expulsion of red-hot rocks to a great distance round about, a vast chasm was formed, from which six cones were thrown up. The least of these cones was 300 feet in height, while the highest, Jorullo, was 1000 feet above the level of the plain. The eruptions continued until the following year. Forty years after, Humboldt visited this scene. There then appeared round the bases of the six cones, and spreading from them over an extent of four square miles, a mass of matter between 500 and 600 feet high, and gradually sloping toward the plains. This was still so hot that he was able to light a cigar at one of the fissures. It was covered with thousands of little mounds, which emitted steam and sulphuric acid. The two brooks before-mentioned disappeared at the eastern extremity of the plain, and reappeared, as hot springs, on the western side. There was a violent eruption of the chief peak, Jorullo, in 1819, since which time no European has visited it. It is stated, however, that since then most of the minor cones have disappeared, others have much changed in form, and have lost their activity, and a great part of Jorullo itself is covered with forest trees, denoting a state of uninterrupted repose.

in their character; now, however, they assumed a more violent form. From the last addition fiery eruptions began to appear. Sulphurous smoke made the air even of neighboring Santorini almost unbearable. Frightful thunders shattered the windows and threw down the houses on the main island. In July, 1708, the Bishop of Santorini approached the island, to inspect it closely. He found the water of the sea so hot, and the smoke and vapor arising from fissures in the rocks so impregnated with sulphur as to debar an actual landing. His men sounded when at but little distance from shore, but found no bottom with eighty-five fathoms of line. The Bishop judged the island at this time to be 200 feet high, and five miles in circumference. Smoke, flames, and volcanic stones continued to be emitted from the crater of the island till the year 1712, when all became quiet, and has continued so to this day. At that time (1712) the island had attained its present size, a circumference of about six miles. On the great volcanic district of Mexico exists one of the most interesting manifestations of the volcanic power known in past or contemporary history. This district is an elevated plateau, between 2000 and 3000 feet above the level of the ocean. Up to the year 1759, it was a fertile tract, occupied by fields of sugar-cane and indigo, and watered by two brooks. In July of that year, the inhabitants were alarmed by loud rumbling sounds and earthquake shocks. These were but the prelude to the final catas-in 1770, or within the memory of the last gentrophe, by which, on September 28 and 29 of the same year, the face of the entire tract was changed. Amidst violent earthquakes and the

Of greater interest, just now, than even the Jorullo peak, is that of Izalco, in San Salvador. This is remarkable, not only because its origin is of a more recent date than its Mexican rival, but farther, because, since its first appearance,

eration, it has been in a state of incessant activity, and has gradually grown, in little over eighty years, from a hillock but a few feet high

er than the surrounding plain, to a peak 3200 | way up the steep side lies a huge mass of porfeet in height, and is still growing. |phyritic trachyte, weighing many tons. Smaller masses of the same stone are met at various parts of the ascent.

The explosions most generally happen at intervals of from ten to fifteen minutes. In former times, indeed, they took place with great certainty and at regular intervals. Dr. Wagner was favored in his ascent by a very unexpected cessation of activity for several hours. Alone (he could not prevail upon his native guides to accompany him farther than the base of the

There is, unfortunately, no written record by eye-witnesses to the convulsion in which the Izalco peak originated. The story current among the residents (and which the elder of these received from their parents, who witnessed the catastrophe) is this: There was, near the site of the present Izalco, an extinct volcano, called the Santa Anna. Stretching away from this was a fertile plain, at that time a cattle farm. Toward the close of 1769, the laborers on this estate were alarmed by subterra-mountain), he began at early dawn his tedious nean noises and shocks of earthquakes. These continued, with increased violence, till the 23d of February following, when, with a fearful report, the earth opened about half a mile from the hacienda dwellings, and great masses of lava, stones, and ashes were ejected. These shortly formed a cone about the vent, or crater, which has steadily increased since, and is yet annually added to by the masses of stones and ashes which are, day and night, ejected from the mountain.

Dr. Moritz Wagner was the first European to make (in 1855) a personal visit to Izalco, and to him we are indebted for the only account of its present appearance, as well as for some interesting particulars of its past history, obtained from some of the more ancient of the residents of the neighborhood. One of these, born in 1769-the year before Izalco itself came into the world-remembered it, when he, as a lad, used to visit it. At that time it was a hillock of less than 500 feet in height, the crater or mouth being very much more extensive than now. There have been since 1780 three great eruptions, after each of which, it is said, the mountain was observed to have materially increased in circumference and altitude. The last of these eruptions occurred in 1802. Vast quantities of ashes were thrown out, and covered the surrounding country to the distance of four leagues from the mountain. So thickly was the ground sown with these, that it was five years before the fields could be again used for purposes of agriculture. The explosions were so heavy as to shake the houses in the neighboring villages of Izalco and Sonsonate.

Since then the peak has gone on in the even tenor of its way, ejecting, mainly, ashes and occasional masses of stone, and, by night, lighting up the surrounding country to such an extent that the natives have, in consequence, called it "El Faro del San Salvador"-"The Lighthouse of San Salvador."

An eminence, called the Cerro Chino, closely adjoins the Izalco, the base of one meeting that of the other, without any intermediate plain. The abrupt sides of the Cerro Chino are thickly studded with vegetation, while the Izalco stands in barren, dreary relief against the sky, a mass of lava, covered here and there by accumulated ashes, and borrowing, in spots, a greenish tinge from a few small plants, which find sparse nourishment in the crevices. Half VOL. XV.-No 85.-D

ascent. Climbing over boulders, leaping across fissures, wading through masses of fine ashes, and toiling, with torn shoes and lacerated feet and hands, up the rugged lava-covered side, he at length, after several hours' unintermitted effort, reached a place but about three hundred feet below the summit. For the last hundred feet the ground had been hot to his tread, sometimes nearly scorching him. Viewed from here, the edge of the crater overhead appeared jagged and turret-shaped. Above this edge, and rising from the crater itself, appeared a huge pile of ashes, rock, and lava, the accumulation of years, and to which every explosion added.

At this height, and in the midst of this barren and heated waste, Dr. Wagner found several live insects, blown hither, doubtless, by the prevailing breezes. Of vegetation there was no sign, the constantly recurring showers of ashes, no doubt, killing any chance seeds which might have been deposited by the air or by passing birds. The silence on the mountain seems to have been fearful. It was suddenly broken by a deep, rumbling roar, the premonitory symptom of an explosion. Our traveler, who had journeyed upward in momentary expectation of such an event, awaited it with perfect nonchalance. But when, with a report louder than the firing of a park of artillery, a mass of stones and ashes was hurled high in air, many fragments falling in his immediate vicinity, the danger of his position became more manifest, and he made haste to descend. Luckily, he reached the base uninjured.

All subsequent attempts to reach the summit failed, from the unquiet state of the crater.. Izalco is, therefore, yet to be surmounted.

OUR WISH.

I.

I WAS past my first youth before I met Paula

Clive, and she was no longer a girl. I well remember seeing her tall figure standing erect, and with a sort of dignity that had a suspicion of haughtiness about it, under the central chandelier of Lady Craven's brilliant drawing-room. It was at one of her ladyship's conversazioni, or. as she preferred calling her weekly réunions, "festivals of lions." On this occasion I, precious in her dilettante eyes as a scientific lion, had been entreated, teased, and persuaded into coming, the most effectual persuasion, after all, lying in her passing announcement that,

her freedom from conventional prejudice; her daring disregard of traditions and opinions. All those slavish fetters that nowadays trammel women's minds, pinching and curbing them to one pattern of weakness and helplessness, this woman at least had cast off.

"Miss Clive will be with me. Oh! I forgot boldness and bravery of her spirit; I gloried in -of course you never read those kind of things. But she is a most interesting person. I was fortunate enough to visit my cousins, Mr. and Mrs. Halliwell, in Staffordshire, this year; and Mr. Clive is curate of their parish. Singular, isn't it, for a clergyman's daughter to write such books? Now, I assure you, if you'll only come" etc., etc.

Yes, I was glad to know her. I could have laughed at myself for the internal reluctance with which I quitted Lady Craven's house that night; and when, a week afterward, one of her ladyship's dainty billets invited me to a select breakfast-party-the very crême de la crême of literary and artistic London-I was absolutely led to accept it, shrewdly judging that as Miss Clive was staying at her house I should be sure to see her again on the occasion. I was disappointed. Properly enough, I sharply told myself, for having indulged in such vain foolery of anticipation. No; Miss Clive was not there. She had been summoned home the previous day to her father, who was ill.

I consented, and was relieved of the hospitable lady's voluble attentions. She had wrongly concluded that I "never read those kind of books"-novels, to wit. I had been struck by an extract in a newspaper from one of Miss Clive's fictions, and had been led to read the whole of it; and also the one or two other books that bore her name. Their chief attraction to me was, that they were real, and not romantic, and dealt more in facts than in sentiments. Under the vail of fiction, I saw sufficiently evident a sort of passionate radicalism, social, moral, and religious-an impetuous disdain of orthodox shams-an eager, enthusiastic yearning after some truth, be it comely or ugly, under the heap of fair-seeming falsities with which modern life is incrusted. I saw all this, and it aroused in me a keen interest for the writer-a woman so unlike most other women-nay, of a mind whose depth and bravery must exceed, I ed-with-every-present-state-of-things novels of thought, most men's. I was anxious to see her, and when, as I have said, I entered Lady Craven's saloon, I stood for some little time contemplating the tall lady under the chandelier, who was at once pointed out to me as "the authoress of that queer book."

She was handsome-her presence would have commanded attention even if she had not been celebrated beforehand. Her voice was peculiar, too; and I always had great faith in voices. I liked hers: it was no musical murmur, neither was it high-toned, nor sharply modulated-but it was clear, decided, tuneful, with a certain vibration in it like that of a firmly-smitten violin string.

"You know he is a clergyman," said Lady Craven, between sipping her chocolate and toying with the fragment of pâte lying on her plate, "and Puseyite to the last degree, I understand. An odd conjunction, isn't it, of High Church-ism, and those reforming, discontent

hers? And they are strongly attached to one another, I believe. She lost her mother years ago. And she is very good and active in the parish-visits the sick, helps the poor, and so forth; but never teaches in the schools, I'm told. In fact, with her writing and her hard studies (you know she reads Greek and Hebrew and all sorts of out-of-the-way languages?), she can not have much leisure. She is an extraordinary woman, certainly. I like her very much. original: not the least like the hackneyed type of literary woman.”

So

nized the name of the provincial town near which Miss Clive lived, as one of the places where I was to deliver a course of lectures.

Some months passed on. I had not forgotten; for the impressions made on that portion of myself which was devoted to human interests Presently we were introduced. At the sound were far too few to be easily or speedily erased. of my name, I noticed her cheek flush faintly, Therefore, one day when I was looking over my and a spark seemed to quiver in her eye for an note-book of engagements for the coming auinstant. And when, as she bent toward me,tumn, it was with a curious thrill that I recogshe said she was glad to know Mr. Heber,' for the first time in my life I took the words of course in a literal sense, and believed them. We conversed for a little while on passing topics -nothing more—and then both of us were compelled by our exigéante hostess to bestow our attentions in other directions. But later in the evening we were able to resume our talk, and this time we plunged more into "the heart of things." I, at least, found it possible to see somewhat deeply into her mind; and I was not disappointed in what I discovered. It was a good, true, honest, fearless spirit, such as I honored-such as I had long since been tempted to decide did not exist in the world. Intercourse with it was like breasting a strong wind with a saline aroma in its breath. It was healthful and cheering to inhale it. I took delight in the

And when, at the appointed time, I took my place on the platform of the spacious “Literary and Scientific Institute" of that important manufacturing burgh, I could not, or did not, choose to refrain from a searching gaze at my audience, to try and discover amidst that strange sea of unfamiliar faces one face that I well remembered. I saw it. In one of the foremost ranks, seated beside Lady Craven's cousin, the lady of the manor, I saw again the pale, significant face, lit with its wonderfully eloquent eyes. Those eyes! I saw them more than once when I was not looking at them. It seemed marvelously natural to see her again, like recalling the notes of some well-known tune.

Well, the lecture finished, I was draining a glass of water in the committee-room, when a message was brought to me from Mr. and Mrs. Halliwell. Would I kindly allow them a minute's interview? And presently I stood face to face with Miss Clive and this lady and gentleman, the latter of whom I already was slightly acquainted with. In brief, it resulted in my being invited to become a guest at the Manor House during my stay in the neighborhood, and my acceptance of the proffered kindness.

her face. She had believed and doubted, hoped and imagined, the self-same things. So, in her face, I often saw looks that must have been, I thought, familiar to me in my very infancy. Her smile would sometimes send my thoughts voyaging back upon the misty sea of the past, with, as it seemed, a new compass to steer by, a new light to lead. I could believe the eastern fable of twin-created souls, in looking on and listening to her.

But I am not going to enlarge on this period. I always feel a certain reluctance when I am expressing the thoughts and feelings of those days; or, indeed, when I express my thoughts of her at any time. But I would have you to understand that I am not romantic, nor poetical, nor imaginative. In those days I used to believe myself entirely free from such "weaknesses. Neither then, nor at any time, was it my habit to be demonstrative of any state of feeling within myself. Externally, at least, I have always been a quiet, staid, matter-of-fact man. In relating to you my history now, it may be that I can not but unconsciously color it with those feelings, intensified by time and thought, which when felt, I scarcely recognized. But I am not a romancist-I can simply set down facts; and feelings such as these that I tell you of are facts, stubborn as any demonstrated by science.

And we all drove to the Manor House together; but there Miss Clive left us. She could not be longer away from her father, whose health, it seemed, was still precarious. That night when, after a dull interval of talk with my host and hostess, I was at length alone, I was somewhat puzzled at myself. What motives had induced me to become a guest in this house? I did not like the people, nor the place particularly. Why, and for what, had I given up my independence at my inn? Why, and for what? Then I remembered, or thought I only then remembered, the plan for the next day-a visit to Gale Falls, twelve miles off-and we were to call for Miss Clive. She was to go with us. The excursion to Gale Falls was one of many similar pleasures. Yes, they were pleasures. Excellent Miles Halliwell, I owed thee much! Even the pair of gray horses that drew our barouche have a place in my grateful remembrance. It was autumn weather, such as I never remember before-soft, shining, exquisitely, tremulously beautiful. The sunsets, es-me-that we asked his consent to our marriage. pecially, had a strange loveliness in them. They came nearer to me; I saw them more clearly, more vividly, both with the eyes of the body and the eyes of the mind. Moreover, they always seemed to me to have some significance as regarded myself-I was going to say ourselves for Miss Clive, it happened generally, saw them with me. If I had been a painter, and could have nailed those sunsets to a piece of canvas, as some one or two painters have done in the course of many centuries, I could, I think, go over glibly every smallest detail of that time by the mere looking at the pictured memoranda of those radiant half hours. They seemed to condense into one drop of light the whole lustre of the by-gone day.

The day before I was to leave the neighborhood I had an interview with Mr. Clive. I told him I loved his daughter-that she loved

The old man was much amazed that I had
expected; but he seemed troubled also by an
amount of perplexity and indecision which I,
in my turn, was surprised at. The cause came
out at last-my religious opinions. Scientific
men have a bad reputation with the Church,
and my beliefs, or rather unbeliefs, were suffi-
ciently patent to the intelligent public at large
to render it no marvel that the Rev. Charles
Clive should have heard of them.
Poor old man! He found much difficulty
in stating this to me. He was gentle, good,
and feeble, in heart and intellect—a type of a
class that I, for one, had not had much expe-
rience of. In his weakness I was ready to be-
lieve; but I was not prepared for the straight-
forward sincerity and the indomitable, although
meek-seeming, steadiness with which he finally
gave me my answer.

We suited one another-Paula Clive and I. There are various kinds and degrees, even in love. It was no enthusiastic, passionate affection that I felt for her-although, perhaps, the love partook of the best part both of enthusiasm and passion, in the intense reality that caused it to be interwoven with my life so completely. It grew to be as much a part of the various, multiform personality that I call me, as the eyes whereby I see, or the soul wherewith I feel. She suited me. The thoughts she expressed aroused echoes in my spirit which, it seemed, were waiting to be aroused; and the recondite beliefs, speculations, hopes, and doubts, that I sometimes confessed, were her own also. I could see it by the flash of sympathy that lit firmness, "I can not give my daughter to an

He spoke even firmly then, although it was after much nervous hesitation, and many awkward, half-finished sentences. He told me he appreciated the advantages which (he was pleased to say) were offered by connection with a man distinguished as myself; and the words of compliment assumed a curious air of truthfulness as he uttered them in his quavering voice. Also and here the accents grew yet more unassured-he knew that Paula loved me; and he could not bear to pain her to cause her grief. "But, Sir," said he, with sudden

unbeliever. I could never look her mother in the face, when I meet her in heaven, if I did. No, Sir; I can not. Do not ask me."

He looked beseechingly at me, his clasped hands trembling. Nevertheless, though he trembled, I noted, with some perplexity, the unflinching brightness of the eyes he fixed on me. In them burned a light I could not understand ---even as, in his tone and manner, were manifest a strength and resolution incomprehensible to me, because so incongruous to my gauge of his character.

Howbeit, whatever were the cause, I saw it was useless to persist, and I therefore at once assured him I should not weary him by my entreaties. I merely hinted that I thought his objection strange, considering that Paula Clive, clergyman's daughter though she was, already shared my own doubts (I used that mild word), and believed in very many of my own theories. He said nothing to this-only looked again at me with the curious, helpless, entreating gaze which I could not quite reconcile with the determination he displayed. So I left him.

any other shade of self-consciousness; but there was a peculiar softness in her face, such as I had never noted before.

"I must make my poor father very unhappy," she presently said, with her usual simplicity and directness of diction. "I wish it were not so."

She paused and seemed meditating; the softness grew and grew in her face-the "level fronting eyelids" trembled, and again the tears came, but this time rested unshed. I could hardly bear to see the tender beauty of her look; albeit I stood quietly watching and analyzing every inflection of her face with what may have seemed the grave, dispassionate regard proper to a savant.

"If my mother had lived," she next said, in a loving, lingering, low-toned voice, that was as strange to hear as were the tears to see, "it would have been different. I should have been different."

then."

"You were a child."

"Yes." She was silent some minutes. Then she lifted her eyes to me, with a slow, sweet smile. "I am glad I have been a child," she said.

"But you would not wish to go backward, and become one now?"

She did not answer.

"You would not exchange even the least beautiful truth for the fairest of illusions?"

"I should have believed, as she believed. I remember when she died and said, 'God take care of my child,' I almost felt the blessing deI went to Paula, who was sitting in the gar-scending upon me. I never doubted then-I den, under a grand old horse-chestnut tree, never knew what distrust and uncertainty were, that stood sentinel at the very end of the do- | main. She looked up from her book as I came near, with the still eloquent smile which, on her face, was as beautiful as it was rare. I smiled in answer, for I did not feel at all seriously troubled by Mr. Clive's obduracy. In fact, I was more puzzled than annoyed. I had not been accustomed to find men so stanch and uncompromising in their adherence to their beliefs as was this old man, for all his apparent weakness and gentleness. As I have said, I could not understand it. I had known men eminent for talent, learning, strength and capacity of intellect, and I valued them accordingly. Also, because I prized my own honor, and had due respect for my own conscience, I believed in other men's honorableness and conscientiousness. But it was only to a certain extent. I could not believe in a man abiding conscientiously by this faith in what I held must not only be, but seem, utterly chimerical to any sound, clear intellect. Therefore I landed at last in the conviction that Paula's father was not so much to be admired for his consistency as compassionated for his blind adherence to a rotten creed. He was not the first by many whom I, from my height of superior knowledge, and in the daring courage of a strong brain and a nature able to stand alone, had so pitied-so looked down upon.

"No-oh no!" she replied, earnestly; and she rose, and leaned upon my arm, and pressed her brow upon my shoulder, murmuring, half to herself, the old, often-repeated words of Othello, "Tis better as it is-'tis better as it is!"

Then we began to talk over the question of Mr. Clive's disapprobation of our marriage. I was thoroughly unprepared for the firm decision with which she declared that, until his consent was obtained, the marriage must not be; but she believed that when he saw that her happiness was concerned, he would not longer remain inexorable. I said nothing, but mused on the possibility of employing other means of moving the old man's resolution.

Circumstances soon made for themselves a way. Mr. Clive, like most men of his calibre, had a habit of pinning his practice, if not his faith, on the opinions of at least one other man. He had an inordinate respect and reverence for the great man of the parish, Mr. Halliwell—the clever, benevolent, much-beloved squire and lord of the manor; and he might have found many a worse monitor. Mr. Halliwell was a thorough type of respectable goodness. He loved his country, his church, and his Queen-every thing, in fact, that it is proper and advisable for a man She looked at me, neither ashamed nor with! to love; while he hated nothing, not even radi

However, I told Paula, and was newly amazed to note the earnest, deep-feeling seriousness with which she heard what her father had said. Nay, when I had concluded, and after a silence during which she turned her head aside, and seemed to be idly playing with one of the fan-like leaves of the tree, I saw two tears fall upon her lapthe first tears I had ever seen her shed. "Why, Paula! What is this?"