has grown fuller than for years; and that a hamper of clothing and a wagonload of cut wood have been put out at his hovel in his absence. The fact that the neighbors have come and stared at the unwonted sight, and canvassed it among themselves and with Aggy and Dicey, is likewise unknown to him. He would doubtless have laughed aloud, could he have stood there unobserved, and heard Dicey tell them all that it was "conjur' work." It would have been no hard matter for him to have guessed who the conjurer was.

In the mean time he is drawing near home. He can see a bright light through the narrow back window of his cabin, and is fretted at Dicey's extravagance in having such a blaze when the stock of fuel is so low.

"Dat fool ole 'oman is al'ays a-pesterin' arter me 'bout makin' baskits an' makin' baskits, 'twel I done got sick o' de very sight o' baskits, let alone makin' of 'em, -an' now jes' look at her! Done gone kindle up a great big fire out'n de las' chunk at de woodpile, an' I ain't sole but two baskits ter-day. She mus' 'spec' me ter steal riders off'n de wurrum-fence for ter keep her warm dis winter. Wimmen folks is cur'us critters, anyhow; an' Dicey, she ain't got no mo' sense'n a mule's hine leg, no way you fix it."

But his heart is so full of his recent meeting with young Mis' Mary that he soon forgets Dicey's recklessness. He is racking his brain for fit words in which to convey to her and to Aggy his conception of the great beauty and gentleness and goodness of Mars' Jeems's daughter.

"Don't look like none o' dese here valley folks, dat young 'oman don't, now. I jes' 'spicioned she come f'om over de mount'ins soon as I put my eyes on her. Step wid her head up, jes' de same as ole mist'is. Ain't no po' white trash over yer kin tetch dat breed o' Tuckahoes! Skin finer 'n satin an'

whiter 'n dat snow.

Eyes shinin' like de stars in de elements. Dese yer niggers thinks ole Newt' is ign'unt an' don't know nothin'; but howsomedever o' dat, my white folks is high-up white folks, I done tole ye!"

On the right of the narrow road, which is cut sharply into the side of the great hill, a high bank towers up, and huge rocks jut out above it. The bank is pretty enough in summer, with its tangle of wild honeysuckle and its green undergrowth of hardy chincapin bushes. But now its rocks are capped with snow, and the stunted cedars here and there only serve to accentuate its bareness. It is where the quarriers were at work yesterday.

On the left, down a steep declivity, yawns a bleak valley. The tops of its girdled pine-trees, that raise their gaunt white arms like spectral things, do not reach the level of the road above; and the face of the valley is covered with vines, and sinuous undergrowth, and limestone boulders of desolate gray, and rotting logs, all half hidden beneath the drifted snow, as far as the little branch, with its frozen pools.

The old man, trudging along in the gathering gloom, moves with more caution as the night comes swiftly down, and shudders with a vague superstition as he approaches the lonely spot. He knows the story of the accident that is said to have happened there years ago, and believes that the ghosts of the man and woman who went over the precipice that stormy night still haunt the place.

The noise of a heavy rushing body, tearing through the vines and undergrowth of the bank above, makes cold chills run down his back and his eyeballs distend with terror.

"Gre't Goddlemighty!" he shrieks, as it crashes down before him, and stops, huge and dark and misshapen, in the road bed at his feet, midway the narrow track.

In the direction of Pinchtown he hears the ringing of sleigh-bells; and gazing with more intentness at the mysterious object in front of him, he sees that it is a huge limestone rock, loosened from its place in the hillside by the workmen of yesterday.

"Dat sleigh gwine ter run over dis yer rock, ef I lef' it here, an' dat ain't no pebble for a crooked-back ole nigger like me ter heft down inter de bottom." He attempts to move it, but it remains unshaken.

"Ef dem folks runs agin dis yer thing, it's a-gwine ter fling 'em inter de hollow, an' lan' 'em all in kingdom-come, an' dat 's pint❜ly a fac'."

He pauses, and listens to the bells. "Umph! dat sleigh don't 'pear like 't was a-gittin' no closer. Lord! jes' s'pose dat's dem dar two harnts out a-takin' a sleigh-ride dis dark night! I ruther git de patterrollers arter me, I tell ye. Dis yer ain't no place for ole Newton, sho'!"

The sound of the bells, drawing nearer, reassures him.

"Dem ain't no sperrit-bells. I 'spec's dar's live folks in dat sleigh; an' mebbe I better jes' set here an' wait for 'em. Ef I goes to'ds 'em, dey mought pass me in de dark, dem dar sleigh-bells makes sich a everlastin' racket."

He takes his seat upon the fallen boulder, in the darkness; but he is far from comfortable. The blood moves slowly in his veins, and the chill in the air is nipping. But his moral courage waxes strong as the sleigh draws nearer, and he falls into a soliloquy : :"Dis yer's a mighty bad place in de road. I don't see how come white folks ain't got no better sense 'n ter go make a road inter de hillside, like dis, nohow. Ef I hadden' jes' happened 'long 'bout dis pertickler time, dem dar two ole harnts 'ud 'a had some fresh 'uns ter keep 'em company dis night, sho!" He passes his hand over the rough edges of the rock on which he is seated, and

continues: "Dis yer rock 'ud 'a-flung a fo'-hoss wagon an' team overboard, let alone a Yankee jumper."

The sleigh is near at hand, and he stands up to halloo. But the jangle of the bells drowns his call, and the sleigh comes on. He steps nearer the bank on his right, to catch the ear of the driver, and calls again. It is very dark, and he cannot distinguish the outlines of the horses as they approach. Then there is the sound of another rushing boulder from above him. It comes hurtling down in the path of the one already fallen; and in a moment old Newton lies sorely wounded and bleeding in the highway.

The horses halt suddenly, rear up snorting, and stand with trembling limbs and dilated nostrils.

Its occupants turn the sleigh as best they can in the darkness, and, taking the old man up gently, lift him in, and drive him, at his own request, to the cabin in Pinchtown, to which he directs them. His voice is faint and unnatural, and he speaks very little. They place him on the rough bed, and the young woman whose life he has saved, bending over him with unspeakable pity, sees his face in the light of the flickering fire, and says,

"It is Uncle Newton."

He lies there very quietly, with a new blanket over him that has come from her house in the city this morning, and looks up at her with dumb, staring eyes that bring the tears to her own. He hears her husband say, "It was an awful accident, Mary," and it dawns upon him by degrees that it was Mars' Jeems's daughter who was in that sleigh. A faint smile flits across the worn features, as he whispers,—

"I kep' ye f'om goin' over de bank, Mis' Mary."

The staring eyes close, and he moves restlessly. His mind is over in Tuckahoe.

"Dem lilac bushes by de cabin gate

is gittin' mons'ous big; 'an' de chesnuttrees is jes' climbed up inter de sky."

Outside the hovel, in the "big road," an urchin, unconscious of the tragedy within, has fired a cracker. The wounded man shifts his position quickly, and starts up.

"Hi! w'at dat?"

"It's Unc' Pete's Jim a-shootin' popcrackers for Chris'mas," sobs Aggy, with her face hidden in her apron.

Sank gets up from his place in front of the fire, and fixes his almost human eyes upon the group about the bed.

"I tho't dey was a-drawin' de corks out'n de champagne bottles in de dine'room at ole marster's," the sufferer says. "Yes, sah! comin', sah! dar terreckly!" The voice is on a high key now, and Dicey shrieks, "Sabe him! He out'n he head wid de feber."

"Ole marster," he goes on in his raving, "I know as how it's agin de law for de niggers ter l'arn ter read an' write, an' dat dar ain't no mo' forgibness for dat dan dar is ef de patterrollers ketches 'em out arter night." The tones of his voice grow softer: "But I ain't afeard o' you, ole marster. I nuvver wanted nothin' wid dem letters an' a, b, abs, 'scusin' ter read de Good Book, marster; an' little Aggy, she was a-he'pin' de ole nigger ter 'scape f'om de bondidge o' sin. I knows ye ain't a-gwine ter b'ar down too hard on me. I'se 'longed ter you sence de day I c'ud remember, an' ye ain't nuvver yit laid yer finger's weight onter me. I ain't afeard now. I'se worked for you, an' slaved for you, an' loved you an' all my tother white folks

The terrified girl speeds out into the night, and the dog follows her. Outside he sets up a low howl, and the old woman shudders with superstitious dread.

"Ef Sank's a-stretchin' hisse'f, he's a-medjerin' Newton's grave," she mutters. "De good Lord he'p us!"

The dog's howl reaches the ear of the wounded man.

"I jes' hit him wid de ramrod, 'case he chawed up de bird, Mars' Jeems. I ain't nuvver see dis yer dog do dat 'ar way afo' in all dese years you an' me is been a-huntin' him. He mus' be hongry. I 'spec' Dicey ain't gin him no pot-liquor dis mornin'. De bunch o' de flock is down dar by dem briars on de ribber bank. Dey flushed purty, dat time, sho'; an' you hit 'em wid bofe bar'ls. Dey has ter fly soon an' swif' ter 'scape f'om you, Mars' Jeems."

Peter's Jim fires another squib in the direction of the cemetery gate.

"I thunk you was a-huntin' patt'idges, an' you was a-shootin' men, young marster. Dem's de Yankees a-comin'. Can't you hear de guns, an' see de

swords a-shinin' an' de hosses a-buckjumpin'? Lord Gord! look at 'em!" Once more a break and pause; and then, in accents indescribably piteous: “Dey's done kilt young Mars' Jeems! An' w'at 'll ole marster an' young Mis' Agnes say down dar in Tuckahoe? Shot through de heart, an' trompled over wid hosses' huffs, an' blood all onter his gray clo'es!"

The monologue of the dying man grows incoherent as Aggy returns, closely followed by Nancy, with open mouth and starting eyeballs.

"Dat dog doin' mighty foolish out dar, Aun' Dicey," she whispers: "he jes' a-yawnin' an' a-pawin' an' a-stretchin' o' hisse'f. I seen him plain by de light o' de do', when I kim in. An' he lookin' jes' as straight as he kin look to'ds de graveyard."

"Graveyard?" says the sufferer. "Who dat talkin' 'bout dat graveyard? Dem's de soljers o' de Lord over dar, w'at fit ter set us free. But dey cudden shake off all de shackles, de shackles o' ign'unce, an' de shackles o' sin " The bells of a belated sleigh tinkle merrily, as it passes down the road between Pinchtown and the cemetery. He hears the sound, and says,

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'Aggy, dat rock 's down dar in de road yit. Run out, honey, an' stop dat sleigh."

A. C. Gordon.

ONE of the principal pessimistic fears for the future is that socialism and other deplorable isms will confirm the conditions of modern civilization which destroy all individuality. More than forty years ago John Stuart Mill pointed out the growing insignificance of the individual and the increasing importance of the masses. Inevitable as these conditions seem, it is difficult to be reconciled to them. Perhaps they may be made to appear just a trifle less unendurable by a knowledge of what life was when each man's individuality was strong and the masses were not. Once brought face to face with the consequences of the religion of enmity, as Herbert Spencer calls it, that is, the doctrine of every man for himself, and the devil take the hindmost, it is easier to accept the predicted results of the religion of amity, the doctrine of every man for his neighbor.

Whoever has considered the subject must agree with Mill that, according to our standard, "there is no more accurate test of the progress of civilization than the progress of the power of coöperaVOL. LX. — NO. 359. 22

tion." That being granted, it must also be admitted that the morals evolved in the course of this development tend more and more to the full acceptance of the doctrine of amity. How can there be coöperation unless men are willing to work with and for one another? That as yet, however, the doctrine has been only partially accepted is a fact beyond dispute. Hitherto there has always been among civilized peoples a conflict between the two opposing doctrines. But though the conflict still continues, it cannot be denied that the time when the doctrine of amity will have conquered, when men in their relations to one another will be governed not by law, but by love, is looked forward to as the ideal end of civilization. This being the case, it logically follows that states of society in which. the doctrine of enmity, or the rule of egoism, is supreme must, to civilized men, seem the very lowest possible to humanity.

Mr. Lang, in his Custom and Myth, says, "The study of the mental condition of savages is really the foundation of

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a scientific mythology." So also it may be said that a study of their moral state is the basis of scientific sociology. It is among them that the individual has most power, and therefore that the doctrine of enmity is found in its most perfect form. This should help to reconcile the nineteenth-century cynic to his surroundings, since it is to savage life and culture he must look for the origins of civilization. There can be little doubt that as savages are now, so were our primitive ancestors in past ages. The supremacy of the individual among the former is so self-evident that it hardly calls for proof. "As any people approach the condition of savages or slaves," Mill writes, so are they incapable of acting in concert." Moreover, if it be true, as we know it to be, that in proportion as men work together the masses acquire power, the converse of the proposition must also hold good: where there is the smallest possible division of labor, such as missionaries and travelers testify exists among savages, there will the individual be strongest. But more direct evidence is to be had in the belief of wild tribes, like the Comanche Indians, that every man should be a law unto himself, because the Great Spirit gave each the privilege of free and unrestrained use of his individual faculties; or in the approved conduct and deified qualities of New Zealanders and West Africans; or, to descend still further in the human scale, in the apparent incapacity of the lowest savages Fuegians and Western Australians, for example - to reach even the social level of elephants and monkeys. It may be objected that the savage sacrifices individuality when he burdens himself with chiefs, sorcerers, and custom, the latter being to him a more inexorable tyrant than is Worth or æstheticism to a modern slave. But his submission in these cases is the result, not of cooperation with his fellow-beings, but of his stern necessities as an indi

vidual. He can be a law unto himself to a limited extent only. Certain of his actions, whether he will it or no, are regulated by circumstances stronger than he. Thus, averse as he may be to effort or exertion of any kind, he must at times go in search of food, if he would not die of hunger; he must make weapons of defense, if he would not fall a prey to wild beasts or human enemies. In like manner, he bows before his chief to escape torture, or perhaps death; he respects the command of the sorcerer that he may not be bewitched; he yields to the requirements of custom to save himself from being socially ostracized. He is unconscious that these are evils of his own creation, and would no more think of defying them than of evading the laws of hunger and thirst. Paradoxical as it may sound, the truth is that where men do not coöperate, but each acts for himself, there will the individual have least liberty.

The inevitable outcome of this individuality is egotism. It would be foolish to assert the complete disinterestedness of civilized man. Not even the most optimistic could think the capitalist invests his money entirely for the benefit of the people, or the politician seeks office solely for the good of his country. But if we have not yet fully adopted the doctrine of amity, we are at least conscious that it should be ours. The savage, for his part, would laugh at it as preposterous, there being just this difference between his selfishness and that of the modern American or Englishman: the latter strives to conceal where the former thinks there is nothing to be ashamed of. Again to quote Mill: "The savage cannot bear to sacrifice for any purpose the satisfaction of his individual will. His social cannot even temporarily prevail over his selfish feelings, nor his impulses bend to his calculations." He is, in a word, the personification of egotism. The new school of moralists teaches that individuals must