JONAH AND HIS GOURD.

DR. HUTCHINSON writes as follows on this subject: "In reading the wondrous story of Jonah, we are apt to overlook the difficulties of the journey he was, for the second time, called upon to undertake. From the trans-Jordanic frontier of the Kingdom of Israel, Nineveh was about four hundred and twenty miles to the north-east, on the left bank of the Hiddekel, or Tigris, the Euphrates intervening about one hundred and seventy miles to the southwest. Thus, a march of forty-two days, at least, not including halts and crossing the two great rivers, lay before him, and each day, as he advanced, grew warmer and warmer. Crossing the Tigris and entering the suburbs of Nineveh, his message of impending woe is accepted by the King and his subjects, and a solemn fast, with devout supplication to God, is ordered, and universally carried out. And God saw their works, that they turned from their evil way, and God repented of the evil; . . . and He did it not.' Jonah dares to remonstrate at this act of mercy, and, sullen and resentful, he makes himself a booth outside the city, and to its east, doubtless of the reeds growing on the river side. In similar localities, such huts are common in India, and are quickly run up of two reed screens leaning against one another, a triangu lar one fixed at one end, and a similar movable one being at the entrance. So as to protect the prophet from the heat of the day (for all such structures are more or less translucent), 'the Lord God prepared a gourd' to run up and over the reed hut, 'that it might be a shadow over his head.' Now, what was this 'gourd'? The Hebrew word is kikaijon (j pronounced as y), supposed by commentators to indicate the Palma Christi, the Ricinus communis, or castor-oil plant; now, considering the slow growth of this plant, so common in India, the non-umbrageousness of its foliage, as well as the acridity (common to all Euphorbiaceae) of its juices, I don't think it can represent the 'gourd.' But let us deal literally

with the great natural order of the gourds (Cucurbitaceœ), and in any one of them we can meet the requirements of rapid and umbrageous growth, up and over the booth, a thorough protection from solar heat; and thus, in India, you see them growing over many a hut, thatched or tiled. Further, as we are in the hot season, the Tigris would be low, and its edges and sand-banks would be utilized, as in India, for the growth of pumpkins, melons, cucumbers, and numerous other members of the gourd family. Jonah's gourd may, I think, be identified with the Indian kakri,

great underground destroyers of India) attack its roots or stem; but they think nothing of cutting the roots of all cucurbitaceous plants. I have seen a gourd climbing over a hut destroyed thus in one night by white ants, which are generically known as kira (worm), and specifically as dimak (white ant). Was it the white ant which smote the gourd so that it perished in a night? I venture to think it was-that is, if white ants are as common in Asiatic Turkey as they are in India."

KNOWLEDGE is the foundation of eloquence.

We were on the best of terms with each other, which is not always the case with Jehu and the man who has kept him waiting an hour or so in a storm; but I had comforted him with flagons, and treated him to cigars, and offered him a liberal something for himself, which had mollified him wonderfully, and he had become condescending.

However, I was very comfortable, and I leaned back against my cushions, thinking of the ball I had just left, and my last partner, when suddenly a cry, the sudden stoppage of my vehicle, and a volley of oaths from the driver, made me aware that something unusual had happened, and I dropped the sash to see what it was. The rain beat upon my face, as I did so, like a shower of

It was a storm calculated to make a man feel grateful that he was under shelter. The wind blew straight from the northeast, and the rain, dashed slantwise against the window-panes, froze as it fell.

The driver's waterproof cloak and hat crackled under a sheet of ice; my umbrella, which I had only held open VOL. XXV. No. 6.-29.

we were near the railing of one of those tiny triangles of grass and flowers that ornament Park Avenue, and that a woman's figure was lying upon the stones, close to the wheels of the cab.

I shall, I expect. These horses stand pretty well, but they won't stand for ever.

Before he had finished I had opened the door and lifted the woman from the stones into the cab. I was a large man, who had had plenty of athletic exercise, and she was a small woman, or I should not have done it in time.

In two minutes we were on our way, and I held in my arms a dripping figure, that soon began to stir, and shortly gave a little moan.

As I lingered in the hall, hesitating at which room to apply, a stout, elderly lady, with a round face and round eyes, wearing a curious little turban, that might have been suitable for a baby, and a yellow-green cloth gown, trimmed with grease-spotted red ribbons, bounced in at the door. She carried a basket in one hand, and a small paper of eggs in the other. I knew they were eggs, for one of them had broken and the yolk was slowly oozing through the paper.

"Miss Maxwell ?" she said. "Yes, sir. She boards Walk up, please!"

"You had fallen in the street.

I am a gentleman, madam."

66 Thank you,' ," she said. "I remember falling. I can sit up now, please."

I assisted her to the seat beside me, and spoke again : “I will take you to the hotel to which I am going. You will be cared for there. Are you hurt?"

"I am bruised and somewhat giddy," she answered. "I had just arrived at the Grand Central Depot, and I thought I could walk home; but it grew so slippery that I could not keep my feet."

As she spoke she uttered a little moan and swooned again. And so it came to pass that I arrived at my hotel covered with blood, and wearing so much the aspect of a murderer, that I was glad of the driver's testimony as to how I had come by the burden I bore in my arms.

Naturally there was much excitement. A doctor who happened to be in the dining-room offered his services. The housekeeper appeared with towels and water, and a crowd of supper-takers gathered about us.

Now, for the first time, I beheld the face I had held against my shoulder in the darkness. It was that of a young brunette. The dress betokened refined habits; but the face, pallid as death, smeared with blood and covered with mud, was as much disfigured as it could have been by a hideous mask.

Finally, at the doctor's advice, the senseless woman was borne to a private room, and I feed a chambermaid to attend to her. I was glad to hear from the doctor, a little afterward, that the young girl was not seriously injured; but I was only interested in her as a lady to whom I had been fortunate enough to be of service, perhaps to save from death, and when, in the morning, I found that she had gone home, leaving me a pretty note of thanks, signed only with the initials E. M.," I was not disappointed. Later, however, I found in my pocket a little case which the driver had handed to me, saying it belonged to the lady, and which I had quite forgotten; and as it was my duty to return it to its owner, I examined it carefully, in order that I might, if possible, discover her address.

It was a small case of Oriental manufacture, around which lingered a curious perfume that I did not know. Within were some letters addressed to Miss Emily Maxwell, No. Street, and a bracelet composed of tiny links of gold chain, in the clasp of which was set a splendid opal.

The name on the letters had the initials which were signed to the little note I had received. I found No. Street easily. It was a tall house let out in rooms -a piano-teacher here, a dentist there. A case at the door exhibited specimens of still-life painting and a card of terms for classes in china decoration. A milliner had her bonnets in the parlor-window, and a painted hand indicated, with its dexter finger, the second floor as the residence of "Mrs. Pinchon, refined capillurgist for the élite"; but nowhere did I see the name of Maxwell.

'Sit down, sir; things are not just as I usually keep them, to-day," said the lady; "but I was up all night, frightened to death about Miss Maxwell. She met with an accident coming from the cars. They played out of town, to the worst house of the season, in all that storm, and, coming across, she slipped. I'll tell her you've called."

She took my card, vanished behind a portière, and returned accompanied by a young lady.

Was it possible that this was the girl I had seen the night before? Still pale, she was exquisitely lovely.

Her figure graceful, her movements elegant, this little actress, evidently neither rich nor famous, would have graced a palace, as far, at least, as outward seeming went. When I had said my few words and presented the case, she took it from me eagerly.

"You overwhelm me with obligations," she returned. "There are reasons that make this bracelet very precious to me. It is my sole memento of one most dear to me. She pressed it to her lips. "Dear little treasure !" she cried, "I never thought to see you again!"

All this was said and done, not in a melodramatic way, but with the simplicity of a child. As I had no excuse for remaining, I arose to go. Miss Maxwell thanked me again, with her sweetest smile, and Mrs. Pinchon followed me to the head of the stairs.

"She's a lovely creature !" she said; "not a bit like some of them. You ought to hear her sing. She is at the And will you take one of our cards? Your hair needs nothing, I am sure; but you might have a bald friend."

"The whole club is bald," said I. "I'll distribute them amongst the members."

Mrs. Pinchon dropped a courtesy which made all the curls upon her undisguiseable wig dance in the air, and I departed. I went to the that evening.

Miss Maxwell played a little part, and sang a little song very beautifully, and I sent her a bouquet. Moreover, I went home to dream about her-waking dreams, such as I had never had about any woman before.

Six months from that day I sat beside Emily Maxwell, holding her hand in mine. It seemed to me that I had known her all my life, and I loved her fondly.

Mrs. Pinchon-a kinder soul never lived—had gone out to buy eggs-the "refined capillurgist " rubbed eggs into the heads of her baldest patients, and needed a quantity.

In other words, she had left us alone together, with the most amiable motive, and I was taking advantage of her

absence. I had offered Emily Maxwell my hand, my heart, and all my worldly goods, and she had not yet answered me. I waited in suspense. Finally she spoke, slowly.

"You know so little of me," she said. "I am alone in the world. I live here with good Mrs. Pinchon, in a very humble way.”

"I shall change all that," said I, eagerly. "I am rich, and my wife shall have everything she dreams of." "What will your friends say ?" she continued. "I have been upon the stage all my woman's life. The conduct of the worst of our profession sets a stamp upon us all." "I know you to be an angel!" I answered. "Far from an angel," she cried; "a very erring mortal indeed. Still, I have a conscience. If I fancied that anything could occur that would make you sorry and ashamed of me, I would tell you to leave me, and never see you again. There are things in my life too sad to remember -incidents of which I shall never speak to you. Yet, one day, they may come to your ears. How do I know what will follow ?"

"Emily," I said, taking both her hands in mine, "all that I wish you to tell me is that you have loved no other man-given no other man reason to believe that you loved him."

"Never, never!" she said, with a smile I could not doubt. "You are the first man I ever loved-the first, as far as I know, who ever loved me."

"I ask nothing else," said I.

"Amen!" she answered. "Let the dead past bury its dead! My life begins from this hour! What was it worth before you came ?"

"Or mine until I met you?" I whispered.

I drew her closer to me, and she sat with her head upon my shoulder until Mrs. Pinchon made a great rattling of keys at the door; and from that moment we never spoke of the past, but always of the future.

I shall never forget the morning upon which we were married the brightest, sweetest day that ever shone. It was Spring. The church was filled with flowers, and many of my friends were in the seats.

Emily had but one- -Mrs. Pinchon, in a white bonnet and lilac dress, with her wig miraculously dressed to do us credit.

Two pretty girls from the theatre acted as bridesmaids, and were certainly very charming.

A fine-looking old man, the leader of the orchestra, gave the bride away; and as for Emily, she was beautiful in her white lace robes.

One or two strangers, attracted by the wedding, came into the gallery and took seats there before the ceremony began. I noticed that one of them did a singular thing. She had brought an opera-glass with her, and sat staring through it directly into the bride's face. She had chosen a seat close to the wall against which the pulpit rested, so that it was quite possible for her to After the ceremony began and before we turned to leave the church, I looked again. She was still staring with her glass to her eyes.

do so.

"Only a very near-sighted lady," I said to myself. "One more than usually curious about the bride's dress." But a strange shudder ran through me, and I thought of the Italian superstition of the evil eye.

As we rode homeward a certain sense of trouble settled upon me-the reaction from the elevation of spirits that I had carried to church with me, I suppose. Still, I was not ordinarily disposed to be sad.

I had ordered a little breakfast and invited a few guests.

The bachelors had all accepted; but I noticed, with little quiver of anger, that my friends' wives were all either ill or had previous engagements. It might be a curious coincidence, but it made me uncomfortable.

Mrs. Pinchon was the only lady who graced the feast with her presence.

No one could have been more conscious than I of the absurdity of her ornate bonnet and overtrimmed gown, and the flowing ringlets of her mahogany-colored wig; still, I knew that we had no truer friend in the world, and tried to forget them.

We were not very gay, I am afraid, and though the proper speeches were made and replied to, I was glad to bid adieu to my guests, and find myself alone with Emily.

Mrs. Pinchon had gone up-stairs to pack the last trunk, for we sailed that afternoon; and I was looking rather gloomily from the window, when Emily came to me and touched my shoulder.

"I feared it would be so," she said. "Your friends would not come. They are turning the cold shoulder to me."

"Let them," I said; "we can do without them, I hope. Not one of them is your equal, Emily." As I spoke she hid her face on my shoulder and burst into tears.

"There

"If I were only sure of that," said my wife. is something you will be sure to hear some day. I have resolved to tell you myself-to tell you now. After that I shall feel safe. Kiss me again, dearest." "Not a word, if it pains you," said I. "Nay, hear me," she persisted. "Five years ago"Sir," interrupted a voice behind me. A waiter stood there, holding toward me a silver salver upon which lay a card. I took it, and read the name. "Mrs. Chester Harrington," said I. "I do not know her."

"I do," said my wife, "and I will not be forced to meet her to-day of all days."

"Mrs. Harley is not at home," said I. "The lady is here, sir," said the waiter.

I turned toward the door. As I did so an elegant woman, with the carriage of an empress, crossed the sill. She was no longer young, but her face was still beautiful, despite a bitter curl of the proud lip. "I anticipated refusal," she said, looking at my wife with anger and contempt in her dark eyes, " and I had determined to see you, sir."

"I believe I have never met you before, madam,” I said.

"Never," she answered. "I retired entirely from society some years ago; but you know me, I dare say," and she suddenly turned to address my wife, from whose cheeks the color was fast fading, leaving her as pale as in the hour when I first saw her.

"If you are Mrs. Chester Harrington, yes," answered Emily. "If you have any questions to ask, pray do not trouble my husband with them. He will leave us alone for a moment, I am sure."

"I have no questions to ask. I have a story to tell," replied the lady; "I wish to tell it to Mr. Harley. I intend to do so in your presence, or in your absence! As you please; it does not matter to me!"

"What good can you do by telling it ?" I heard Emily

was even more beautiful five years ago than she is now. My husband admired her; so did I. I asked her to my house. I introduced her at my receptions-patronized her, believed in her. One day I awoke to the truth: he had left me, taking her with him. I fancied them in Europe yet; but he must have wearied of her, since she is here. Such men are true to no one.

"People came and told me that she had been seen with you-that you were to marry her to-day. Oh, it is a very public story, I assure you; but only my own eyes convinced me of its truth. She was visiting at my home, when they fled together! It was too atrocious! If you

"Is it not rather a breach of good manners to intrude upon a person who has declined to receive you ?" said I. "Another thing for which I had a strong motive," replied the lady. "I am not a patient Griselda, and I have been deeply wronged; and yet this is not all revenge. You are a man of position and good family. If my son should ever do what you have done, I should be grateful to the person who opened his eyes. After I have told you my story, you can act as you please. The woman you married this morning has been my husband's mistress for three years! She was an actress-a singer; she

have enlightened you as to the real character of your wife!"

"Ask

"It is a lie!" I cried, ringing the bell violently. Mrs. Harley to step here," I said, when the waitress appeared. "Only on her own confession will I believe you." A moment more and Emily entered, followed by Mrs. Pinchon.

"My darling!" I said, taking my wife's hand, "this lady has been telling me something that I will not believe -a story which relates to her husband. I send for you, that you may tell her in my presence that she lies!" "She cannot !" said Mrs. Harrington. Emily remained mute.