And, to be sure, Joseph had worked all his life, Avhile his brothers never did a stroke. They Avere born to consume the. fruits Avhich Joseph Avas born to cultivate. Outside the house the poet heaved a sigh, as if the Aveight of the epic was for the moment off his mind. The artist looked round with a critical eye on the lights and shadoxvs of the great common-place square. “Even in London,” he murmxxred, “Hature is too strong for man, Did you ever, my dear Cornelius, catch a more brilliant effect of sunshine than that upon the lilac yonder ?” Time, end of April ; season forward, lilacs on the point of bursting into flower • sky-dotted Avith SAvift-flying clouds, alternate xvithdrawals and bursts of sunshine.

“ I really must,” said Humphrey, “ try to fix that effect.” His brother took the arm of the artist and drexv him gently aAvay.

In front marched Cxeser. Presently the poet looked round. They were out of the square by this time. “ Whei'e is Kaysar ?” he said, Avith an air of surprise. “ Surely, brother Humphrey, the dog can’t be in the Carnarvon Arms ?” “I’ll go and see,” said Humphrey, with alacrity. He entered the bar of the tax r crn, and his brother Avaited outside. After tAvo or three minutes, the poet, as if tired of Avaiting, folloAved the artist into the bar. He found him Avith a glass of brandy and Avater cold. “ I had,” he explained, “ a feeling of faintness. Pei'haps this spring air is chilly. One cannot be too careful.” “ Quite light,” said tlie poet. “ I almost think—yes, I really do feel—ah ! Thank you, my dear.” The girl, as if anticipating his Avants, set before him a “foux-” of brandy and the cold Avater. Perhaps she had seen the face before. As for the dog, he was lying doAvn Avith his head on his paivs. Perhaps he knexv there Avould be no immediate necessity for moving. They Avalked in the direction of the Pai’k, ai’m-in-arm, affectionately. It might have been a quarter of an hour after leaving the Cax-narvon Arms Avhen the poet stopped and gasped—- “ Humphrey, my dear brother, advise me. What Avould you do if you had a sharp and sudden pain like a knife inside you ?” Humplii'ey replied promptly : “If I had a shai-p and sudden pain like a knife inside me, I should take a small glass of brandy neat. Mind, no spoiling the effect with water.”

Cornelius looked at his brother Avith admiration.

“ Such readiness of l’esoux’ce !” he mux'mui'ed, pressing his arm. “ I think I see—ah, yes—Kaysar—he’s gone in before us. The sagacity of that dog is more remarkable than anything I ever read.” He took his small glass of brandy neat.

The artist, looking on, said he might as Avell haA r e one at the same time. Hot, he added, that he felt any immediate Avant -of the stimulant, but he might ; and at all times j>revention is better than cure.

It Avas tAvo o’clock Avhen they returned to Cai-narvon-square. They walked ai'm-in-arm, with perhaps even a greater shoAV of confiding affection than had appeared at stai’ting. There Avas the slightest possible lxxrch in their walk, and both looked solemn and heavy with thought. In the hall the artist looked at his Avatch. “Pa—pasht tAvo. Coi'neliush, Work—” He marched to the Studio Avith a resolute aii', and, ai’rived there, dx-eAv an easy chair before the fire, sat himself in it, and went fast asleep.

The poet sought the Workshop. On the table lay the portfolio of papers, outside xvhich Avas emblazoned on parchment, Avith dainty sci’oll-Avork by the hands of lxis brother the artist, the title of his poem : 2Tije SEpijeabtng of gldfreft: AN EPIC POEM IN TAVENTY-EOUK CANTOS. By Cornelius Jagenal. He gazed at it fondly for a fexy minutes ; vaguely took up a pen, as if he intended to finish the Avoi'k on the spot ; and then Avith a sigh, thought being too much for brain, he slipped into his ai'm-chair, put up his feet, and Avas asleep in tAvo minutes. At half-past five, one of the maids—they kept no footman iu Carnarvon-square—bi'ought him tea. “ I have been dozing, have I, Jane ?” he asked. “ Very singular thing for me to do.” We are but the creatures of habit. The brethren took the same Araik evei'y day, made the same remarks, Avith an occasional variation, and took the same morning drams ; they spent the middle of the day in sleep, they Avoke up for the aftei’noon tea, and they never failed to call Jane’s attention to the singxxlarity of the fact that they had been asleep. This day Jane lingered instead of going away Avhen the tea AA r as finished.

“Did master tell you, sir,” she asked, “ that Miss Fleming Avas coming to-day ?” It Avas an imitating thing that, although Cornelius ordered the dinner and sat at the head of the table, although Humphrey Avas iu sole command of the Avine-cellar, the servants ahvays called Joseph the master. Great is the authority of him avlio keeps the bag; the power of the penniless tAvins Avas a shadoAvy and visionary thing.

The master had told his brothers that Miss Fleming Avould probably have to come to the house, but no date xx r as fixed.

Miss Fleming came this afternoon, sii',” said Jane, “Avith a French maid. She’s in Mr. Joseph’s room noxv.” “ Oh, tell Mr. Humphrey, Jane, and Ave will dress for dinner. Tell Mr. Humphrey also that perhaps Miss Fleming Avould like a glass of champagne.”

He brought up two bottles, such xvas his anxiety to give full expression to his brother’s Avishes.

“ Ahvays thoughtful,” said Humphrey, Avith enthusiasm. “ Cornelius is for ever thinking of othei's’ comfort. To be sure Miss Fleming shallhave a glass of champagne.” He brought up two bottles, such xvas his anxiety to give full expression to his brother’s xvishes.

When the dinner-bell rang, the brethren emerged simultaneously from their rooms and descended the stairs togethei’, arm-in-arm. Perhaps in expectation of dinner, pex’haps in anticipation of the champagne, perhaps with pleasure at the prospect of meeting Avith Joseph’s Avard, the faces of both xvere lit with a sunny smile, and their eyes with a radiant light, Avhich looked like the real and genuine enthusiasm of humanity. It Avas a pity that Humphrey wore a beard, or that Cornelius did not ; otherwise it would have been difficult to distinguish between this pair so much alike—these youthful txvins of fifty, who almost looked like five-and-tAventy. - rr