vide themselves with books. The present pastor, Austin, invited me to examine a box and a barrel, both of which were filled with remnants of books used by the exiles. Huge folio copies of Bibles had become dilapidated by much use, and later by neglect resulting from the use of more convenient copies. Arndt's True Christianity was a permanent book, and, indeed, is still in use by the Germans of America, as by their brethren in the fatherland. I saw a copy of Spener's Selections from the Holy Scriptures, published in Frankfurt-on-Main in 1713; Madai's Brief Information on the Utility and Use of Medicines, prepared in the Francke Orphan-house, published in Halle in 1779; Luther's Smaller Catechism, published by Carl Cist in Philadelphia in 1795; Reading-book for Small Children, also published by Cist in 1795; and Bachmair's Complete German Grammar, published by Henry Miller in Philadelphia in 1772. The most unaccountable of all the dead books in this mass of printed matter in Pastor Austin's barn was a fiery work in German bearing the title of A Meditation on the Crime of Drunkenness, published "in the year 1741." Neither place nor author is given. From the presence of many anglicized German words, and from the excellent paper, less flexible than the German printing-paper of the last century, I was of the opinion that the pamphlet was printed in this country, and was not without suspicion that it had come from the press of Benjamin Franklin. On consulting Mr. On consulting Mr. Charles R. Hildeburn, of Philadelphia, the author of A Century of Printing: the Issues of the Press in Pennsylvania, 1685-1748, he replied that he had little doubt that it was issued from the press of Christopher Saur. If this be the case it must be admitted that it is not found in Mr. Charles G. Sower's list of the Publications of Christopher Sower. Whoever was the publisher of this little work, it gives ample proof that while spirituous liquors were at that early date prohibited in the province of Georgia, the Salzburger exiles were so well satisfied with the regulation that they were determined that no change should be made in it.

The land of the Salzburgers is now most easily reached by taking the railroad from Savannah for the little station of Guyton. This rural village is in Effingham County, which takes its name

from Lord Effingham, who was associated with Pitt, Burke, and others of the day in befriending the oppressed American colonies. I had telegraphed for a conveyance, and found one ready on my arrival. But the driver had little acquaintance with the territory, and no sympathy with its charming historical associations. So we soon parted. Mr. Mannette, a shopkeeper of Guyton, was good enough to serve me as both driver and guide for the long day through the calm pine forests. His French name awakened my curiosity, and I found him to be a descendant of both Huguenot and Salzburger ancestry. He knew every path over all the country, and was well acquainted with the humble and honest folk scattered here and there in the woods.

The

It is difficult to imagine a more weird and suggestive scene than is presented by a ride in early spring through the country made memorable by the exiles. silence is almost painful. After leaving Guyton, I had not ridden a mile in our primitive wagon before the wilderness began. Now and then we passed a house which bore the unmistakable traces of the early period, or was modelled after the original houses. The mode of construction was various enough. The weather-boarding consisted of sawn logs, which were dovetailed at the corners of the house. A hole was bored through the logs at these corners, and a long wooden pin was driven through from top to bottom. For long stretches the pine forest cannot show a clearing. In one case a little school-house, quite dilapidated, relieves the monotony. But the wonder is where the children lived who ever attended it. The pines stand up in straight and tall shafts. They bear a large amount of wounding. To extract the turpentine, the axeman boxes them. His process is to make a deep incision, which is so shaped as to serve as a cup or box for receiving the turpentine. Hundreds of boxed pines are constantly in sight. The tree is afterward cut down if it is at all an advantage to convert it into lumber and haul it to market. There are large sections of burnt pines, which have been caught in a woods fire, and are charred and dead from trunk to the utmost branch. The road winds gracefully through this great forest, with no sound but that of the insects.

After going many miles through the

forest, in an atmosphere densely laden with the perfume of the pines, we turned abruptly to the left. Here we drove over an old road, now overgrown with shrubbery almost strong enough to arrest our progress. I was now on the site of Old Ebenezer, the first restingplace of the Salzburgers, whence they removed to the present settlement, or New Ebenezer. A careful examination resulted in finding no trace whatever of a building, or even of a place where it could be seen that one had stood. That historical sawmill, the first in all the region to convert the primeval pines into lumber, and which had cost fifteen hundred pounds sterling to establish, had entirely disappeared. Talifer says that it was already a ruin in 1740,* and it is not surprising that my hope to discover at least the place where it had stood and done its good work was without proper warrant. But the dull and narrow little creek was still there. This was the river on whose banks the exiles first settled, and where they remained until their removal to New Ebenezer.

We now returned to the main road, and proceeded on our way through the forest in a general course toward the permanent settlement on the Savannah River. The forest becomes less dense. Now and then a cottage comes into view, where a Salzburger family lives. draw up before the home of the present senior pastor of the district, the Rev. * Narrative of the Colony of Georgia in America, London, 1740, p.102.

We

Jacob Austin. He has an assistant, and these two perform the pastoral work for the four Salzburger churches of the entire region. Pastor Austin accompanied me to the present Ebenezer, and gave me much interesting information concerning his parishioners and their beautiful and simple life. On reaching the Savannah, I was for the first time in the presence of memorials of the first generation of the exiles. The most important of all is the church. It is a large structure, and bears evidence of long and faithful service. The present seats, although not over-comfortable, are newer than the building proper.

Along the river near the church one can easily see the fragments of rude masonry, now covered with luxuriant growths of underwood and creepers, which the British erected for protection during the Revolutionary war. The grounds about the church are ample. The graveyard is the same as was used in the early days, but has been enlarged and beautified in the later years. The graves of the pastors, who served the flock with great fidelity, are marked with appropriate stones. The inscriptions on the graves deal but little in praise, and are mostly confined to dates of birth and death. This whole God's-acre is a beautiful picture of simplicity, and is thoroughly German. As one strolls along its walks, and lingers beneath its trees, and reads the touching memorials to the beloved dead, he can easily imagine himself back in little Tyrolese Tieffereck, the cradle of the Salzburg exiles in Georgia.

VOL. LXXXV.-No. 507.-40

YOU

OU see," Ray said, "it's merely a fragment." He wiped the perspiration from his forehead.

"Of course," the girl answered, with a sigh. "Isn't disappointment always fragmentary?" she asked, sadly.

"How do you mean?"

"Why, happiness is like something complete; and disappointment like something broken off, to me. A story that ends well seems rounded; and one that ends badly leaves you waiting, as you do just after some one dies."

"Is that why you didn't like my story?" Ray asked, imprudently. He added quickly, at an embarrassment which came into her face, "Oh, I didn't mean to add to my offence! I came here partly to excuse it. I was unjustifiably persistent the other night.”

Oh no!"

"Yes, I was! I had no right to insist on an opinion from you. I knew it at the time, but I couldn't help it. You were right to refuse. But you can tell me how my poem strikes you. It isn't offered for publication!"

He hoped that she would praise some passages that he thought fine; but she began to speak of the motive, and he saw that she had not missed anything, that she had perfectly seized his intention. She talked to him of it as if it were the work of some one else, and more and more he respected the lucid and serene quality of her mind.

He said, impulsively, "If I had you to criticise my actions beforehand, I should not be so apt to make a fool of myself."

Mrs. Denton came back. "I ran off toward the last. I didn't want to be here when Peace began to criticise. She's so severe."

her face made him say, "I shall never finish it; it isn't worth it." "Did Peace say that?" "No."

Mrs. Denton laughed. like Peace.

"That's just

She makes other people say

the disagreeable things she thinks about them."

"What a mysterious power!" said Ray. "Is it hypnotic suggestion?"

He spoke lightly toward Peace, but her sister answered: "Oh, we're full of mysteries in this house. Did you know that my husband had a Voice?"

"A voice! Is a voice mysterious?" "This one is. It's an internal Voice. It tells him what to do."

"Oh, like the demon of Socrates!" "I hope it isn't a demon!" said Mrs. Denton.

That depends upon what it tells him to do," said Ray. "But in Socrates' day a familiar spirit could be a demon without being at all bad. How proud you must be to have a thing like that in the family!"

"I don't know. It has its inconveniences, sometimes. When it tells him to do what we don't want him to," said Mrs. Denton.

"Oh, but think of the compensations!" Ray urged. "Why, it's equal to a ghost.”

"I suppose it is a kind of ghost," said Mrs. Denton, and Ray fancied she had the pride we all feel in any alliance, direct or indirect, with the supernatural. "Do you believe in dreams?" she asked abruptly.

"Bad ones, I do," said Ray. "We always expect bad dreams and dark presentiments to come true, don't we?"

"I don't know. My husband does. He has a Dream as well as a Voice." "Oh, indeed!" said Ray; and he added:

"I don't see how she could be," Mrs. Denton returned, reckless of consistency. "All that I heard was splendid."

"It's merely a fragment," said Ray, with grave satisfaction in her flattery.

"You must finish it, and read us the rest of it."

with in his sleep."

'Perhaps because they're never bad ones-because we know we're just making them," said Mrs. Denton.

"It must be that! But, do we always make them? Sometimes my day-dreams seem to make themselves, and they keep on doing it so long that they tire me to death. They're perfect daymares."

"How awful! The only way would be to go to sleep, if you wanted to get rid of them."

"Yes; and that isn't so easy as waking up. Anybody can wake up; a man can wake up to go to execution; but it takes a very happy man to go to sleep."

The recognition of this fact reminded Ray that he was himself a very unhappy man; he had forgotten it for some time.

"He might go into society and get rid of them that way," Mrs. Denton suggested, with an obliquity which he was too simply masculine to perceive. "I suppose you go into society a good deal, Mr. Ray?"

Peace made a little movement as of remonstrance, but she did not speak, and Ray answered willingly: "I go into society? I have been inside of just one house-or flat-besides this, since I came to New York."

"Why!" said Mrs. Denton.

She seemed to be going to say something more, but she stopped at a look from her sister, and left Ray free to go on or not, as he chose. He told them it was Mr. Brandreth's flat he had been in; at some little hints of curiosity from Mrs. Denton, he described it to her.

"I have some letters from people in Midland, but I haven't presented them yet," he added at the end. "The Brandreths are all I know of society."

"They're much more than we know. Well, it seems like fairyland," said Mrs. Denton, in amiable self-derision. "I used to think that was the way we should live when we left the Family. I suppose there are people in New York that would think it was like fairyland to live like us, and not all in one room. Ansel is always preaching that when I grumble."

The cat sprang up into her lap, and she began to smooth its long flank, and turn her head from side to side, admiring its enjoyment. "Well," Ray said, whatever we do, we are pretty sure to be sorry we didn't do something else."

He was going to lead up to his own dis

appointments by this commonplace, but Mrs. Denton interposed.

'Oh, I'm not sorry we left the Family, if that's what you mean. There's some chance, here, and there everything went by rule; you had your share of the work, and you knew just what you had to expect every day. I used to say I wished something wrong would happen, just so as to have something happen. I believe it was more than half that that got father out, too," she said, with a look at her sister.

"I thought," said Ray, "but perhaps I didn't understand him, that your father wanted to make the world over on the image of your community."

"I guess he wanted to have the fun of chancing it, too," said Mrs. Denton. "Of course he wants to make the world over, but he has a pretty good time as it is; and I'm glad of all I did and said to get him into it. He had no chance to bring his ideas to bear on it in the Family."

"Then it was you who got him out of the community," said Ray.

"I did my best," said Mrs. Denton. "But I can't say I did it, altogether." "Did you help?" he asked Peace.

"I wished father to do what he thought was right. He had been doubtful about the life there for a good while-whether it was really doing anything for humanity."

She used the word with no sense of cant in it; Ray could perceive that.

"And do you ever wish you were back in the Family?"

Mrs. Denton called out joyously: "Why there is no Family to be back in, I'm thankful to say! Didn't you know that?"

"I forgot." Ray smiled, as he pursued, "Well, if there was one to be back in, would you like to be there, Miss Hughes?"

"I can't tell," she answered, with a trouble in her voice. "When I'm not feeling very strong or well, I would. And when I see so many people struggling so hard, here, and failing after all they do, I wish they could be where there was no failure, and no danger of it. In the Family we were safe, and we hadn't any care."

"We hadn't any choice, either," said her sister.

"What choice has a man who doesn't know where the next day's work is coming from?"

Ray looked round to find that Denton

had entered behind them from the room where he had been, and was sitting beside the window apparently listening to their talk. There was something uncanny in the fact of his unknown presence, though neither of the sisters seemed to feel it. "Oh, you're there," said Mrs. Denton, without turning from her cat. "Well, I suppose that's a question that must come home to you more and more. Did you ever hear of such a dreadful predicament as my husband's in, Mr. Ray? He's just hit on an invention that's going to make us rich, and throw all the few remaining engravers out of work, when he gets it finished." Her husband's face clouded, but she went on: "His only hope is that the invention will turn out a failure. You don't have any such complications in your work, do you, Mr. Ray?"

"No," said Ray, thinking what a good situation the predicament would be, in a story. "If they had taken my novel, and published an edition of fifty thousand, I don't see how it could have reduced a

single author to penury. But I don't believe I could resist the advances of a publisher, even if I knew it might throw authors out of work right and left. I could support their families till they got something to do."

"Yes, you could do that, Ansel," his wife suggested, with a slanting look at him; and the notion apparently amused her more and more. "I only hope we may have the opportunity. But probably it will be as hard to get a process accepted as a book."

"That hasn't anything to do with the question," Denton broke out. "The question is whether a man ought not to kill his creative thought as he would a snake, if he sees that there is any danger of its taking away work another man lives by. That is what I look at."

And father," said Mrs. Denton, whimsically, is so high-principled that he won't let us urge on the millennium by having pandemonium first. If we were allowed to do that, Ansel might quiet his conscience by reflecting that the more men he threw out of work, the sooner the good time would come. I don't see why that isn't a good plan, and it would work in so nicely with what we want to do. Just make everything so bad people cannot bear it, and then they will rise up in their might and make it better for themselves. Don't you think so, Mr. Ray?"

"Oh, I don't know," he said.

All this kind of thinking and feeling, which was a part and parcel of these people's daily life, was alien to his habit of mind. He grasped it feebly and reluctantly, without the power or the wish to follow it to conclusions, whether it was presented ironically by Mrs. Denton, or with a fanatical sincerity by her husband.

"No, no! That won't do," Denton said. "I have tried to see that as a possible thoroughfare; but it isn't possible. If we were dealing with statistics it would do; but it's men we're dealing with: men like ourselves that have women and children dependent on them."

"I am glad to hear you say that, Ansel," Peace said, gently.

"Yes," he returned, bitterly, "whichever way I turn, the way is barred. My hands are tied, whatever I try to do. Some one must be responsible. Some one must atone. Who shall it be?"

"Well," said Mrs. Denton, with a look of comic resignation, "it seems to be a pretty personal thing, after all, in spite of father's philosophy. I always supposed that when we came into the world we should have an election, and vote down all these difficulties by an overwhelming majority."

Ray quoted, musingly:

"The world is out of joint:-O cursed spite! That ever I was born to set it right!"

"Yes? Who says that?" "Hamlet."

Denton laughed wildly out at her impudent drolling, and she said, as if his mirth somehow vexed her,

"I should think if you're so much troubled by that hard question of yours, you would get your Voice to say something."

Her husband rose, and stood looking down, while a knot gathered between his gloomy eyes. Then he turned and left the room without answering her.

She sent a laugh after him. "Sometimes," she said to the others, "the Voice doesn't know any better than the rest of

us.

Peace remained looking gravely at her a moment. She said, "I will go and see if the children are all right," and followed Denton out of the room.