a word of it, so here's your penny,' which she thrust into his hand, and before he could answer ran rapidly down the stairs and disappeared!

The great event of that winter in our little world was a children's party given by my mother. Andersen was one of the first to arrive. He was a child again, beaming with delight one of the most joyous of the little troupe. After games, in which he took a most active part, we asked him to read one of his fairy tales; so he sat down on the floor, tucking his long legs under him, all the children sitting in a circle around him, and read The Ugly Duckling.' When the English words were difficult for him, my father came to his rescue. He seemed to enjoy the tale as if it were quite new to him, and chuckled with delight when the end came and all the children applauded. I wish I could remember all the elders who closed round the inner circle of children, but I can recall Mrs. Browning as she sat enjoying every word, her spirit hand resting on her boy's fair, curly head; and Hattie Hosmer with her bright boyish face. My father then suggested that Mr. Browning should read us the 'Pied Piper of Hamelin.' Taking Andersen's place in the little charmed circle, with Andersen close to him and eagerly interested, he read with the greatest possible spirit, and never had he a more appreciative audience. As he got to the end, my father, who had gone silently out of the room, appeared in an old flowered dressing-gown with a pointed paper cap on his head and his flute in hand. The children at once took up the idea, and my father playing on the flute dashed through all the rooms, the children following him, and Andersen so excited that he jumped over several chairs, and at last fell down quite exhausted, which called forth a shout from the children: 'He is the lame boy.'

Round the corner of the door came the shaggy nose of the little donkey my brothers rode. He had come up all the long stairs bedecked and garlanded. He too was the children's friend, and after being smothered with hugs and kisses by the little ones, he was led by Andersen into the tea-room, where he could munch and crunch sugar to his vast content.

Oh, the joyous happy day! The old rooms in the Barberini rang with laughter so loud that it must have frightened the whole hive of golden bees, and scattered them broadcast over Rome!

So much for the Children's Hour,' in which I too had my place. But Andersen's steps often led him up to my father's

studio, where he would watch him at work, mindful of his early days in Thorwaldsen's studio. His sympathetic, appreciative presence gave great pleasure to my father, and one day, his last in Rome, he timidly pressed into my father's hands a little slip of paper on which was written a few lines in Old Danish dedicated to him:

'Great though thou art-for since in measured clang
Thy steel inspired on the brute mass rang,
Hero's endless woe stilled into stone we see,

And rapt Beethoven lists his harmony,

Thou scorn'st not, tho' the Laurel wreath is thine,

One frail leaf more this poor, weak song of mine.'1

In my precious little book with the gold key, Andersen wrote

the lines:

'Les cordages de la Marine Anglaise sont traversés d'un fil rouge, qui constate qu'ils appartiennent à la couronne. La vie humaine, dans les petites choses, autant que les grandes, est traversée d'un fil invisible qui constate qu'elle sera à Dieu. HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.

'Rom, 21 May 1861.'

A year later Thackeray asked me to let him write on the same page:

Having to translate the above sentence at the Competitive Examination for the Wooden Spoon Scholarship at Brazenose College, the Hon. Charles, third son of Rt. Honable. Lord Dundreary, sent in the following version:

"The corduroys of the British Marines are crossed with a red stripe to show they belong to the crown. The human life in the little things as much as the great is traversed by an invisible son, who is constantly saying good-bye."

'My Dear Edith,-This is not as good a joke as "Young Brodie and the Coo," twenty pages ahead, but it is VERY NEARLY as good, and as such is respectfully offered to you by your old friend, 'W. M. THACKERAY.

'Kensington, October 29, 1862.'

After Andersen left Rome, in May 1861, we often heard from him. The following letter to my brothers, introducing the composer Grieg, testifies to his constant remembrance of them :

It has been difficult to get the above translated, it being in old Danish, and I owe this rendering to the kindness of Prince Franz Lichtenstein, who has procured it for me.

'Copenhagen, Sept. 14, 1863."

'To my two little friends from America, sons of the sculptor Story, my best love and warm thanks for the beautiful portrait they sent to me from Rome. I return to you my photograph, a copy for each.

The bearer of this note is the young talented composist from Norway, Mr. Grieg, who I take the liberty of introducing to the amiable family Story.

Believe me to be truly yours,

HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN.

In the years that have followed this long ago,' I have been reminded by Mrs. Browning's son of the pleasure his mother had felt in being one of the children's party that winter. It was perhaps one of the brightest days to her beautiful soul, so soon to be taken from us, as it was almost the last time she was able to leave her house before going back to Florence. Her mind was full of this northern light that had come to us, and it is pathetic to feel that her last poem, written May 1861, The North and the South,' was inspired by him.

THE NORTH AND THE SOUTH.

The Last Poem.

I.

Now give us lands where the olives grow,'
Cried the North to the South,

'Where the sun with a golden mouth can blow
Blue bubbles of grapes down a vineyard row!'
Cried the North to the South.

'Now give us men from the sunless plain,'
Cried the South to the North,

'By need of work in the snow and rain,
Made strong and brave by familiar pain!'
Cried the South to the North.

II.

'Give lucider hills and intenser seas,"
Said the North to the South,

'Since ever by symbols and bright degrees
Art, childlike, climbs to the dear Lord's knees,'
Said the North to the South.

'Give strenuous souls for belief and prayer,' Said the South to the North,

That stand in the dark on the lowest stair,

While affirming of God, "He is certainly there," Said the South to the North.

III.

'Yet oh! for the skies that are softer and higher!' Sighed the North to the South;

'For the flowers that blaze, and the trees that aspire,
And the insects made of a song or a fire!'
Sighed the North to the South.

'And oh, for a seer to discern the same!'
Sighed the South to the North;
'For a poet's tongue of baptismal flame,
To call the tree or the flower by its name!'
Sighed the South to the North.

THE NEW PARENTS' ASSISTANT.

I.

BEGGARS ALL.

Or the countless miracles which we take for granted, this surely is the most bewildering, that we have children. Neither science nor religion can measure this wonder of wonders. It may well shake the universe, and influence the music of the spheres, that I am a parent. But, as things are nowadays, to be a miracle is to incur grave responsibilities. I must not content myself with staggering Heaven I must also attend to Home. Miracles must not think too much of themselves: there are the children to be considered. And, when I face quietly what I mean by my responsibility for the children, I am up against a problem which seems to be insoluble.

It presents itself to me thus. We two, man and wife, who are the efficient cause of our children's being, are thereby the sole agents of every false step that they take, every sin that they commit, every cruelty that they inflict, every pain that they suffer. All maladies that have come or are to come on them, all disappointment, all disgrace, are of our making; and their death will be our handiwork.

I call it a problem; but it has the clear-cut look of a fact. If it were not for parents, there would be none of these disasters. For the children would not be here; they would be nowhere: and, so long as they were nowhere, they could neither sin nor suffer. It is idle to answer that parents are likewise the agents of all virtue, happiness, and health in their children's lives. It is true, but it has nothing to do with the matter. For the children, if they had not been born, would have lost nothing; you cannot begin to lose things till you are here to lose them. Doubtless, if they could have had their choice, to be or not to be, they would have chosen to be. But they could not have their choice: for they were not here; they were nowhere. You cannot begin to choose things till you are here to choose them.

It is said, now and again, in defence of shooting, If the pheasants had been given their choice, not to live, or to live well-fed and wellprotected to the moment of their death, they would have chosen to live.' The like defence is made of hunting. Or take the case of the pig, that mass of evidence against vegetarianism. The VOL. XXXVII.-NO. 217, N.S.

4