back into the gloom of ignorance and superstition. Upon the ruins of the Roman and Gothic languages were reared the Italian, Portuguese, Spanish, the Dutch, Danish, Swedish, and the German. The intermediate stage between the complete overthrow of the Roman and the completion of the modern languages, was characterized by the Romance-a compound of Roman and Gothic. Thus a new era was formed in the literary history of the world, and new schools of art, literature, and government sprung into existence. The form of art was still governed more or less by the models of Greece and Rome, but the soul was Gothic. The grand element of feeling was introduced into art; poems were written for the heart and not exclusively for the head. There is no doubt that while art was indebted to the example of ancient Greece for its symmetry and beauty of form, to the wild freedom and love of woman in the north for its boldness and novelty, it was the religion of Christ that stirred up the emotional element in the mind of man. The stream of literature found its source in the fountains of Indian, Chinese, Persian, Hebrew, and Egyptian intellect; these rills all united in the Grecian mind, then flowed through the Roman provinces about to separate again into different streams, such as the Italian, French, German, English, etc. The literature of Europe is indebted to Greece and Rome for its mythological ornament and the definiteness of their imagery; their passion for the voluptuous, the beautiful, and for what satisfies the intellect; but the love of the marvellous, the respect for women, the longing for something beyond human experience, the deeper sensibility, the deep passion-these are the products, the property, the original creations of the Gothic mind. The Dark Ages were periods of intense activity, antagonistic elements were endeavoring to find their proper position in society and art; many experiments were tried and failed, until at last the process of formation and fusion began to display some results; and finally the grand end was accomplished in the civilization and literature of Europe. In our next paper we shall examine the French literature from A. D. 800 to 1800. These bird's-eye views of the history of literature do not pretend to claim much originality, except so far as a new principle of criticism may be applied or an old critical applied to a new subject. But these papers will serve as a guide to any desiring to study the history of literature, while they present, to the man who has no leisure to extend his researches in this direction, a concise but intelligent idea of the great changes which have occurred in the literary history of the world, and the reason why each literature possesses its peculiar characteristics. GOOD-BY-AN IDYL. BY LA MOILLE. GOOD-BY! portentous tone; Of days forever flown; Always partings that teach Good-by! most hallowed thought; Promise ever so true, The lost are now more fair? That goodness hath due meed; "Sometime" having the prize, Will count the cost not dear. BLIGHTED LOVE. BY MORRIS E. MAY. Down the valley drear and lonely, Where the moonbeams stealing over Here are the loved ones lying lowly, And the night-bird's mournful singing, O thou dark and sullen gloom! Liveth, liveth. Were my loved one 'mong the dead, But living still, though dead to me; IT is the greatest madness to be a hypocrite in religion. HULDA. BY MILTON T. ADKINS. A SLOW, mournful rain has been coming down all day, keeping me within doors, and driving me to ransack yon old set of drawers for a day's employment. Here is an old file of letters that were written by a dear friend in the long ago. I run over their dim and faded pages, and pick up again a part of their freight of hopes and fears and harmless gossip. How long ago it all seems, and yet how vividly come back to me the tones of his cheery, ringing voice, and the grasp of his firm, manly hand. A tear falls as I think of that brave young life thrown away in the wilds of the far west, with never a word left behind for the friends who loved him. Slowly 1 put them away and take up another. Ah! these are from my father in the days of school. How full of parental love and advice and solicitude! These are from a sister-a gentle, blue-eyed creature, who clung to me through all my boyish troubles-who believed in me when no one else did, who encouraged me when young life seemed a burden. Tears come again, as I remember anew that fair spring morning when a voice called her, and she went out into the great beyond. Here is a bundle tied with a blue ribbon, and around which lingers a sweet, delicate perfume even yet, calling back a memory even more sweet and delicate. Ah, me! Put them all away. Stay; what is this? A bundle of sketches. Mountain and stream, valley and rock, gently rounded hill, and tumbling cata ract. How well I remember our first evening at the farm-house! The July sun was just hanging upon the verge of the western horizon as we tramped wearily up the dusty lane leading to the house. The sky was flecked over with troops of shifting clouds, basking in all the warm-tinted glory of the setting sun. The laughing, dancing river glinted and glowed in the level sunbeams, reflecting the great, whitearmed sycamores, and the green-bosomed hill beyond. A troop of house martins were twittering and chattering around the eaves and circling noisily overhead. Beyond the lane a thousand clover blossoms scented the air with their rich perfume, among which bees droned lazily and flew away heavily laden to their hives. A half dozen big-uddered cows stood under a great walnut tree at the end of the lane lowing gently to their young. A woman -or girl, we could not tell which-stood in the large, open gate, pail in hand, and called in one of the cows. "By Jove!" exclaimed Lane, as he put down his heavy bundle, and, taking out pencil and paper, began to sketch. "Never mind stopping now," I said; "let's go on to the house. I am tired." "Only a moment, Russel," he answered. "So! That picture would make a man's fortune if properly worked out. Cows and trees and old farm-house; blooming clover-fields and singing milk-maids and red sunset. You can go on, Russel, and see if we can get board, while I stay here a few moments." I passed up the lane and paused at the little gate in front of the house. A large, friendly Yes, I remember now, the summer I made them. Fresh and green comes back the memory of that summer on the French Broad. Here is the old red farm-house, with its wide, rambling doors and windows, and tall, ungainly chimneys. Here is the old stone spring-dog, that would have delighted the heart of a house, under the wide-spread beech, and the cool, gurgling spring. Here is the old fishtrap, under the tall sycamores, and the ruined mill under the bank. Let's see; it was twenty years ago that summer. I was younger then than I am now, though threads of silver, even then, were beginning to show themselves in my hair. It was an odd chance that threw John Lane and me together that summer, and found us located for several months in that old farmhouse up in those wild, picturesque hills. He was ten years younger than I, but a friendship had grown up between us, which bridged over this disparity in our ages, and resolved us to spend the summer together. It was no wonder that I, in my aimless semi-Bohemian life, should admire and develop friendship for John Lane. He had travelled everywhere, had seen everything that was worth seeing, and had read Landseer, came down the path to meet me. He was followed by the farmer in a few moments, who came down to the gate and inquired my wants. "I do' know," he said, doubtfully, when I made known my desire of getting rooms for the summer for myself and friend. “I do' know about it hardly. My ole woman's sick pretty much all the time, an' all the work falls on Hulda. I'll have to ax her about it, stranger. Come in an' wait on the porch tell she comes in from milkin', an' I'll see what she says about it." I accepted this offer gladly, for we had walked five miles from the little station, and my limbs and feet were tired. I sat there and watched the picture-watched the crimson glow in the west deepen and fade and die away; watched the chattering, circling martins as they wheeled through the summer air; watched the laugh ing waters as they reflected the white-armed trees and rounded hills; watched the girl out under the old walnut tree, as she patiently stroked the gentle cows, and filled her pail with the snowy fluid. At last she finished and came up the lane, her brimful pail upon her head, and she humming to herself a little snatch of a woodland ballad. "Hulda," called the farmer, as she passed us, on her way to the old stone spring-house, "here's two men, or leastways one, who speaks for hisself and a friend o' his'n, who wants board for the summer. Come back 's quick as you can, an' tell us what ye think about it." She paused for an instant as he spoke, and turned her face toward us, a face which I naturally studied for that moment with that interest attaching to the person who was to determine whether we should sojourn in this delightful spot, and if so, upon whom was to depend much of our comfort and pleasure. It was finally arranged that we should stay for the night, and make further terms in the morning, "after we saw how we liked," as the farmer expressed it. This settled, the farmer went about his evening chores, while the daughter showed me a room, and then retired to look after the supper. At last, in the dim twilight, John Lane came in. He had worked on his picture as long as he could see, and was quite enthusiastic over its beauties. I met him on the porch and carried him off to the room to get ready for our supper. "I tell you, Russel, I am going to stay here long enough to finish that picture, if I have to sleep in a fence corner." Just here our host came to summon us to supper. "Now set to, men, and help yourselves," said the farmer's hearty voice, after he had seated us comfortably at the table, and loaded our plates with a generous allowance of good things. 1 was never good at either studying faces or describing them. In that short moment I could form no opinion of Hulda Hill; 1 mean no opinion as to her character. I remember I did not think her pretty. I don't think I ever thought her so in all our subsequent acquaintance. I doubt if I could have guessed nearer than ten years of her age. She might have been eighteen, or she might have been twenty-enjoy an evening smoke. eight. Such butter, and milk, and eggs as we found upon that table! And such cakes! Hulda, flitting in and out, from stove to table, probably thought we were half starved, from the way we devoured her good things. Our long walk had given us an appetite. At last, however, our meal came to an end, as all suppers must, and we strolled out upon the porch to It was only for a moment that she paused at sound of the farmer's voice; she did not even take her pail down from its lofty perch. She simply said, "Well, father," and passed on. The face and hair and eyes gone, I fell to studying the voice, but could make nothing out of that. "Hulda's a good girl, if I do say it myself, that's her father, an' ort n't to," broke in the farmer. "Ever sence her mother's been ailin', Hulda's took a mother's place to the other children, and has looked after the cows, an' the pigs, an' the sheep better 'n any woman I ever see, 'ceptin' her mother; an' I'll not put on her without 'n her consent." Here his eulogies were broken into by the entrance of the daughter in person, who bowed composedly at the farmer's awkward introduction of "My darter, Mr. "Russel," I hastened to supply. "The gentleman wants board for a couple of months, Hulda, for hisself an' his friend, an' I was a-tellin' him when you come in that, as all the work will fall on you, I wouldn't take 'em in without consultin' you." The quiet face was unmoved, just as though this was an incident of every-day occurrence. "Do just as you like, father." “When is your friend comin'?” asked the farmer. "Now; in a few moments. He only stopped down at the end of the lane to make a sketch." "What do you think?" was Lane's abrupt question, as soon as we were alone. "About what?" "About things in general. About this place; about this old man--and his girl." "I think it a delightful place, and shall be glad if they conclude to keep us. I think the old man is a clever old gentleman"— "And the girl?" "I haven't thought much about her. I expect she is a good, dutiful daughter, who obeys her parents, and works at whatever her hands find to do." "I tell you, Russel," broke in my friend, in his abrupt way, "there's something more than common in that girl, and I mean to cultivate it. She's not one of your flowsy, red-handed, simpering country girls, although she lives in the country, and may never have seen anything else. I tell you, she's thought of other things and other modes of life; or, if not, she's capable of doing so, and I mean to cultivate her." What could I do at this speech of the young fellow, except to laugh at it, and tell him to mind his picture and finish that, instead of getting up a foolish flirtation with a country girl, whom, in all probality, he would never see again. "I don't mean to flirt!" he broke in, hotly; "I would scorn to do such a thing; but I have seen a thousand things. I'll wager that that girl would almost give her two eyes to see things that she has read about, and dreamed about, and wondered, in this quiet, hum-drum life of hers, if they really do exist. And now I can see no harm in my telling her something about them, provided she wants to hear." "Well, well, have your own way; it's no affair of mine, I am sure;" and there the conversation dropped. The next morning we were up with the sun, partaking of a breakfast that was a counterpart of our meal of the previous day. "Hulda and I've talked this matter over," said the farmer, at breakfast, "an' we've concluded you can stay, if you like our fare, an' we'll do the best we can by you; but we can't put on any style." Professing ourselves as entirely satisfied with the fare and terms, we at once closed the bargain, and proceeded to domicile ourselves in our new quarters as soon as the meal was over. We had a couple of large airy rooms in the upper story of the farm-house-rooms that looked out with wide windows towards the east, and took in a wealth of hill and dale, and mountain and stream. They were connected in the middle by a partition door, and opened at each end out into the hall, which ran the full width of the wide old house. "Isn't this just glorious?" shouted Lane, in his boyish fashion, as he rolled and tumbled upon the bright rag carpet, like a school-boy just home for the holidays. "Was there ever anything equal to that view? The river, and green hills, and orchards, and fields in the foreground, and blue mountains rising beyond;" and the buoyant fellow tumbled and rolled upon the floor again in the excess of his exuberant spirits; then, settling down, he worked quietly at his new picture for an hour, while I occupied myself with reading a poem whose spirit breathed the breath of just such a scene as that he was painting. At the end of the hour he threw down his brush, and, springing up, snatched my book away, and, seizing my arm, attempted to drag me away. "Come along!" some time in the day with the same old ravenous appetites, which devoured almost everything that came in their way. What progress did Lane make in "cultivating" this wild flower, you ask. In truth, I could hardly tell in those first few weeks; I hardly think he knew himself. Perhaps he did not think of his gay and careless speech made on that first evening of our visit. I think he hardly ever got a word with her, except of the moonlight evenings when we all gathered on the old eastern porch after the supper was over and she was free for an hour or two. The old farmer, the invalid mother, Hulda, and myself formed an appreciative audience, who listened with rapt attention to his fine and graphic descriptions of the countries he had travelled in, and the notable places he had seen. He was a fine talker, and evening after evening held our attention for hour after hour. I remember the first evening that David Love came to the farm-house. The full moon was just peeping down over the eastern hills. John and I were enjoying our usual quiet smoke upon the porch, saying little, and watching the moon come up. The farmer and the invalid had neither of them joined us. I was just going off into a state of dreamy, half stupor, when I was surprised by a slight exclamation from my companion. Looking quickly around, I was almost betrayed into a like exclamation. Hulda was standing in the full light of the moon, dressed in some kind of light, airy fabric, with her long hair falling about her shoulders in the greatest profusion. If she was not beautiful she was very near it. We both hastened to offer a seat, and cast away our cigars. She was calm and self-possessed as any highborn lady in the land, and took the proffered seat with as much grace and dignity as though she was just from the drawing-room instead of the kitchen and dairy. John was a little nonplussed, but soon launched out into another of his fine talks. But I thought I noticed that she was restless and slightly inattentive to-night. A half star "What do you mean? Where are you go- tled, half-expectant air had possession of her. ing?" I asked. "Anywhere-out into this balmy wind and clover-scented air. We've no business to stay in-doors on such a morning." The fervid July sun had climbed well toward the zenith when we came back, with appetites keenly whetted, and ready for another onslaught upon Hulda's good things. And the experience of this day was the experience of many days that followed. Sometimes we angled for trout along the mountain streams, and again we climbed some wild knob. Sometimes we went on long excursions up or down the river in the little canoe moored at the bank, sketching a bold headland here, or an overhanging cliff there, but always coming in at VOL. XCIII.-11 At last the gate clicked, and some one came slowly up the gravelled path toward where we were sitting. He came up, and Hulda, rising, introduced him in that quiet way of hers, as "David Love." It needed no second thought to tell us that this man was her lover. He quietly assumed a seat near, and John proceeded with his story. Afterward John attempted to draw him out, but succeeded only indifferently. At length he proposed to Hulda a walk in the moonlight, and, she rising and asking to be excused, they went down the gravel path and disappeared. John gave vent to a long, low whistle after they were well off. "For shame!" I said, "they will hear you." "No they won't," said he; "but some one else is engaged in 'cultivating' the girl as well as myself." "You are utterly incorrigible," I answered, rising to leave him. I was sitting by my window looking out upon the flooding moonlight, an hour later, when the lovers came back. She dismissed him at the gate, and came up the path alone. But before he went, they conversed in low and earnest tones for a long time over the low gate. He was a manly-looking fellow, as he stood there in the white moonlight, leaning upon the little gate and looking down upon her. I could not understand what they were saying, but from the earnest and increasing tones, it was evidently some subject upon which they did not agree. At last, however, he reached down over the gate, and, after holding her hand for a moment, was gone. Once he/stopped and looked back, as if with the thought of returning, but a moment later went on and was lost to sight. She came slowly up the path swinging her hat and looking down at the ground. I had forgotten my companion, and was almost as much startled as she when I heard him address her. 1 "Don't go in yet," I heard him say; "the night is too fine to be wasted in dull sleep." "But it is late, and I must get up early in the morning, or the men will have no breakfast." Nevertheless he carried his point, and going off to bed, I was lulled to rest by the sound of Lane's voice, for he gave her little opportunity to talk. The next evening David Love came back, and the moonlight walk was repeated, likewise the talk upon the old porch after the lover had gone. The same occurred the next evening, and the next, and so on for a week. The discussions at the gate were prolonged later and later each evening. One afternoon, about a week later, I was out in the old orchard, back of the house, with a favorite book, when I was interrupted by some one coming over the stile and down the orchard path. It was Hulda-and her lover. They stopped at a large tree quite near me, and I heard him say : "It's no use to go further, Hulda; I'll stop here and let you give me an answer for good and all." And she answered: "No, David, it's no use; I will not do you the wrong of marrying you. I can never go on in this way year in and year out for a lifetime. I would go crazy, wild, distracted. I hope you'll not think hard, David, but it's not my fault; I can't help it. I know I ought to be happy here with the cows and pigs and sheep, but I cannot, David, I cannot." "But, Hulda, you didn't think this way once; you thought once you could be happy with me." "Well, Hulda," and there was a world of sadness in his voice, "I won't beg for your love. I don't think myself you are happy, and God knows I hold your happiness above mine. I would 'a' tried so hard to be a good husband to you, but I suppose it's not to be. Anyway, we won't quarrel, Hulda. Good-by!" "Good-by, David!" and she held out her hand to him, which he took and held for a moment, and then went away over the path they had come. Perhaps I ought not to have lain there and overheard this conversation not intended for me, but I could not well avoid it; and beside, I was really beginning to feel an interest in the girl. I could not help blaming my friend for the way matters had turned out. I thought that he must have led her to believe that his attentions meant something, or she would not thus have sent her lover adrift without a word of hope. David Love came no more to the farm-house during our visit. After this it was John Lane who asked her to walk in the light of the harvest moon, after her evening work was done. "You have no right to go on so," I said to him one day, when we were alone. "What have I done?" he demanded, in that hasty fashion of his. "Don't you know that you have driven off that girl's lover with your moonlight talks and walks?" "Of course not! How should I?" "He has not been near the place for a week." "What does that signify? He may be gone somewhere." Then I related to him what I had heard in the orchard. Lane did not say another word, but sat for some time, apparently lost in thought. After this, matters went on much as they had been going, until our visit was drawing to an end. I was as far from understanding Hulda Hill as I was on the very first day I saw her. She and John Lane were together almost every evening, either walking in the moonlight, taking a ride upon the river, or seated upon the old porch, she listening to his wonderful stories of travel and adventure. I could not tell, to save my life, whether John Lane were in jest or earnest; whether he were playing with this life, or was serious; and she -was an enigmna. If she loved John Lane, she gave no sign; no blush when he spoke, no maidenly Hutter when he was near, no embarrassment when he addressed her. The last evening before we were to return to our town quarters, John solved one of these questions by asking her to be his wife. Perhaps she had been expecting as much. At any |