"Ha!' said Lotus, 'that's a common mistake. Thousands and thousands would swear, ay, as they'd swear to their own noses, that they have their souls in their own possession: bless you,' and the conjurer laughed maliciously, 'it's a popular error. Their souls are altogether out of 'em.' «་ 'Well,' said Pugwash, if it's true that you have indeed my soul, I should like to have a look at it.' "In good time,' said the conjurer, I'll bring it to your house and put it in its proper lodging. In another week I'll bring it to you: 'twill then be strong enough to bear removal.' "And what am I to do all the time without it?' asked Pugwash in a tone of banter. 'Come,' said he, still jesting, ‘if you really have my soul, what's it like? What's its color?-if indeed souls have colors.' «Green More: it green as a grasshopper, when it first came into my hands,' said the wizard; 'but 'tis changing daily. was a skipping, chirping, giddy soul; 'tis every hour mending. In a week's time, I tell you, it will be fit for the business of the world.' "And pray, good father,—for the matter has till now escaped me,- what am I to pay you for this pain and trouble; for this precious care of my miserable soul?' "Nothing,' answered Lotus, nothing whatever. The work is too nice and precious to be paid for; I have a reward you dream not of for my labor. Think you that men's immortal souls are to be mended like iron pots, at tinker's price? Oh no! they who meddle with souls go for higher wages.' "After further talk Pugwash departed, the conjurer promising to bring him home his soul at midnight that night week. It seemed strange to Pugwash, as the time passed on, that he never seemed to miss his soul; that in very truth he went through the labors of the day with even better gravity than when his soul possessed him. And more: he began to feel himself more at home in his shop; the cobbler's lark over the way continued to sing, but awoke in Isaac's heart no thought of the fields; and then for flowers and plants, why, Isaac began to think such matters fitter the thoughts of children and foolish girls than the attention of grown men, with the world before them. Even Mrs. Pugwash saw an alteration in her husband; and though to him she said nothing, she returned thanks to her own sagacity that made him seek the conjurer. "At length the night arrived when Lotus had promised to bring home the soul of Pugwash. He sent his wife to bed, and. sat with his eyes upon the Dutch clock, anxiously awaiting the conjurer. Twelve o'clock struck, and at the same moment Father Lotus smote the door-post of Isaac Pugwash. "Have you brought it?' asked Pugwash. Quick: show a light to the till, that your soul may find itself at home.' "The till!' cried Pugwash; 'what the devil should my soul do in the till?' "Speak not irreverently,' said the conjurer, 'but show a light.' "May I live forever in darkness if I do!' cried Pugwash. "It is no matter,' said the conjurer; and then he cried, 'Soul, to your earthly dwelling-place! Seek it-you know it.' Then turning to Pugwash, Lotus said, 'It is all right. Your soul's in the till.' "How did it get there?' cried Pugwash in amazement. "Through the slit in the counter,' said the conjurer; and ere Pugwash could speak again, the conjurer had quitted the shop. "For some minutes Pugwash felt himself afraid to stir. For the first time in his life he felt himself ill at ease, left as he was with no other company save his own soul. He at length took heart, and went behind the counter that he might see if his soul was really in the till. With trembling hand he drew the coffer, and there, to his amazement, squatted like a tailor upon a crown piece, did Pugwash behold his own soul, which cried out to him. in notes no louder than a cricket's, 'How are you? I am comfortable.' "It was a strange yet pleasing sight to Pugwash, to behold what he felt to be his own soul embodied in a figure no bigger than the top joint of his thumb. There it was, a stark-naked thing with the precise features of Pugwash; albeit the complexion was of a yellower hue. The conjurer said it was green,' cried Pugwash: 'as I live, if that be my soul-and I begin to feel a strange, odd love for it-it is yellow as a guinea. Ha! ha! Pretty, precious, darling soul!' cried Pugwash, as the creature took up every piece of coin in the till, and rang it with such a look of rascally cunning, that sure I am Pugwash would in past times have hated the creature for the trick. But every day Pugwash became fonder and fonder of the creature in the till: it was to him such a counselor and such a blessing. When. ever the old flower-man came to the door, the soul of Pugwash from the till would bid him pack with his rubbish; if a poor woman an old customer it might be-begged for the credit of a loaf, the Spirit of the Till, calling through the slit in the counter, would command Pugwash to deny her. More: Pugwash never again took a bad shilling. No sooner did he throw the pocket-piece down upon the counter than the voice from the till would denounce its worthlessness. And the soul of Pugwash never quitted the till. There it lived, feeding upon the color of money, and capering and rubbing its small scoundrel hands in glee as the coin dropped-dropped in. In time the soul of Pugwash grew too big for so small a habitation, and then Pugwash moved his soul into an iron box; and some time after he sent his soul to his banker's,—the thing had waxed so big and strong on gold and silver." "And so," said we," the man flourished, and the conjurer took no wages for all he did to the soul of Pugwash?" "Hear the end," said the Hermit. "For some time it was a growing pleasure to Pugwash to look at his soul, busy as it always was with the world-buying metals. At length he grew old, very old; and every day his soul grew uglier. Then he hated to look upon it; and then his soul would come to him, and grin its deformity at him. Pugwash died, almost rich as an Indian king; but he died shrieking in his madness to be saved. from the terrors of his own soul." "And such the end," we said; "such the Tragedy of the Till? A strange romance." as life. "Romance!" said the Sage of Bellyfule: "sir, 'tis a story true For at this very moment how many thousands, blind and deaf to the sweet looks and voice of nature, live and die with their souls in a Till!" SARAH ORNE JEWETT (1849-) HE deeds of young authors, like the deeds of young soldiers, are a continual surprise to the mature. We forget that characters and situations which pass before us unheeded from their very familiarity, strike the apprehension of youth from their very novelty. Sarah Orne Jewett was born in South Berwick, Maine, in 1849; a product of the best New England birth and breeding. Besides the usual school training, she received a deeper culture from her father, a physician and a man of wide attainments and keen observation. A country doctor, he had to make excursions inland and alongshore to visit his scattered patients; and the young girl sitting beside him learned to know the characters she was to immortalize in literature, as she knew the landscape and the sky. She was a girl not past her youth when her first book, 'Deephaven,' This was a story of was published in 1877. New England life, told in the form of an autobiography; and slight as it was in incident, betrayed a breadth and a refinement which seemed to come from careful training, but which were really the unerring product of a genuine gift for literature, kindled by the observation of a fresh mind and an affectionate sympathy. SARAH ORNE JEWETT The effect upon her many readers was like the gift of sight to the blind. Frequenters of the town-for 'Deephaven' stands for any fisher village on the Maine coast-recollected having seen "Mrs. Bonny" searching for a tumbler, the meek widow with the appearance of a black beetle and the wail of a banshee, the funeral procession on its sad journey, the Captains, the interesting ladies "Mrs. Kew" and "Mrs. Dockum." 'Deephaven' was followed by a series of stories, all breathing forth an air of calm leisure that in its avoidance of hurry or catastrophe suggests the almost forgotten note of Goldsmith and Irving. Miss Jewett's portrayal of character, habits, traits, speech, was all perfectly true, although drawn from that very rural and village New England life which other writers, clever and merciless, had convinced the world to be wholly sordid and melancholy. With wider comprehension, she showed that there are differing points of view of any given conditions, and that a life in these pinched and narrow surroundings may be as complex an affair as one passed in the heart of London. Her patriotic and kindly part was to portray it with a good deal of horizon, a clear sky, and vital human interest. Her gift has been exercised, for the most part, in the field in which America has only France as her rival,- that of the short story. She has written one novel, 'A Country Doctor'; - for 'Deephaven' is a series of figures, landscapes, and interiors, rather than a woven scheme. Perhaps the rare intuition which taught her the secrets of her shy reserved characters, revealed to her that her strength does not lie in the constructive power which holds in its grasp varied and complex interests, terminating in an inevitable conclusion. A simple incident suffices for her machinery; her local color is a part of the substance of her creation, not imposed upon it, and no more than Hawthorne does she seem to be conscious of the necessity of making it a setting for her figures. She writes of that into which she was born; and her creations-even when they are in such foreign settings as Irish-American life, in the inimitable stories The Brogans,' 'Between Mass and Vespers,' and 'A Little Captive Maid 'glow with that internal personality which is never counterfeited, as has been said of Hawthorne's Marble Faun.' The emotion of love as a passion, the essential of a novel, is almost absent from her sketches; or, treated as one of many other emotions and principles, has a certain originality due to its abstemiousness. Life indeed, as portrayed by her, proceeds so exactly as it would naturally proceed, that when the incident has been told, and the quiet, veracious talk has been retailed, the story comes to an end because it could not go on without being a different story. This method would not do for a novel: and yet, little composition as there seems to be about them, Miss Jewett's stories are as delicately constructed, with as true a method and as perfect a knowledge of technique, as Guy de Maupassant's; and they are permeated with a humor he never knew. "It is not only the delightful mood in which these little masterpieces are written," says Mr. Howells of 'The King of Folly Island,' "but the perfect artistic restraint, the truly Greek temperance without one touch too much, which render them exquisite, make them perfect in their way.” Her lovely spirit, sweet and compassionate, is a tacit appeal for the characters at which her humor bids us smile. Her people are introduced sitting in their quiet New England homes, going about their small affairs: housewives, captains unseaworthy through time or |